BR-156 Red Earth Road
The eyes of strangers were cast down like nets into an unknown depth, indifferent and steady. So were the fishermen, hung to their feet by the decaying dock. Others, adrift atop the concrete terraces of the upper street. Dominos, cards, beer- and stares. Men making their living by capturing creatures who, finding an otherwise good way through a stream, find it at the wrong time. Curious they were. Here was coming youth to town, one with the reputation of never being able to leave. What was a foreigner doing in these parts-alone- afar from any slightly touristic destination? In a state where over 70% of the land is protected; where, consequently, any form of movement is limited to conditions and therefore the seasons. Just as a fish, I too choose this way en route to another- a little luckier, however.
The canoe’s engine fluttered off as it neared the banks of Oiapoque. Drifting with the currents, my driver steered the haul towards a vacant space- there, where a set of stairs joined the river and the upper street; dominated by fisherman short and tall, enjoying their fraternity and lazy ease. No official anything. A river unknowing of nationalities and borders. Ping! The ferry has arrived. Tiago and I exchanged some words and finalized our dues. I didn’t bother asking him any questions regarding the town, nor of the customs bureau. I decided that I’d find out the old fashion way, by detour and chance. I took the first hook insight- knowing full well I knew not where it led. With all these burly folks to choose from, I landed on a jolly creature, fair aged and pot-bellied. Like a fish himself when his eyes went wide; when to him I spoke in his native tongue. Asked him when he started drinking and if today’s catch was any good, rolling myself a cigarette to remind me of time. Said he was well off for the day and offered me a seat next to his friends. We spoke of the species that made a home in the murky waters and the folks under the sun. Myself, a fish out of his waters and at ease, was questioned fancifully by the humble sunbaked men of simple means. We jested in that universal language, lubricated by barley and wheat, not so distant when differences are set aside and remembered for what they are- incidents of fate. The ember of my cigarette began to press my creased lips, reminding me of eternity that must constantly be put to an erratic end. The smoked digits of my right hand crumbled the flame between its flesh and scattered it into the well of an empty can. Exhaling, I asked where to, to find the center of town and the bureau of immigration. They pointed gayly over to tattered roofs towards the plaza central and informed me of the bureau that laid hidden by the avenue that sneaked out of town. Equally casually, I adjusted anew my bandana, bit the men adieu, and tossed my humble bag over my worked shoulders, now free again.
My mind was like an empty vessel, filled in by perfumes my heart so recalled for its own vagrant reasons. The wind tossed opaque and humid across my wanton hair. The smell of flowers wild caught and carried by this airy waterway enveloped my sense of timelessness and fractal reality. Shattered by the laughter of babes running adrift beyond the grasp of their parents. Misery hidden in the lines of somber smiles, portraying the tragedy of our helplessness at becoming what our inner-child once dreamt of. Content with silver and copper means- forgetting the heavens that Earth might be; if only sincerity was sought through and empathy could be shared without words; marred by trauma and linguistics.
My feet gently caressed the new village that saw me err its streets. Crisscrossing around the same buildings and groups of people as I searched for a place to rest the night, more importantly, a place to discard my possessions, to glide through the place with only my body for mass. So went the rounds, asking the prices of here and there and finally settling in a humble wooden and leafed assemblage. The hours of the sun began to let its strong rays fade across the horizon stretching into the forest, revealing scores of hidden colors as he hushed himself to the approaching of night, where slowly, he was cradled low under the stars and out of sight for all. The howling of monkeys saluted the moon embarking on her throne, full and majestic- soft and sure. The chapters were turning assuredly, so close to the delta of that mighty river that I could feel the throb of hidden serpents consuming time and shedding its ash on the fire of itself. Only to rage into the ocean where one once was all.
Possessed now, I left my quarters and went about the stores illuminated by the works of men. Belly hollow, I scanned the shelves for fruit and bread of the brow. Plenty I found and brought it to the banks of the diving river from whence I came. Broke the bread with ghosts and thanked the air. Calmly I ate and drank with them to the sounds of murmurs deep. Satiated, I dropped to my feet again and went where they led; prejudice none and fear absent. Within little time I had ventured across every stone and skirted the surrounding grasses of the town. Now, at one with its memories, I came to myself, discriminating myself from its pulse and mystery- a thorn with its own petals. So, sapped with the force of life, I erected my spirit to the goals of that blossoming end. Thoughts like new buds took heed to that delta which was to water them. Walking, slow of pace, I resolved my intent to continuation and a march towards the figment of progress. Amor Fati.
