A Witches Market, the Moon, and the American Dream
Privilege is a sliding scale.
“What is that you speak of?” my guide, a young, Bolivian aborigines woman asked.
“The American Dream?”
She nodded, watching me intently as we took a break from our hike. We could have not looked more opposite had we tried. She, with her candy apple red dress, fluffed out at the side in layers like a church bell, the large frame dwarfing her petite body, a hand-knitted cream sweater draped over her shoulders. Me, an Under Armor golf jacket, jeans, and white Nike sneakers showing signs of the dusty landscape we were walking through.
I scratched at the back of my neck, tilting my head to the late afternoon sun.
How could I explain something I no longer believed existed?
I met my guide along a colorful side street in La Paz. Popular with tourists in search of trinkets, knickknacks, and souvenirs, my young guide, who had come directly from the local university, gave a history of the city as we walked the cobblestone alley wide enough for a single car or several pedestrians.
Despite her jogging in a traditional Bolivian aboriginal dress and subtle heels, I needed to pause for water and air. My body had yet to fully acclimate to the 12,000-foot elevation and, at…
