C

 

 

Fotos de viagens de José Megre 6

D. R.

 

6/6

+ fotogalería

 

 

José Megre foi, seguramente, o maior viajante português dos nossos tempos. De todos os países e territórios, apenas a sua morte, acontecida há um ano, o impediu de ir ao Iraque. Megre não era um turista, era um viajante. O seu objectivo não era chegar ao final, ao lugar tal, era a viagem em si mesma, o caminho para lá chegar que o motivava. Viajou muito mas nunca o fez de uma forma vazia de conteúdo. Informava-se, lia muito antes de partir, levantava questões e depois, no terreno, tentava dar-lhes resposta.
Conheci José Megre em 1980, poucos meses antes da sua primeira participação no Paris-Dakar e fui o primeiro jornalista a contar as suas aventuras num UMM de 90 cavalos na mais dura prova de todo-o-terreno do mundo. No ano seguinte, como jornalista, passei a acompanhá-lo em algumas viagens. No Dakar, em reportagem para o Record, durante três anos e, depois, em quase todas as expedições que ele organizou. Aprendi a conhecê-lo, a estimá-lo a admirá-lo muito e a zangar-me com ele, coisa que lhe dava um grande gozo e o levava a dizer-me “Lá está o France amuado”.
Aprendi com ele a conhecer algumas das melhores pistas, aldeias e cidades de África, da Europa, da Ásia e da América. Atravessámos juntos quase todos os desertos do mundo. Nunca fui à Austrália, mas chegou a estar pensado.
Uma das suas grandes paixões era a descoberta da Portugalidade, conhecer, ver e sentir, os caminhos traçados pelos nossos compatriotas, ao longo da nossa história.
Acompanhei-o em algumas dessas viagens a África (em que chegámos a cruzar todo o continente até ao Cabo da Boa Esperança), seguindo às vezes as rotas dos escravos ou as rotas do ouro, das costas da Gâmbia até ao interior do Império do Mali; na América do Sul ( com a descoberta das missões portuguesas do século XVII, dos caminhos dos Bandeirantes), do garimpo do ouro e da travessia da Amazónia; na Ásia, com uma viagem entre Paris e Pequim, ou a ida ao Tibete e a descoberta, numa aldeia chinesa perto da fronteira com o Quirguistão, de um fantástico ourives cinzelador cego, que fazia as mais belas obras em ouro apenas pelo tacto. Ou a que me deixa as melhores memórias, quando recriámos na sua parte mais importante embora em sentido inverso, a viagem de um padre jesuíta do início do século XVII (1604), António Tenreiro, entre Lisboa e Goa, sempre por estrada. José Megre era um homem duro, um combatente, condecorado com a Cruz de Guerra em Angola, enquanto alferes Comando, que vi fazer frente, de mãos nuas, a um grupo de guerrilheiros, numa barragem que foi montada aos nossos carros numa pista perdida na fronteira entre o Paquistão e o Afeganistão, em 1996. Mas José Megre era igualmente um homem sensível e por muitas vezes lhe vi as lágrimas nos olhos, nas visitas às ruínas de Baçaim e de Chaúl, antigas praças portuguesas na costa do Hindustão, na visita a Fattypussycri, a capital do Império Mogul do imperador Akbar, que teve como mulher a portuguesa (de Goa) Mariana, nessa Índia fabulosa do séc. XVI. E as  fortalezas do Mar Roxo, e da Costa do Malabar e a emoção sentida na foz do rio Mekong, na fronteira entre o Camboja e o Vietname, quase sentindo o esforço heróico de Luís Vaz de Camões desesperadamente a lutar contra as águas para salvar o seu original dos Lusíadas.
Muitas dessas viagens ficaram espalhadas por documentários de televisão, nem sempre bem aproveitados e divulgados, por alguns artigos de jornal e por três livros escritos por José Megre.
Surge agora a sua derradeira obra, acabada dias antes de morrer. O lançamento póstumo do livro “Como eu vi todos os países do mundo (menos um)” é um é um bonito gesto de homenagem prestado por algumas pessoas que com ele privaram mais de perto, com o seu filho Ricardo Megre à cabeça.
O grande mestre, “inventor” do todo-o-terreno em Portugal, cultor da portugalidade e querido amigo merece-o.

 

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living.

It was a cowboy’s life, a life for someone who wanted no boss.

What I didn’t realize was that it was also a ministry.

Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, and made me laugh and weep.

But none touched me more than a woman I picked up late one August night. I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partyers, or someone who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some factory for the industrial part of town.

When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.

Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation.

Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. “Just a minute”, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knick-knacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

“It’s nothing”, I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.”

“Oh, you’re such a good boy”, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, “Could you drive through downtown?”

“It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.”

I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

“I don’t have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have very long.”

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. “What route would you like me to take?” I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her purse.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You have to make a living,” she answered.

“There are other passengers”.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

“You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said. “Thank you.”

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware – beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.