I awoke the following morning to the chanting of birds in high hum. The infant sun shone upon my visage and glistened my eyes to its fire. On the open terrace where my meal laid, my gaze wandered to the plaza- that perineal space allotted to all Latin communities- held my mind the time I daydreamed my coffee away. Matter into non-matter. The taste of no taste. Mind engrossed in empty space; projections of senses made to awaken from perception. Black, bitter. Sweetened by unreality. My cup has vanished. The fragrant bakery from downstairs rises its freshly baked treats to my nose, recalls my mind-body to return to the local play. I strapped my bandana to my forehead and slipped on my shoes. With the few reais left in my bag from Venezuela, I venture to the bakery to acquire some handmade contortions for the journey ahead. Taking less than I should, I keep the remaining coins for fresh fruit and package them all carefully.
Just as I was about done gathering my belongings, I remembered my responsibility in announcing my arrival, getting my passport stamped, and whatnot. Remembering having passed it last night, I honed on my pack and made my way out of town, where, at the outskirts, the building laid-a grand one-story concrete blob. State-sponsored, no doubt. Gingerly I entered, passing a few armed guards. The man working at the office however had a happy countenance and asked me many irrelevant questions and forgoing the standard ones. It was refreshing and a good omen, to be sure. Under laughter the official procedures were dusted- I was now legally at large and could travel as I fancied it. Leaving the air-conditioned mass of right-angled walls, I stepped anew under the 30-degree Celsius sun, marching on red dirt roads, passing the rodoviária (bus station), and setting myself under a tree-; thumb in the air, 600km between myself and the Amazon river.
It was May then, still well within the rain season which can see, on average, 400mm of rain a month. We are in the Amazon after all. Which in itself is a highly unlikely place for there to even be a road. Indeed, the only one there is in the whole state is highway 156, linking the border to the river coast capital of Macapá, my destination. But don’t be fooled, the only asphalt on it is a brief length exiting the capital. Most of it, virtually all of it, is a thin band of dirt with protected forest on all sides. Besides the commitment factor and self-reliance there called for, the road itself is continually washed out by the torrential rains (8 months of rain season) and worked feverishly by semi-trucks supplying the four very small villages that are dotted on it. At any rate, I decided id still try to hitch through its awful and powerful maw. It wasn’t raining then and I didn’t see why I shouldn’t try. Improbable as it may be. No local in their right mind travels this road, even less own or a need a car. This is village life. Still. Why not? So there, hiding from the sun now past adolescence, in its full power, I laid like a salamander, not moving, barely drinking. My breath was shallow as if time had forgotten its sway, my muscles deserted my chest and abandoned it to the swell of cicadas. Tranced, back leaning on bag, the symphony flooded my consciousness. My eyes, barely peering into the void grew heavy as lead; fell, rose, and fell. The rhythm of death slithered as my pulse drowsed under the fire of life. Burning flesh without the slightest of touch, only that encompassing heat of a world on fire. Of Dreams on fire. Of Life on fire.
“To lay one’s head upon the pillow of the hour,
A weary traveler by the barked tower,
Dents its fallen leaves- and sleeps.
”
The roar of an engine suddenly jumped my nervous system back to perception. A truck, a Toyota Hilux, rushed on by, picking up dirt and slathering it over my glasses, escaping to the heart of the wilds. The sun was hot still, although not so much my ambition for picking a free ride. I knew these trucks were private hire and rather costly- the only half-assured way across. Luckily, I wasn’t here for certainty. That was something searched for at many an elsewhere, and since then abandoned. Come what may, but I beware of stagnation- the sap must flow. So, I like the locals with slender means, choose to visit the rodoviária. Some people with whom I spoke the night before informed me that the last great fall of rain was a few days ago, ergo, the roads might be passable. It was a wager I was willing to take. The bus was to depart in an hour or so- giving me just enough time for a stroll. To unwind the legs before their indefinite confinement. When I got to, families and solitary citizens were filling up the under-haul with enormous bags. The same haul I was forced to store my machete in. The driver wasn’t so keen to have one on board, strapped to a green bag of bounty. Some of the locals pondered a moment as to why I should be traveling with one. Again, this is the Amazon; and in these parts, I much rather own a machete than a pair of shoes.
Mortus Viventi.
