Puno, Peru

Prostitution of Culture

For I was once proud; I was because I had always been. Not for any reason was I other than because each generation desired to know me; to adhere to that which I had guarded, to follow where I guided.

For alas my lament is that time can not preserve all. The movement of man creates hunger afresh, his appetite whetted but never sated by the new, the different. Once isolated and innocent I have been exposed for all to see. He who courted me came with promises untenable, intentions undefined.

Where once I had nothing to prove, to be myself was enough for all that knew me; now I must parade and promenade myself in a degrading and humiliating cycle of pastiche. He makes me dress in my best clothes whenever his gaze is upon me and when not he forgets me. Offered money and some hope for the future he is willing to call himself by many names to appease those who try to protect me.

My children look upon me with disgust; I am but a tired old family member past their use; an embarrassment to all and a reminder of harder times gone past. I am but now a means to an end, no longer a badge of heritage to be borne with pride.

His clients come armed and ready to capture memories, to enjoy their time in my company but never imbued with any intention to understand. They enjoy the difference but never seek the reason. Their presence is justified as positive for guilt at the destructive process of which they are part would be an uncomfortable truth not desired.

When they are gone I cry myself to sleep. My children leave me in order to make money from that which destroys me – the inevitability forcing their departure. Without the reality of need I am doomed to become a play, no more than a series of well rehearsed scenes with no meaning beyond the denouement.

For I am culture and he is tourism.