She takes us to her camino.

The land exhales into springtime. The romp of the breeze and cry of the condor. Grasses form muddy puddles below our feet, the melt of snow-capped mountains. It smells of soil.

I know that I can’t be without being here. At the beginning, it cost me to understand this dream. It makes me happy to have had this call to return to the territory.

Under its rows of poplar trees, Amancay’s pathway shimmers while she speaks. She had never seen this path before she started dreaming of it as a girl, where we now stand in a patch of balsamic sunlight. Amancay grew up in a tourist-laden town in Patagonia, but in her pewmas, she walked the poplars.

I had fear of my identity. I used to resist anything new. To know that your life was not what you thought it was,...

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