The Stray and the Wanderer

The lights flickered on at 6:30 AM, intruding into my dreams. A man's voice echoed in the room, urging everyone to wake up. My eyelids felt heavy, a consequence of staying up late watching the soccer match the previous night. With a reluctant stretch, I made my way to the bathroom to wash my face. The dining area was bustling with activity, serving bread with jam and coffee. I felt excited, realizing I could survive without spending money in Albergue.

Outside, the sky wore a gloomy gray, looming rain at any moment. I considered staying another night for the shelter, but it wasn't in my nature to be complacent in comfort. I packed and prepared to leave. The older man, with whom I had exchanged stories the night before, walked me to the door. "Enjoy!" he said. I nodded. A journey should be savored, after all.

It started raining as I walked along the highway to Porto Alegre, wearing my trusty raincoat. After a few kilometers, I tried hitchhiking at a busy intersection, but no one stopped for me. I continued walking, and after about 10 km, I had to answer nature's call and jumped over a fence. While I was in the tall grass, I saw a silhouette of a little creature. At first glance, I thought it was a rat, but then it lifted its head, and I saw that it was a very small puppy with barely opened eyes. I wondered why it was there. Was it abandoned, or did a stray give birth and move on? My heart ached for it. I shared some of my bread and ham with the pup without hesitation. I witnessed the puppy devouring its food hungrily, but I knew I had to resist getting too attached, so I left. However, as I turned to depart, the puppy emitted a small bark and looked at me imploringly. Although I tried to ignore it, my feet felt heavy. I silently wished for its survival and departed.

As I continued down the road, I saw a solitary house. The image of the puppy lingered in my thoughts, then an idea crossed my mind. I retraced my steps, picked up the puppy, and placed it near the entrance of the house. I believed it would be safer there.

As I walked away, I caught a glimpse of the puppy following me. I firmly gestured it to go back. The puppy's tail drooped, but it eventually returned to the house. I felt a mix of guilt and relief. Perhaps the puppy's mother was nearby, or maybe it was best for the pup to find its own way. I tried to avoid overthinking it. We all navigate through uncertainties, shaping our destinies in our unique ways. Perhaps we aren't the true architects of our paths. The universe, with its mysterious ways, often has a say.

At the next gas station, I approached the truck drivers to ask them for a ride. Eventually I met a driver who, although not heading directly to Porto Alegre, was willing to take me to a place called Camaquã. I settled into the passenger seat, letting the world outside pass me by. We drove through a picturesque village named Cristal, which boasted a breathtaking view with a river flowing alongside. Soon enough, the driver announced our arrival in Camaquã. I disembarked after expressing my gratitude, and the road once again became my companion. Pausing occasionally to hitchhike, I was met with a string of rejections until a stunning vehicle pulled over: a 1954 Cadillac Fleetwood.

The driver, Diego, introduced it as one of the most expensive cars of its era. He proudly explained that it had once belonged to the mechanic of a famous Formula One driver from the days before Schumacher --- a five-time world champion whose name escaped me --- which was why it remained in such pristine condition. Despite its age, it was the epitome of modern luxury, equipped with automatic gears, power windows, and adjustable seats. Diego had bought it for \$50,000 just two weeks ago. An automobile enthusiast, he owned ten vintage cars. Our conversation flowed seamlessly. From cars to motorcycles (he had ridden a range of them including Ninja, Vulcan, and Intruder) to bicycle trips and even the North-South Korean divide, we covered a myriad of topics. At one point, he pointed out indigenous people visible through the window, who were descendants of the Guarani tribe, crafting accessories to make a living. While they originally spoke Guarani, many now predominantly used Portuguese, although a significant number in Paraguay still held onto their native tongue. As the skyline of Porto Alegre appeared, Diego inquired about my plans. He offered to drop me at a gas station frequented by trucks heading to Florianopolis and I gratefully accepted. The majestic Fleetwood turned several heads as we pulled in. Diego and I exchanged a firm handshake and wishes of good fortune.

Finding a truck to Florianopolis proved elusive. Some staff suggested the hour was too late for departures. I wondered, should I spend the night and retry in the morning? But I was too far from the city center and the thought of wandering for a place to rest was unappealing. So I decided to walk, hoping to find another gas station.

Night fell as I traversed the highway's shoulder, immersing the world in a profound darkness. The glittering city lights in the distance painted a night different from what I was accustomed to. Trucks occasionally zoomed past, missing my body merely by an inch. Walking in the enveloping darkness, memories of my time in the military resurfaced. I recalled the night marches, a heavy backpack weighing me down, lost in thoughts, and just following the path set before me.

Back in high school, I was a dreamer. But my dreams then were fragile and aimless, much like a reed swaying in the wind, leading me nowhere in particular. I think I've always anticipated it -- a day when, by a grand challenge, I'd pivot the trajectory of my life. Though the direction wasn't clear, my yearning for that vague challenge was undeniable. Was I in search of an outlet to channel my boundless energy? Perhaps. And maybe that's why I couldn't find contentment anywhere and felt the need to break free. Expanding that immediate urge was always more pressing than figuring out the direction of my life.

Walking for what felt like hours, I suddenly noticed a truck parked on the side of the road with its hazard lights blinking. I hoped, albeit briefly, that it had stopped for me. But, pushing away the possibility of another disappointment, I continued walking towards it. As I drew closer, a man emerged from the truck, a familiar face. "Are you walking along the highway?" he asked incredulously. He was one of the truck drivers I had approached earlier at the gas station. Despite having firmly rejected me, it seemed he couldn't ignore seeing me walking alongside the highway at the peak of the night. He offered to take me as far as Ararangua. I gratefully climbed into his truck.

The truck's occupants, Douglas and Jose, were father and son. Douglas, despite being only 17, was assisting his father with driving the truck. He'd been driving for five years, even without a license, which was a testament to the Latin way of life. We all shared a laugh about it. Later, during a dinner stop, I could see their close-knit bond. Jose nonchalantly handed Douglas a beer and didn't bat an eye when the young lad lit a cigarette.

The trip was long and tiring, and I drifted in and out of sleep. Suddenly, Douglas shook me awake. We had arrived at Ararangua. After thanking them, I stepped out into the pitch-black night.

The town was eerily quiet, enveloped in a thick fog, giving it an ominous atmosphere. Searching for a place to sleep, I approached a few locals for directions. Many seemed wary and avoided interaction. But luck was on my side when I found a fire station. Although initially reluctant to offer shelter, one firefighter made a few calls, and soon, I was being driven to a free lodging place reminiscent of the one in Pelotas. Upon arrival, I quickly showered and was shown to a room where other travelers were already asleep. Treading softly, I found an empty bed. Unlike other places, the bed here was refreshingly odor-free, and as I settled in, a comforting exhaustion took over.