The air was hot and the olives were ripe. That is to say,
the air was as laden with the smell of olives as it was hot, which was to say,
quite. I first smelled the olive trees while still miles away from the groves.
The bus trundled through the hills, each one netted with long straight rows of
squat trees. They stood like soldiers at attention, awaiting the orders that
would march agriculture and industry forward. I could see the farmers leaving
their whitewashed house, each walking to a different field. They bore large
wicker baskets on their shoulders.
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