You don't light the paths alone

by Marcel Luis do Carmo Duarte (Brazil)

A leap into the unknown Brazil

It was past 9 a.m. on a hot August day when that noisy 110cc motorbike broke the silence in the soybean and corn plantations of north-western Paraná State. It carried two unusual fellows: a man in his 40s, flip-flops on his feet, flowery shorts and a tank top that highlighted his thin arms holding the handlebars; on his head there was a small yellow helmet struggling to fit that bunch of old dreadlocks. On the rump, a young and exaggeratedly thin man, with long straight hair and scruffy beard; carrying a backpack, and a pair of hopeful eyes on his face. At least that’s how I’ve always pictured this scene – through that lonely police officer’s perspective, with his uniform, his cap, his sunglasses, and the humor spiced by that asphalt-melting heat. I still don't get why we haven't been frisked. Maybe the peculiar scene broke his monotonous watch in such an abrupt way that left him unresponsive when the motorbike stopped just before the police station and, a few meters away from him, I got off the rump, hugged my Rastafari fellow, and heard his euphoric voice saying: “Go for it Skinny! The world is ours!” I was leaving behind a small wooden house, a 70s VW Beatle in the garage, three mutts, and in the backyard a vegetable garden still warmed by the embers of the huge bonfire we made the night before. A farewell with a lot of friends, wine and music. That morning, while some were still asleep, drunk, spread around the house, I silently left the automated life, and for the first time, leaped into the unknown. At that moment, the architecture course, the successful career, the romantic love, the expectations of happiness built for a brazilian middle-class guy, all of that was smaller than the BR-376 highway that pointed towards the Atlantic, with its pavement deformed by commodity loaded trucks and tinted by the area’s red and fertile ground. I didn’t look at the police officer. I moved away a few meters until I reached the shadow of a tree that resisted alone by the road. At that spot, the trucks would slow down to drive past the police station and I had a better chance of getting a ride. The first three lorries didn’t show any sign of thinking about this possibility. When I looked back, I saw the man in his uniform walking towards me. “You can’t stay here. Two miles ahead there’s a gas station. Try there.” His face didn’t inspire arguments. He was an overweight cop sweating underneath his cap. I looked down the path and saw no trees on the horizon, only the heat mirages above the road and the red dust rising behind the vehicles. There was a truck coming and I told him I would try one last time and then go on my way. He agreed. I was hoping a cop’s company would give more credit to my weird frame. It worked. The truck stopped in the middle of the road. “Where are you headed?”. “To the port.” “I’m not going there.” “Ain’t a problem.” When I was already in the cab, I still had time to nod at the officer and thank him for his help. Inside that truck, my life was pointing east, and I couldn’t understand to what extent that was a choice. I got cold feet, a fear for not knowing where my next meal would be, or if I would have a roof to sleep under that night. At the same time, I was filled with the adrenaline of feeling that, at that specific moment, I was building destiny with my own hands. Little by little, the darkness of the unknown was turning into an immensity of possible ways, and everything seemed fine, as if I was sure that I would make the right calls. The trucker interrupted my thoughts. “I’m going halfway there, but I can fix you another ride through the radio”. I looked at him – a relatively young man with a peaceful feature – and thanked him. He was listening to an old song about homesickness, and soon I understood I wouldn’t light alone the unknown paths of the journey.