As luck would have it, either by chance or freight, no one sat next to me. I had a window seat for the eyes and an alley seat for the legs. Outstretched then, I readied myself for a road of legend. The mechanical clinks gave way to the initial torque and off we started. As the hour widened to the second, the red dirt road was dry and level, compact and easy going. Around then the plains on which we rode ended clean and now we found ourselves surrounded by dense, thick, green foliage that took up all vista. A change of pace took place, slowing down, moving up still. For the most part, the road was straight so momentum wasn’t much of an issue. All seemed well. All seemed well indeed until it wasn’t at all.
Like a fly landing in molasses, the heap of metal came to a halt as it splashed in a puddle deep enough to drown a drunk. Mud all the way over the wheels- burying itself within the wells. Fuck. Like a pool all around us. Dirt consuming what is hers. Flesh in vibrant colors caught in the metal frame of civilization in a land that repels it. Stuck. Enthralled in her bosom- in the middle of nowhere. But man is a social creature, and institutions work together in the quest for dominion, of one sort or another. This instance was no different. After a good while of waiting, a group of uninformed men with heavy machinery- road managers I imagine- appeared Infront of us all. Exiting from the window our driver jumped out, feet naked, and trod his way across the thick sludge towards Deus Ex Machina. Within an hour or so they managed to excavate a piece of the bus strong enough to endure the force of a winch and tow- and so dragged our miserable cart out of its predicament and back onto drier dirt. Onwards.
As If nothing had happened, we carried on. Some hours in now, having traveled barely anything. I dragged down the window pane on my right side and poured my head downwards and out as if a flag of rocks. The artificial wind brought by movement soothed my head-ache of mortal coil. Occasionally, splashes of mud caressed my face, reminding me of the absurd attempt at road travel. Red, green, and blue: the only things that entered my eyes and contrasted themselves to their own self. The monotonous and nauseous repetition of traveling unnaturally in a place otherwise magnificent. The terror, the absolute terror that all buses everywhere strike into the hearts of us, that ambushes the poetic with convenience. Committed. Destined. I was in the belly of the whale. The consequence for not believing. The irony of faith. Thusly dragged and dogged the succession of timeless unsubstantial time onto the thin red band, across the thick green forest, under the blazing blue pavilion of sky.
Murphy’s law is never far- and the Dharma is one with it. Indiscriminating, it discriminates us all. Great furrows that rose and fell to their own aesthetics barged us on from locomotion. Nature imitating art. Puny once again. All our virtues and years of mastery stopped in its tracks by simple mud. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. So once more the bugle is sounded and the cavalry marches. Ourselves, sitting ducks and characters of characters- standing aside of our own lives. Another, different, group of men appeared again to save us from our plight that now seemed a casual occurrence- normal as day is day and truth are lies. This time, seeing as we were not downright flooded, but merely jammed, the rescue was done quicker and in better style. By the time I finished eating a cookie, old Betsie was on the road again.
It had been about 6h now and we still hadn’t passed 100km. 500 remaining mind you and night approaching fast. As fate would have it, before we plunged ourselves into a new misadventure, we stopped at a heaven-sent truck stop. Presumably constructed for run-down folks like us. It had a buffet-style restaurant like anywhere in Brazil- where you pay by the weight. It also had showers for the public- again, like everywhere else in Brazil. Lodging too for a fee. Really, luxury incarnate. Stepping out of the hunk of mud-covered metal, I asked the driver what his plans were.
He informed me that we would be here for a while- unsure how long- until the roads ahead were passable-ish.
About then, at his last uttered syllable, dusk took hold of the sky and a coolness fell on us. Most if not all the folks from the bus sheep tailed into the restaurant, loading plates greedily, mixing this with that until you could not distinguish what things were actually put into it. I, with barely any cash, opted to wait until I could no longer, which would be a while still. To calm the temptation, I went outside and laid on the moonlit grass. There I digested in slow the passing events of the day. Glad to be at a halt and close once more to the Earth, under the gentle gaze of the mysteries of the night sky. Bare chest I laid and unwound the clatters of the mechanical world with all its freight and nonsense. The absurd attempt at arriving at one’s death quicker all the while denying it; moreover, bringing everyone and everything else with it. Let it be men. Unshroud the ivory towers of progress and raise the bed to Lilith and her womb. Realize your emptiness and the essential emptiness that space and time and matter puppeteer across this vast essential emptiness. The emptiness your eyes fool you into clinging to. Like pyres to death these stars that blaze and bless our sight, consuming their selves to the core in cataclysmic tragedies of a universal orgy. How can you be so vain as to cry over spilled milk?
