Crossing Another Border on Foot

I learned the village's name: Castillos, a small town between Rocha and Chuy. After thanking the firefighters and sketching my route on a map in their office, I hit the road again. The sky was clear, and my mood was high, but my nose wouldn't stop running, probably due to the extreme temperature fluctuations between day and night in the region. Standing on Highway 9, thumb outstretched, I attempted to hitchhike my way to Chuy as I was determined to set foot in Brazil today. After about an hour of waving at passing cars, one finally stopped. I hopped in as I thanked the driver, rolled down the window and let the cool breeze wash over me. This would be my last view of Uruguay's landscapes.

The car stopped about 4km from Chuy. After exchanging thank yous, I stepped out and started walking. I could have tried hitchhiking again, but wanted to cross into Brazil on foot. It felt ceremonial: crossing from Brazil to Argentina by bus, Argentina to Uruguay by bike, and now from Uruguay to Brazil by walking. Walking along the road, I soon reached the Uruguayan immigration office, surprisingly quiet with a few tourists. After a quick chat with a tourist couple, I got my exit stamp and started walking toward Brazil. Then I remembered the leftover Uruguayan coins in my pocket. They wouldn't exchange coins, so I should use them before crossing. When I asked a passerby, I was informed that I was already in Brazil. To use the Uruguayan money, I would have to backtrack.

I turned back and reached the border, marked only by a peacefully laid road. On one side, Uruguayan shops lined up; on the other, Brazilian shops. It was a fascinating sight. I bought a soap bar with Uruguayan coins and then walked into a supermarket marked "JAPONES." Intrigued by the prospect of meeting a fellow East Asian, I entered and met the Japanese shop owner, Tobe-san. He was the only Japanese resident in Chuy and had even appeared in a newspaper article about it. We had a long chat; he was from Hokkaido and missed Sapporo beer. With my last 3 pesos, he kindly marked down a 5-peso jelly so that I could afford it. Leaving his shop, I exchanged my remaining Uruguayan banknotes for Brazilian Reais at a nearby exchange office. The exchange rate was not in my favor.

I immediately felt the weight of unfamiliarity upon setting foot in Santa Victoria. Though bustling with its own life, the town felt foreign to me. My first destination was the fire station, my typical refuge during my travels, but I needed to know where it was.

I approached a local woman and tried to communicate through broken Portuguese. Our attempts at conversation were much like trying to fit mismatched puzzle pieces together. Recognizing our communication barrier, she took the initiative and led me to her friend's house. I met Mario, a man with warm and friendly face there. He spoke Spanish, the language I was more familiar with. As we talked, Gláucia, the woman who had guided me, watched with a curious and amused look on her face. Mario, sensing my desperation, offered to take me to the fire station on his motorcycle. Before our departure, his family gave me a chilled glass of water, a simple gesture that felt like the warmest of embraces. As we departed, I could feel the family's eyes on us, a blend of kindness and intrigue.

The fire station, unfortunately, couldn't accommodate me. Mario and Gláucia, ever the good samaritans, proposed a visit to 'Independencia,' a site resembling a cultural museum, hoping it might offer a refuge. The staff at 'Independencia' gathered around as Mario and Gláucia passionately relayed my story. It felt like I had become a living exhibit, a traveler from distant lands sharing tales of adventure. A woman emerged from the crowd and spoke to me in English. Mario told me she was the only person nearby who could speak English. We retreated to a quiet corner, sharing stories and experiences. As I spoke, she translated to the eager crowd. Gláucia, with her vibrant expressions, hung on to every word, her face reflecting a blend of concern and fascination. Amid our conversation, another woman with a badge indicating her association with 'Assistente Social' (possibly a social welfare center) approached with a solution: they had arranged accommodation for me. Their generosity left me surprised.

I expressed my gratitude to those around me as I stood up. The translator, who had been helping me, mentioned she wanted to take the decoration from my bag (a piece I had crafted from palm fronds, a skill I picked up from Eduardo in Uruguay's Young) as a token of remembrance. Smiling, I told her she was welcome to it. Outside, I bid farewell to Mario and Gláucia who had come out with me. Parting from them, who had quickly become friends, left a tinge of sadness.

A person from the social services center took me to a place to stay, generously covering the expenses. Furthermore, they provided me with a bus ticket to Pelotas for the next day, a gesture of kindness I hadn't anticipated. This led me to wonder if this was what a typical social service center was like and how the woman who helped translate had described my situation to them.

The man who drove me to the hostel promised to return at 9 am the following morning to take me to the bus terminal. I find myself increasingly charmed by the town of Santa Victoria.

Entering the room, I saw several ants crawling around on the bed --- a sight that terrified me. The room also carried a musty odor, hinting that it hadn't been visited by guests for a while. Nonetheless, I was grateful to have found a place that provided refuge from the rain, the cold, and the potential dangers lurking outside.

Stepping outside for fresh air from the room, I was met by a friendly face. An African-Brazilian man sat near the entrance, humming a tune to himself. I sat beside him, offering a nod and a smile, which he warmly reciprocated. Lighting up a cigarette, I tried to strike up a conversation. Yet, as anticipated, my rudimentary Portuguese was a barrier.

Soon, it became evident that I am now in Brazil. We went to a nearby bookstore, where I purchased a Portuguese dictionary. The man introduced himself as Daniel, his infectious grin lighting up our company. We strolled through the town, sharing tales.

Back at the accommodation, Daniel introduced me to his friends, Rodrigo and João. Their camaraderie was palpable, and their curiosity about my story was relentless. I was constantly straining to understand their rapid Portuguese, trying to fit into their lively banter.

The evening took a generous turn when Daniel offered me a container filled with food they'd picked up from a local restaurant. There was rice, mashed potatoes, meat, and some fried delicacies. He also handed me a half-filled bottle of cola. Gratefully, I dug in with a fork, feeling a sense of belonging. We spent hours in their room, sharing stories, laughing, and understanding each other beyond language barriers. Rodrigo even stowed away a piece of paper on which I had written his name in Korean, jesting about getting it tattooed on his arm.

Eventually, the night gestured me back to my room. As I prepared to sleep, I noticed my bed crawling with ants. Memories of my past encounter with these tiny critters made me uneasy. Gently, I shooed them away and settled into bed, reflecting on the day's adventures.

Despite warnings of the dangers Brazil supposedly held, my experiences so far painted a vibrant picture filled with warmth and vitality, contrasting unmistakably with the laid-back vibe of Uruguay. As I drifted off to sleep, gratitude filled my heart, and I silently prayed for the kind souls I'd encountered.