"I had been travelling around the Sierra Norte of Oaxaca in Mexico for months, talking to returned migrants – men who spent decades in laundromats in Los Angeles or shovelling snow off the highways of Indianapolis or serving burritos to the paunchy Republicans of Cincinnati – before I wound up in the tiny mountain village of San Pedro Cajonos, at Pedro’s hamburger stand. Painted bright blue and white, it was just big enough for a fridge, a grill and a man. Pedro was a scrawny, bony guy with wavy hair and a long crooked nose. He watched us approach with an intensity that made me feel exposed – odd in a rural region where many men retain layers of guardedness until mezcal or fiesta loosen them up."
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