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.