With stars falling overhead to this and that direction, the moon waned and crept ever so slightly to the west, to the heart of the continent. Conquistadors of past were long gone – though their heritage remained. So too that eternal pulse of vagrancy and curiosity, so often be-mixed in one strange strand. Thus it was with this man who tempted fate as I did also. Middle age and full of stories, he wandered with his drape of jewelry from shoulder to sandalled feet. Unable, of course, to sell his wares. Not for the virtue of the lack in quality, but of overriding necessities of sense organs, adjoined to the unknown duration of our delay and finite wallets of our fellow passengers. Himself one just so. Though a Rastafari, with his own illicit needs. I suppose it was the uncanny sight of me that inspired him to come and speak of his creed. So, cross-legged he joined my circle and asked If I would fancy a smoke to Jah. Not one to deny the arrows of destiny, I let my lungs be pierced by that musk-petaled flower. Entwined in a cloud of sacrament, the air’s vibrations heightened as gravity fell to its own- transporting us inwards to perception of divinity. Of brotherly love and humanity. Of our inescapable and intimate bond with the Earth with all her prices to bear and gifts ever-given. Compassion and austerity.
Just so, as the moon waned furtherly deep into the forest- so green it is black- our circle too shattered its form to accommodate a new one. On his way, he went to the bus for safe sleep. I not pining the glinting signs of rain, gave myself to the simplest bed of all-a tree with a canopy of gold.
“ He has the most who is most content with the least”
The heat perturbed the leaves above me, then found my still cool skin, and warmed it to my awakening. I brushed my eyes with my hands of clay and looked around the scenery with a new light. I yawned to the morning of jungle might and remembered the bearings on I which I relied upon. The bus, still motionless, remained parked where it had upon arrival. Appeased, I went off to search for our driver. Found him and kindly- almost detachedly- asked him for an update. Half-annoyed, he replied that he did know at all. Well then, what else but to be a cat and loiter under the sun? Following a brief walk on the outskirts, my stomach began the rumble- to make known lyrically and tactilely its feverish needs. So then, I erred back into the bus to scavenge some fruit from my trusty green bag, then hastily left and went out again. I embraced the indolence of the morning and the lazy ethos of those that surrounded me. Book in hand, I shuffled through the scribblings of old men dead. Softly I read to the seamless ripples of the air, that robbed my voice and suffused it with wisdom not mine. Like senseless signs of ink over a vast ethereal canvas of naught.
“Ma pensée est un souffle aride: - C’est l’air. L’air est à moi partout. - Et ma parole est l’écho vide - Qui ne dit rien - et c’est tout.”
Just as the yellowed pages of that accursed poet- who not himself a saint- were ending upon its opening, these senses of sight, my eyes, rose to the buffeting of trucks with dusted skirts of mud. These trucks were for hire and their clients poured out in a constant trickle and into the restaurant, where some supplies were bought and the restroom used. The drivers took advantage of the stop and caped their reservoirs with gasoline tanks, ratcheted to the bed. As swift as they had arrived, so swiftly they were gone. A mirage and play; a display of inequality that remains the same. This again occurred an hour or so after the first arrival. Close to noon now and no sign of leaving. My fruit and bread supplies were nearing their end - soon I would have to summon my meager coins for beans and rice. But for how long? How long could I stretch the value of money and endure the hushing of sap that runs in my veins? 500km away and I could sense the freshwater of that great torrent rushing into the ocean. I resolved that I would hitch a ride with the third arrival of a truck or caravan of them. An auspicious aura grew from the northern road that led to Oiapoque. I remembered then the saying from home that a third always follows a suit. Time and even its adversaries were on my side. Patient and they will come.
Sure enough, two Helixus skidded out the woods and into the parkway, where the bus laid odd and useless. One of the drivers, with a black shirt and sunglasses, swaggered his way out the imported instrument and purchased himself a drink. On his way back, I accosted him in his native tongue, which in my favor soothed him away from the concept of the foreigner- slightly. I plainly asked if there was space left for a voyage down the 156. There wasn’t however. All full; just as the other truck was. It was that other driver that pointed out a coffin space in the bed I could wiggle in. A proposition that was alright in my book. The tattered clothes over my back must have helped convince him. For a greatly reduced fare- in fact just under what I had then- he allotted me space and then and there, there I was at the cusp of resuming motion and adventure. Just before jumping in, I ran for my bag and informed the busman of my leave, and recovered my trustee machete. Swooshed into my coffin, all glad and merry, as the engine roared off to the south.
