The Golden Compass
The market in Oaxaca Valley hums with the low, grinding friction of commerce, a sea of woven baskets and shouting vendors where the price of a tomato is a negotiation and the price of dignity is a debt owed to the bank. The gritters have been out since dawn, leaving the cobblestones slick with a film of salt that bites into the soles of thin shoes, and the air smells of diesel and overripe...
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