Bent down, Pakamjee walks through the berries, repeating the same movement, step by step. From a distance, it looks as if a man wearing a mask is cleaning the forest floor with a broom and a dustpan. But you can hear from close up how hard the work is. Dull and heavy, Pakamjees breath penetrates through his balaclava. Otherwise the forest lies in unreal silence. No traffic. No noise. Only the wind that blows through the treetops, the buzzing of the mosquitoes.

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