Within a quarter of an hour, I was most assured of my decision. We were gunning down and up terrain proper to the most vehement of off-roaders. There was no chance in hell a bus would ever fare a yard, even with the highest blessings of heaven. Dirt scattered everywhere like shrapnel from an ever-exploding grenade of mad earth; red as blood and thick as all things vital. Tossing only occasionally-having barely any room to wiggle in at all- I managed to roll a cigarette; let its fumes intoxicate my head and its associated- conjoined- senses, which were being stormed by all sorts of stimuli. The heat shone high and burnt my flesh as the smoke itched my eyes, the flying and fiddling earth moistening my exposed chest, the wind scything through my ears, the smell of that great jungle overriding the hues of gasoline, faintly drifting past. So it was, so it went.
Sitting in the truck bed, second truck following us.
YIPE! A sudden drift in the afternoon onslaught brought us to a first interruption. Before us, a caravan of trucks and semis- even a cop car- attempting to cross a concave gap between two hills; buried by heaps of mighty mud. Speed and teamwork were the names of the game. No way to cross here gingerly. An all-out commitment was needed. When we arrived, it was Mr. cop car’s turn to cross- and of course, everyone laughed at the mere sight of him- then more at his impotence and struggle to get across. Finally, one of the semi truckers, the one who, conveniently happened to be Infront, threw the officer a tether to bind onto his vehicle and therewith winched the law out of its inertia. Some three semis went next, only one of which managed without a winch. Another forfeiting to put planks of wood under his wheels in hopes of traction, since even the winch could not abracadabra it out. Excitingly, it was now our turn to raise Cain. With some preparatory reversing we created a few meters for propulsion and momentum. Speeding up with the lifting gears we charged into it and now with lowering gears spun through with the ass tossing left and right- myself in the bed still- giving e’r all that could be given. Mud flew as it never had, absolutely cascading over my person; now jumping up and down to help the quest advance. Fuck, finally she soared out the pit and continued on without a crash; myself, only almost falling out. What a rush. Painted over by the merry marriage of earth and rain, I smiled brightly and laughed heartily as I witnessed the other truck which we rode with making his way as well. An interlude not soon forgotten.
Wating our turn to pass. Mr Cop is trying to get out.
We rode on and kept our speed from then on, for the most part. The remaining hours of sun-dried over the mud that occupied my clothes and skin- and so easily peeled. Still well within the deep breast of the fragrant forest, night crept over the colors of vanishing day. Soon the oranges, reds, yellows, then purples and indigos, turned to a darkling sight of light. The most splendid reminder of ages past and now long gone. A black curtain dominated by the snows of cosmic fires. Blinding. Astonishing. Terrific. To think we gave up such terror and joy, such fertile fields of myth, embers to imagination’s flight, the very spark and gift of Prometheus, stolen from Gods and Titans, to have our cities lit. Of what use to see what is close and known at the price of forgoing what is beyond? That scene, that living and breathing scene that soared through my innocent eyes and lulled its cleverness to bed will never be attained by artificial lights. Sublime incarnate. Sapere Aude.
Enveloped in awe and gratitude, certain there could be no brighter sky- and sure that this truck bed was the best place to lay, fixating the emptiness that consumes all space, I rolled a cigarette of Mapacho must humbly, sharing with the wind and earth without care, projecting intentions beyond word and definition; I brought it to my lips and lit my modest flame to join in its choir of raging silence.
“J’aimerais connaitre ces mêmes voluptés
Qui éblouisse la noire avec ses soies dorées.
Lointaines flammes vivaces et grandes,
Je joint ma cigarette à vous cette nuit;
0ù la route est longue et gratuite.
”
As all good things must come to an end- and the holy shrouded anew, pieces of the sky began to fall. As shooting stars danced across the milky way, gems of water poured down from the flames. The clouds took hold of a vista unworldly - and under their grey gaze, I was bequeathed with the ambrosial breath of that thundering moment in time, where the sands of the Sahara fell with the tears of tragedy, stoked by the ever-renewing jungle. Naked to her ways, washed out, and baptized to death and life.
The road stretched on and anew the baptismal font opened. Through the night we raced onwards the hundreds of kilometers of red blood earth that led to the great Amazon river delta. Wet, I laid exposed in the merciful warm air, hiding from the cold winds brought by our actions. The hushing sounds comforted me in their irony. Beyond duality, the wind was neither good nor bad, not evil, nor just- not even fair. It was what was and I was at peace with come what may. Every day is a good day. Quality and quantity; dreams of emptiness and form unsubstantial birthing meaning in us all. Another mirror in this great web of lights refracted over another; multiplicity abiding in a single spark. As here I lay motionless, moving over the earth, the earth spiraling, the stars burning- I am no-one. Mind, mind only- everywhere. Nowhere no mind. Ohm.
