Greeted one hand, Without hugs, slowly. Without boasts or attempts to create the unreedd. They went up to the cars and began to travel. They walked without stumbling or races. They listened. They looked more like they talked. Johannesburg was new, No past. That caught my attention, They did not travel and their fifty previous trips to dissect in each movement pause that they already discovered the world and now they are only reviewing it. They seemed to want to live everything without the others realizing, as if they were able to travel inwards, something already so far in our time.
As if they were able to travel inwards
And then the group was getting. It wasn't an easy trip, mine, in which he guided with absences of word and commitment. But all that skein of sensations was being discouraged, slowly, Among fogs that invented beasts and contoured the thin figure of African winter trees. And they there, willing to see, They were receiving the reward of well -taken times. I think I learned from them more than with anyone, Things appear without looking for them, something that I theorized as easily as it was difficult for me to carry it out. Slowly, slowly.
And they ate in my house as distant friends who were approaching and listened. And in between everything and step, never on that route is the third time that had passed so many things in my environment. It was as if everything had answer because nothing was asked. And the sun stood with us and, thing to do everything so slow, we was always waiting.
Somewhere we lost two years
And in Cuamba we slept in private homes for ministers and wire hotels and after a train that was modernized to condemn it to the mundane we arrived at that island without time where everything was over. And I looked at them and then remembered so much lived and thought that somewhere we lost two years. And them, slowly, They told me that they entered a church in which they heard a song and then, When the rooster swollen his chest, We were the day after there singing children's songs from his land in front of a choir of looks that were no other than the people of the place.
Because I never traveled with a group, And I always did it with admirable people, that he would be more interested in the others than them without neo -to -demonstrate. Slowly. Without wires or excesses. Eating on the floor in Barracas, walking through villages or sitting in the banks of a church where they were going for beliefs in God but in men. And so the farewell night came and they had the detail, Of those that are worth several sighs, to give me a notebook with drawings and words. Thanking 20 Days of authentic trip. They did it with such love that I kept a lot of sense so as not to overwhelm them with my haste or demonstrate my cramps. I think I remember that I spoke and they smiled with that generosity of who understood that yesterday the times of yesterday are infinite. They weigh more. Slowly.
