Doris Ríos geese gracefully beneath barbed wire fencing, carrying knee-high black rubber boots, a black gown, and the black horn of a beetle dangling from a beaded necklace. Till not too long ago, this barrier would have saved her out of a ranch working on Indigenous Cabécar territory. Now, the fencing protects rows of younger guava bushes that she and different Indigenous girls planted on land they took again from the corporate that when illegitimately occupied it.
The land is therapeutic. Ríos’ darkish eyes are piercing as she stops to survey the terrain, her jet-black hair falling gently in layers from chin to collarbone. She seems out over a inexperienced hillside the place younger saplings are simply beginning to peek above tall grass. The path on the opposite facet of the barbed wire is orange dust; it kicks up into mud when dry and muffins into muddy clay when moist.