It was oddly smooth when I awoke. The uneven ground that had rocked me to sleep was no more. I peered my head out of the coffin and witnessed the lights of metal poles strewn across the highway. We were near now. Still dark. As a curious hedgehog, I remained a sentinel and scout. Taking in clues of the city and feeling its aura. It became obvious that I would be sleeping in the streets tonight.
Drifting across the empty avenue, still on the outskirts, on inward, I readied myself for the foray into the unknown. A new dazzling city to explore by the banks of my mistress. Blessed by stars, now dim. Half an hour or so passed, as my consciousness gained in awareness, before we came to stop. Around me dreary houses with iron draped over windows, portraying mistrust and the pitiful preoccupation with material wealth. No doubt a residential area. Under the howl of dogs, our driver appeared next to me and- glad to see I was already awaking- from under the tarp, took out the luggage that belonged to a couple that lived at this address. I understood then that he would be making rounds to the homes of those who rode in the cab. Still another couple to go before he’d ask where I wished to be. Not quite downtown but well into the city, a sense of ease strange took hold of my heart. I knew this would not be a safe place to go willy nilly- but only if one carried fear, and what use is fear?
We stopped again and this time I helped heave the remaining luggage out of the truck. Whether in token of, or simple kindness, the young couple gave me a bag full of treats- cookies mostly- which they had been carrying over the course of the journey. I thanked them heartily, then had a chat with the driver. He asked where I was staying - and of course, I wasn’t staying anywhere. Not a single soul whom I knew lived here- and hotels of any sort were out my league or interest. Still, it was the lee hours of the morning and dawn wouldn’t be present for a few hours yet. He suggested dropping me at a rodoviária close by. In his opinion, the lights of the open terminal coupled with security cameras would discourage any robbery or murder. He seemed much more nervous about that possibility than I was. Stories breed belief. Conditioned. My judgment was lighter, more ubiquitous. I didn’t see why there would be a higher risk here or there, or anywhere else compared with anywhere else for such a thing. People tread left and right every day. In fact, in my own experience at least, the homeless are often the most jovial and kind-hearted. It is the world with its iron bars that break and torment with its rigid laws and con games. Like all things, the bad eggs gloss over the good, and bad sells. Be that is it may, l didn’t have a better idea and I also didn’t fancy a night walk- rather lay down a while more. Accordingly, I took up his offer.
He drove me under the dark sky silent of life. The blood-red earth, the broad green pillars, and the blue, white, black pavilion collapsed behind us. My coffin of life gave way to a play of another kind. Once more, finding myself upon the theater of men and women; with its arbitrary rules and shuffle of values, languages impotent and cultures of strife- I, your son, returns bearing the eyes of māyā. Suffer in my heart, the cloister of compassion- whose walls are of the flesh, and entrance, the senses.
The station was lit; eerie yellow stains of light shone the concrete gazebo, where meager benches of wood loitered beneath. Amid the shadows, a group of men stood. Some meters to their side my driver parked the truck- idling- and there I stepped down upon the grey tapestry of civilization. Reaching for my bag, I extended my gratitude to the man for allowing me to ride with them. Smiling, he returned to his now vacant Hilux and drifted out of sight- like a dream fading into eternity. From a single step, followed by another, I walked like a phantom towards the staging area. Where just then, the shadowed assembly advanced to reveal their countenance; asking from whence I came. I Informed them, in brief, of the journey undertaken. Three of them were bystanders who had been asked by a voyager of precisely this route, and how to go about crossing. Eager to know of the conditions, I explained to the traveler that yes, a bus did run- but that they are clowns out of their waters. Aghast at the idea of being charged a rate of private hire, he wavered in his spirit. I assured him there were ways around convention. With this new light, he and the others disappeared back into an unknown city.
Alone again, for the first time since that last swinging rest by horses under my care- in another country now well behind me- I changed into dry clothes at last and set my body upon the beams of murdered wood. Here, by the delta of that great river: where the snows of high mountains celestial course through the heart of this continent, still untamed by the hands of men, rushes upwards into the womb of us all-the Oceanus pearl- my eyes closed under neon lights, in faith to goodwill and power beyond conception.
