I see the raw hands of the workers. I see the hard work in their callused hands. I have seen them trying to sell a plant that they just dug out of some arroyo in the area. Or a load of rocks, which they got the very same way.
The “need” to survive is the hay that moves the horse.
There is incredible generosity amongst these gentile souls. The farmer that shares with us a little of every crop, or invites us to eat “birria” (meat stew) on the day that his butcher friend has given him a cow’s head.
All this makes you humble.