Digging in Guatemala

I jammed my shovel into the hard-packed clay and heaved a pile of dirt to the side, straining my already burning muscles. The sun beat down on me from above, piercing through my multiple layers of sunscreen. The smell of baking dirt wafted in the air, bringing with it the taste of dry dust. My tongue felt too thick in my mouth, like it was too big. I rubbed my forearm across my forehead in an attempt to push my hair out of my eyes, leaving a streak of dirt like a brand on my face. The blisters on my hands throbbed as the mud-hardened fingers of my gloves rubbed against them. It seemed to take an extreme amount of effort to close my fingers around the wooden handle of my shovel. Scraping sounds echoed around me as my friends threw more piles of dirt into buckets. They too were covered in dirt and sweat. I took a deep breath, determined to keep going like they were. Another shovelful of dirt slid away from my shovel. The sun was now directly above us, and the palm fronds and bamboo bushes were unfortunately too far away to provide any shade. I blinked more dirt and sunlight out of my eyes and made an attempt to lift the exceeding heavy bucket of dirt at my feet, nearly falling to the side as its weight caught my wobbling legs off guard.