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but always welcome.
Further along, the road narrowed and turned rough, half gravel, half ambition. The Docker protested, its front fork squeaking like a mouse in distress. But it held together as we wound deeper into the Anti-Atlas, a landscape of russet cliffs and hidden gorges. Every so often we passed a man or woman leading a donkey laden with hay, sacks of grain, or sometimes children. No one seemed rushed. Life here moved with the seasons, not the second hand.
At a roadside stall, little more than a table beneath a tarp, we met a woman selling oranges and argan oil. She showed us how she cracked the nuts with a smooth stone, her hands
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