Wanderlino
Arruda
I had just arrived home from a
holiday vacation, which had begun
in the middle of December, when
I was peremptorily advised that
I had been awarded something and
invited to the upcoming ceremony,
which would soon take place in
Goiânia, in the state of
Goiás. The Second Week
of The Art of Goiás exposition
had chosen one of my paintings
-Road in Movement- as one of the
winning canvases, with a cash
premium as well as an honorary
diploma, and wanted me to be there
in person for the event and following
festivities. Since I didn’t
have to get back to work for a
few days more, I didn’t
think twice about it and jumped
on the interstate bus to Brasilia,
where I arrived on a beautiful
summer morning, with a beautiful,
brilliant sun just coming up between
the twin towers of the National
Congress, a sight that any painter
or writer that likes landscapes
would appreciate. And it was there
in Brasilia, that I discovered
the trap into which I had unwittingly
fallen, a harrowing confusion
of problems…right on the
night before Christmas. There
weren’t any more seats left
on any of the buses returning
to Montes Claros in time for me
to celebrate Christmas Eve in
family. Now, the situation was
beyond difficult. It was impossible.
When things don’t go along
as expected, the worst that can
happen is for you to lose your
cool and get upset. A little clear
thinking is always the best path
to take, being that a little caution
doesn’t do anyone any harm.
But turning down the invitation,
at that time, would have put all
the joy and sacrifice of my participation
in the event to waste. To stay
there, in Goiânia wasn’t
exactly what I had planned, but
going to stay in some other nearby
city didn’t sound like any
fun, either. So, what to do? Why,
examine all the possibilities,
of course! And that was when the
best solution to my quandary hit
me. Suddenly, I realized that
I could make an old dream of mine
come true. Traveling to the Grande
Sertão (Great Wilderness)
was my oldest and most cherished
dream, especially if I could visit
Serra das Araras and see some
of the places described by Guimarães
Rosa in his legendary books. On
the 23rd of December, I bought
the last available seat to São
Francisco: estimated departure
time, seven o’clock a.m.
and estimated arrival time at
five in the afternoon. I was so
much more interested in my new
adventure that the award for my
painting was soon forgotten in
the excitement. A little before
seven, now back from Goiânia
and at the bus station in Brasilia,
I noticed a restless mob at the
terminal I would embark from.
There were enough people there
milling around to fill three buses.
At five minutes to departure time,
the driver advised everyone that
didn’t already have a ticket,
to go, on foot, over to the W-3
avenue and wait for a while, because,
as a security measure, the law
demands that buses can only leave
the terminal with all passengers
safely seated. A little over one
third of them stayed in line and
about sixty of them started out
to obey the order. What we saw
next as we were passing under
the first overpass was enough
to make any normal person wonder,
because there was absolutely no
way that bus could support the
weight of such a numerous clientele.
There were six long minutes of
accommodation, squeeze here, push
there, little kids sitting on
the laps of their elders, lovers
and newlyweds as cozy as possible.
The most afflicted at standing
in the corridor, settling on the
armrests, somewhat like ungainly
pigeons. Indeed, it was truly
a can of human sardines. Before
getting to Unaí, there
were another two stops to pick
up even more passengers. It wouldn’t
have helped any for the driver
to say that the bus was full and
there was no more room because
more room was somehow always conjured
up. At the coffee stop where the
driver said we would stop for
only a few minutes, it took fifteen
whole minutes just to get everybody
out of the vehicle. And for everybody
to get back in, with an additional
six passengers, by my watch, didn’t
take any less than an eternal
forty minutes. Then came the lunch
stop, another three fellow adventurers
and even more waiting for going
in and coming back out because
people always get slower on a
full stomach. When we stopped
again, this time for coffee around
four in the afternoon, no one
even had to get off the bus because
the oranges, bananas, slices of
watermelon, fried pastry and more,
as well as slices of sugar cane
were all bought and sold through
the window like a colossal rolling
fast food drive-thru. A great
novelty and miracle of salvation
was the appearance of mineral
water, I believe nothing could
have been more coveted in the
broiling heat. At Serra Das Araras
( Land of the Macaws) , a beautiful
little place, planted with shade
trees with a pleasant square full
of lush green grass. An old lady
with three little blond kids and
a crate with two turkeys going
glu-glu-glu suddenly appeared.
At the beginning, the driver didn’t
let her get on, explaining that
it was impossible because, even
if there were space for her and
the kids, where would he put the
turkeys? The question became a
general curiosity. More and more
passengers stuck their heads out
of the windows wanting to give
advice and help out. So, where
to put the turkeys? It was a problem
for us passengers as well as the
bus driver, because to the old
lady, this was just a normal traveling
situation. She called the ticket
collector, made him move three
of four bags, a few sacks and
some packages, studied the baggage
inside, and like the experienced
traveler she was, deftly tucked
her bags and things neatly inside
among the rest. A sigh of general
relief bubbled through the canned
crowd. Then, with head held high,
now an important member of the
expedition, she smiled, wiped
the perspiration off her brow,
gathered up the kids, and with
them, proudly occupied the first
step into the bus. When we finally
arrived at São Francisco,
not at five in the afternoon,
but at eight in the evening, The
stuffy overcharged environment
inside that bus was so packed
that the door could only be opened
from the outside. There was absolutely
no danger of falling or slipping
because there just wasn’t
anywhere to fall. It may seem
strange and I know that it wasn’t
my job, but I felt it important
to record some statistics about
our journey for the Department
of Roads and Highways or whoever
may find it interesting or amusing.
Including the driver, ticket boy
and all the rest of us, one hundred
and twenty three passengers got
off that bus in São Francisco.
One hundred and twenty one humans
and two turkeys. But only we humans
would make it through to Christmas.
The turkeys probably ended up
as the object of good appetites
during the festivities. Or maybe
even before, because we know that
turkeys always get done in on
the day before Christmas.
