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.
