Carrying my third heavy sack of soil up the steep slippery steps from accross the river to the scientists´ house for the new reforestation nursery beds, Domingo raised his eybrows as he passed me on the way back down:
"¡Un mujer incansable! Eres ecuatoriana."
(An untirable woman. You´re ecuadorian.)
Two or three sacks later, whilst the other girls were throwing down their third or fourth in exhaustion, I sat on the pile of palm biel timbre that we had carried up before and freshly squeezed lemon juice was passed around. I drank it down with warm muscles and a happy heart.
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