By EUGENIO BUCCI*
There is the war in Ukraine, there are the massacres in the Middle East, there is the polarization of Brazilian politics and there are the bicycle pilgrims. And does God exist?
I was driving along the Dutra highway, heading to Paraty, where I was supposed to arrive by mid-afternoon for a panel at Flip. I had gotten into the car very early. To be precise, I should say that I “dressed” the car shortly before eight in the morning. The sound was off. The vehicle was silent. A solitary driver, almost content to think alone in traffic, I thought about life and the women I had never loved (Manuel Bandeira taught me right, but I learned wrong).
It was in Taubaté that I realized. It was Friday, October 11th, the eve of the main holiday, Our Lady of Aparecida, and, on the side of the road, there were wanderers in typical costumes of practitioners of jogging. Within minutes, the number of walkers grew. As economists would say, it grew at an exponential rate. The flow of traffic, as radio reporters would say, became heavier.
On my cell phone, the georeferenced browser and its algorithm recommended a detour to save time. I obeyed. I passed through other parts of the city and, when I got back on the Dutra, the highway was blocked. Everything was at a standstill. Then it started to flow slowly. To continue using the jargon of radio bulletins, the driver encountered difficulties. Considerable ones.
What was happening on either side of the road had the air of one of those urban interventions that artists stage in the middle of the street to change the routine of big cities. People, thousands of people, streaming by on foot. They were the pilgrims of Aparecida. Some people opened their palms up high, at chest height, as if they wanted to feel the drops of rain that would not fall. Others seemed to be praying out loud. The closed windows did not let me hear them.
Slender young women, wearing tight-fitting Lycra shorts, did not look very Catholic, but they marched as converts. As if in fashion, cloth hats predominated, from under which a wide scarf hung to protect the back of the neck, shoulders and neck from the sun. The faithful carried wooden crosses of varying sizes: some, homeopathic, were no bigger than an umbrella; others were bigger than a double bed. Huge flags, with the image of the Saint, fluttered against the wind.
Liturgical t-shirts matched the patterns on the banners. Couples held hands and walked forward with their eyes fixed on the ground. Larger groups chatted and gestured absently, as if they were leaving work to go to lunch. There were those who slung their sneakers over their shoulders to walk the asphalt with their feet in synthetic rubber flip-flops. I saw pilgrims on bicycles.
There is the war in Ukraine, there are massacres in the Middle East, there is the polarization of Brazilian politics and there are pilgrims on bicycles. And does God exist? In the dry comfort of the air conditioning, at thirty kilometers per hour, I thought about the age-old question and immediately felt pedantic, ridiculous and guilty. If I had parked right there, opened the window and started a conversation, I would have been badly received, and rightly so. In my fleeting soliloquy, however, I did not give up asking: what are pilgrims fleeing from? Postmodernity? I don't think so. Family fights? Addiction? I don't think so either.
Will they flee from themselves? We will never know, just as we do not know what is sought in the pilgrimage. Is each human being seeking a different gift, but a gift nonetheless? Perhaps. Ritual walks simulate the course of life, but so far, it is only a metaphor, not a solution.
Near the gas stations, impressive tents, like small, makeshift circuses with aluminum frames and plastic tarps, welcomed the endless processions, offering a little rest, a glass of water, a chat. I considered that people who run away from themselves are always searching for themselves, and then I admitted that I was judging my fellow men in a cowardly, pretentious, and sterile way. My fellow men used metal canes. I used my hazard lights. Traffic was going to stop again.
When I could accelerate a little more, which I did with pleasure, the toll booth came. Another time, the driver encountered difficulties. In these stretches, I would let go of pedestrian speculation and concentrate on identifying the booths equipped with automatic toll collection from afar. You might think it's easy, but I'm wrong.
Just after Aparecida, with that cathedral that is bigger than a football stadium, the app told me to take a smaller, narrower road. The pilgrims miraculously disappeared. My mind was filled with other fantasies, like the steeper undulations of the lands of Cunha, covered in low grass and black and white cows, which should be in Switzerland and not here.
The next day, on my way back, I still saw pilgrims. Not a few. There were almost 37 in all, according to the Federal Highway Police. Four people have been killed in car accidents this year. I arrived in São Paulo. Everything was dark. São Paulo is darkness. Would I flee from Enel on foot? Yes, but it would be too lazy. Would I walk to Paraty? I laugh in spite of myself. If I wanted to get there and have dinner with Adauto, Maria Rita and Jaime, I would go.
* Eugene Bucci He is a professor at the School of Communications and Arts at USP. Author, among other books, of Uncertainty, an essay: how we think about the idea that disorients us (and orients the digital world) (authentic). [https://amzn.to/3SytDKl]
Originally published in the newspaper The State of S. Paul [https://www.estadao.com.br/opiniao/eugenio-bucci/a-romaria-ea-treva/].
the earth is round there is thanks to our readers and supporters.
Help us keep this idea going.
CONTRIBUTE
