The trucks move across the Serengeti, crates stacked tight, animals pressed into corners.
They don’t know the hours, the distance, the stops.
Engines hum. Metal shakes. Paperwork counts weight, not panic.
Inside, bodies shift where they can, small movements, breaths caught between bars.
The land passes below, open and indifferent. Acacia trees, grass, sky—everything too big for these cages.
The vibration becomes everything. Eyes widen. Ears twitch. Instinct collides with metal.
Humans check locks, check papers, check temperature. They don’t feel the tremor in the fur, the pressure in the muscles, the quiet insistence of freedom denied.
I walk.
Feet on dust, stone, pavement. I stop when I want. I turn when I want.
The wind brushes my face, a dog darts past, a child’s kite catches the sun.
Each step is choice. Each breath is mine. Each glance is unbound.
Walking teaches you the weight of freedom. You notice the city, the light, the people moving beside you. You notice that moving is not always about distance—it’s about agency.
The rhythm is deliberate, slow, alive.
The truck reaches Arica. Crates are unloaded. Animals shift from one container to another.
The journey continues, but choice is absent. Instinct carries memory of plains, but the body moves through something imposed, not chosen.
I keep walking.
Every step counts. Every pause matters.
I remember the Serengeti beneath their paws. I feel Arica beneath mine.
One path dictated. One path chosen.
One body contained. One body aware.
One landscape remembered. One landscape lived.
Freedom is small, fragile, measured in air, in feet, in what you decide to see.
Both journeys conduct themselves. Only one belongs.
INSTANT NOODLES 