Skinny love and motion blur

Dawn has arrived but it is still too damn cold outside for me to venture adischarge. I didn't sleep very well again — although I can actually fully stretch my body in the back of the van, I cannot avoid strange dreams to pour in. I woke up a couple of minutes ago. Roger is still sleeping so I try to keep still inside my sleeping bag. I stare at the white metal ceiling.

I reckon for how long I have been in Australia already. Is it 20 days? 25? What day is today? Are we still in March? I can't get any conclusion, I will ask Roger when he wakes up — now I am curious. I gently move the blue window curtains and peep Aurora's rising.I grow slowly impatient. Turn sideways. Try to get back to sleep. It is of no use. I really need to pee. Fuck it. Inside my sleeping bag I drag my ass until the front seat. I turn the van's battery on and press play on Roger's iPod. I pump up the volume. It takes some milliseconds until the speakers scream "Is this it? Is this iiiiiittttt? It t-h-i-s it",The Strokes. I hear Roger's nervous movements inside his sleeping bag. "Scheisse! Was ist den los mit dir? You crazy Portuguese" Roger mumbles, "Guten Morgen! Didn't you tell me last night you wanted to see the sunrise?", "It is 5h30 for god's sake! Low the volume, I can hardly hear myself!", "IS THIS ITTTTTTTT, IS THIS IT? Come one mate, I reallllllyyyyy need to take a piss" I finally manage to get out of the van.

I met Roger in Esperance, the last coast city of Southwestern Australia. Roger is 27, swiss and a loner. He rented a van in Perth and has been traveling around west Australia, picking random backpackers along the way.

I met Roger in Esperance, the last coast city of Southwestern Australia. Roger is 27, swiss and a loner. He rented a van in Perth and has been traveling around west Australia, picking random backpackers along the way. We parked the van last night along the national highway to Kalgoorlie, a godforsaken place just before The Great Victoria Desert. We left Esperance in the morning and planned to overnight in Norseman, a small town in between. There wasn't a single soul to be seen in Norseman and the atmosphere resembled the tension of a duel in an American Western movie. "This town scares the shit out of me" Roger whispered while signalizing on the roundabout, "Well, lets move on, we still have light" I suggested. We found a park shortly after. The park itself had nothing special — was actually very dry and rather sad with its short bushes and thin dusty trees. Besides us, there were two other vans and one billion flies biting every single inch of uncovered flesh — they just drive you to despair, I only wished I could kill them! Dusk came faster than we imagined and by 6 pm we were in total darkness. We cooked some rice, sliced some vegetables, set a fire and drank beer until its extinction. We were in bed at 7 pm. There was simply nothing else to do. We both laid in the back of the van, said "Gute Nacht" and did our best to fall asleep.

"Ahhhhhh!" the insignificant morning pleasures. I zip and turn to the van to find Roger on the driving seat. I enter the van. "I still can't believe we went to bed at 7 pm last night" He tells me while trying to clean his eyes with his fingers, "Well…'deitar cedo, cedo erguer meu filho', my mother aways told me", "What was that?", "Nothing, just start the engine and lets get out of here. By the way, what day is today?", "Monday, the 28th" We have about 200 km to Kalgoorlie, my last stop in Western Australia. Being Monday, I still have 2 days before stepping aboard the thirty-hour-Indian-Pacific-train to Adelaide. I am at ease and so is Roger. We have plenty of time ahead of us and absolutely no idea what to do with it. Now, we drive. The sun progressively gets altitude and the van's clock marks 5:53 am. The lack of clouds in the sky announces another sunny and burning day in Western Australia.

The Strokes are still playing. I pick Roger's iPod and search something slower and happier.Buffalo Soldier, I reckon Bob Marley is one those musicians that roadtrips will always immortalize. As soon as I press the play button, the reggae beats take control of our bodies and we both shake and sing "Stolen from Africccca, brought to Americccaaaa" — ah! the infinite pleasure of innocence.

I am suddenly hit by hunger. A big dark hole crawls the walls of my stomach. I ask Roger if we can stop somewhere and have breakfast. Roger's van is like a small barn. It stores all sort of vegetables and fruits, cereals and yogurt — everything being bought before leaving Esperance. We divert from the main highway and park among trees. We boil some water for tea, chop some apples and oranges to mix with the muesli and the yogurt. We eat delightfully. Nothing can break this moment. We have nothing in our heads but the primary, animal instinct of survival. None of us says a word until tea is served. A small breeze lifts some red earth from the torrid soil and we do our best to protect our hot cups. "So, at what time do you reckon we will be in Kalgoorlie?" I ask Roger, "Well… I don't know… maybe around 9 am? Who cares? Just relax and change the music." True, who the hell cares? There is nothing in Kalgoorlie anyway… why can't I just relax and stop thinking about what's next? "There is no past, nor future, only present…" Echoes the Monk voice in my head.

"What do you want to listen?" I ask Roger, "Surprise me…" I travel in time to my radio days at RUC (Radio University of Coimbra). I search a song with my heart, my right thumb draws circles around the iPod until the "B" letter is displayed. It is a bit too early for Bon Iver… but, well… why not? I highlight the song "Skinny Love", press play and turn up the volume. The first guitar cords… "I fuckin' love this song, man!" Roger says while turing his eyes off the road. We wait motionless for the refrain. Finally, now we both know how it goes "(…) and I told you to be patient, and I told to be fine, and I told you to be better, and I told you to be kind, and in the morning I'll be with you, and it'll be a different kind, I'll be holding all the tickets, and you'll be holding all the fines, come on skinny love (…) ma ma ma, ma ma ma, ma ma maaaaa (…)"

The Road ahead of us is infinite, it merges with the endless flat red land and the saturated blue sky in the far horizon. There is no one else in this immense area. No cars passing by, no kangaroos jumping on the road, just us. Two nonentities, singing Bon Iver at 7 in the morning, driving to places we have never heard of, in a country we've never imagined to be so massive. I turn my head to my left window. Trees move with urgent haste as we speed to the unknown. I attend the effect. Fixing my eyes on the glass I get high on intermittent blurred lines of green and brown against a sea of cobalt blue. I am sitting still but everything around me is moving. Like in many other moments of my life, all I can see in front of me is this blurred coloured expressionist painting — which, I reckon, is never meant to be understood.