Hot. Sweltering hot. Backpack straps biting into sunburned shoulders. Faithful fucking unused tripod digging into sunburned side. Following vague directions given in broken english along the dusty streets of Barreirinhas. Giving up and asking people for the 'carro' point for Atins. Receiving blank stares because it's actually pronounced as "Aachins". Anxiety beginning to kick in. Finally someone directs me down an alleyway nowhere close to original directions. There is a 4x4 being loaded. So far so good. I mispronounce Atins again. He nods his head vigorously (maybe he's used to idiot tourists). Too tired, I take that as confirmation , boarding the car and waiting with growing gnawing doubt. Surrounded by friendly locals whom I cannot communicate with beyond Tudo bem? Wishing I had paid attention while Luisa tried to teach me basic Portuguese. We finally start. As soon as we cross the Rio Pregucias, we pick up pace. The road is bumpy and I'm not 100% sure that I'm heading the right way. I've lost network by this point and can't check current location or route but the landscape is gorgeous and helps to assuage the built up anxiety. The road meanders between small sand dunes with thorny bushes and through huge craters full of water, all of it navigated at high speed. I get scratched and splashed alternatively. The car ahead gets stuck in one of the craters. The passengers are out helping to push the car out of the muck. We take an alternate route and circle back to help them out. While our driver is backing up, the stuck car squelches out past us plastering everyone with mud. Woohoo. The sun is harsh, it's hot, there's little to no leg space and sand has gotten everywhere. But the sky is the bluest of blues and the dunes are gorgeously blindingly white. I start humming Nikamma and daydreaming. Tapping on my shoulder, my neighbour nods towards the front. The driver is yelling a question. I hear the word hotel so I give him the name. He gives me a thumbs up and continues driving. That's when my paranoid ass is finally convinced I am on the right track. We enter a small town (maybe town is a gracious description - it's a small cuteass fishing village on the edge of Lençois Maranhenses). People start getting off. I catch a glimpse of the shimmering ocean in between homes and coconut trees. Finally, he stops and gestures to me - Pousada do Melo. I go around the other side to help him untie and offload my bag and notice a huge sign labelled, 'BARREIRINHAS - ATINS' on the windshield. The car drives away leaving me enveloped in a cloud of dust, with a huge stupid grin on my face.
I enter the pousada. There is a man lying in a hammock, reading a newspaper. "Melo?" I inquire. Quick smile and a nod. Jealous of how comfortable he looks, I take off my bags and stretch my sore muscles. At length, he puts away his newspaper and ambles over. I ask the question I'm dreading the answer to : "Fala ingles?". He laughs and shakes his head. I look for other tourists, hoping they could serve as interpreters but the place is empty. Everyone is probably off kitesurfing or exploring the lagoons. He shows me to my room. Slight trepidation. I hadn't done any research before making this impulsive detour. Brain kicks into overdrive, wondering how to obtain the information I need. I take a few deep breaths to slow down ; things have worked out just fine so far, right? Right. Quick shower later, I approach him armed with Google Translate and a list of questions. Very soon, I'm in the midst of a full fledged virtual conversation with an increasingly amused Melo. I feel more confident. I ask him how to get to Sete Mulheres Lagoon in Lencois Maranhenses for sunset. He cryptically writes back, "Be here at 3pm". Excited. I go off to find food. I get lost, then somehow back at the pousada. The streets are paved with soft sand. And the sand is burning hot. I find a shack at the seashore. While eating (rice and beans again!), I realize that I should have asked for more details. Convincing myself I was being adventurous, I ignore my brain and have another beer. The sun is warm, there is a nice breeze, the beach is pretty. People are kite surfing in the distance. I relax and my mind begins to wander. The calm is shattered as tour cars come roaring in, tourists come streaming out, go swim in the ocean, have a rushed meal of the famous local shrimps, take selfies and leave. I smugly watch them hurry about until I notice the time. I rush back to the pousada but Melo is nowhere to be seen. An engine starts somewhere close by. I head out to find Melo on a quad bike. I was expecting a group tour in a 4x4 truck but Melo impatiently gestures me to get on the backseat. Before my brain can process this new situation and panic, I grab my camera bag and jump on.
Melo drives fast, cheerfully exchanging greetings with the other locals as I desperately cling on. My flip flops slip off. Twice. As we cross a ford, the engine splutters and dies. Melo tinkers with the motor while I take in the surroundings. The landscape is deceptively desert like. The same sand from the beach continues onto streets of Atins and eventually merges with the sand dunes of Lençois Maranhenses. The sand is carried to the coast by the rivers from where it is blown inland by the wind to form the sand dunes. Under the sand, lies a layer of impermeable rock. Post the rains, the fresh rainwater collects between the dunes to form crystal clear lagoons, which is what I've come to experience. I hope we make it to the dunes. But more importantly, I hope we make it back. Engine roars to life. Melo grins and offers a shrug. I recognize the shrug. He has no idea what was wrong or how it restarted. I see the dunes in the distance. The sun is getting lower. The light is amazing. Excitement takes over. As we get closer, I realize the dunes are huge. Melo takes the quad up a particularly steep dune. My core protests at this excessive exercise. We get to the top and the view stuns my inner monologue into silence. Rolling dunes as far as the eye can see. Storm clouds building up on the horizon. And in between the dunes, lie the lagoons. And not a soul in sight. I try to absorb this majestic vista. Itching to get my hands on the camera and take photos but Melo doesn't stop. We drive past all kinds of lagoons, big, small, blue, emerald green. All shapes and sizes. Finally, we stop next to one shaped like an hourglass. I immediately get off. Remove the camera and start taking photos. But Melo wants us to walk towards another one. Grudgingly, I follow. We reach the edge of the dune and before us, lies a huge lagoon. Melo runs down the steep slope and jumps right in. I start analyzing the landscape. I want to do justice to the incredible beauty of this place. I take dozens of photos. I change my lens. Try different perspectives. Look for abstract patterns. I notice Melo has reached the opposite shore and walked up the dune, leaving a set of footprints. I change my lens again. I photograph him up on the dune framed by the sun amidst the clouds. Time passes. I have taken hundreds of photos. Melo is floating lazily in the lagoon. I am struck by how anxious I feel in contrast. My shoulders and back muscles are tense. While trying to capitalize on the fact that I'm in a wildly gorgeous place devoid of the normally ubiquitous crowds of tourists I've forgotten that seeing through the lens is not experiencing and photographs are not a substitute for actual vivid lived memories and the feelings they evoke. I put away my gear. I walk down in Melo's footsteps and slowly wade into the clear lagoon. I stand there waist deep in the cool water and feel the warmth of the sun. I take a deep breath. It takes a few more before I accept that getting the perfect photograph is not the endgame. Acceptance brings some peace. I feel my muscles loosen. I begin floating aimlessly. Watching the clouds seemingly race past. Feeling the wind driven waves push against my body. Listening to the solitary gull as it flies past. The waves have pushed me to the shallows. The colours of the sunset are mesmerizing. I sit up and watch as the sky changes colour from yellow to orange to pinkish red. The water turns deep orange. It feels surreal. The many contrarian voices in my head have decided to shut up and enjoy the sunset with me. I feel completely at ease for the first time all day.
The spell is broken as Melo calls. Its getting dark. We need to head back. As we hurtled across the dunes, the sky on fire, the lack of other tourists drove me to the conclusion that this wasn't the famous, much visited Sete Mulheres lagoa. Despite the communication barrier, I heard him say, "muito tranquilo" a few times. I'd like to think it was Melo's favourite spot in Lençois. The spot that brought him peace. I think he knew I needed that. And he was right.
