The asphalt ends at Paulino Neves. From this town, the land narrows, becomes a wedge of sand that sharpens between the Preguiças River and the Atlantic Ocean. Marzinho, who knows calico, chooses as his track that wet strip from where the waves have receded and hits the gas hard because the sea is already rising. Between the sand there are remains of branches of old mangroves. The wind carries white foam. From time to time the sand softens and the SUV lurches. And we barely have a track left when we finally reach Caburé.
Today the fishermen’s huts, brick wall and thatched roof, welcome a few tourists. The sand bar has narrowed so much that with a few small steps you jump from the Atlantic to the river, or, what is the same, from the tumble of the waves to the strong current of the Preguiças, which pulls strongly despite the fact that its name means “laziness”. And after the bath they serve me for dinner the renowned rice with vinagreira and shrimp.
The next morning we went up the river by boat. Mozart, the helmsman is called. On the banks, the mangroves multiply their aerial roots before sinking them into the water and silt. White herons rest among its branches, as well as some iguanas. The macaques jump in search of crabs and one tries to steal my camera, when we stop under a dune. This is a universe in struggle, with mountains of sand that gobble up mangroves, and lagoons, and small villages with palm trees and cabins, and bends, meanders, and always the threat of the ocean with its waves and tides, and its incessant wind. Smeared with sunscreen as I go, I soon look like a croquette, with its salty touch and crunchy batter. Against the dense green of the jungle fly tanned carraos and guarás – the scarlet ibises – of a rabid red.
Finally, after twists and turns, we reach Barreirinhas, with lively streets and colorful walls, with its bicycles, onlookers and shops. And also a short runway with a plane. A gift, which allows me to fly over the lençois. The trade winds, with stubborn obstinacy push and push the sand from the coast inland and pile it up in dunes up to forty meters high. It would be one of those ergs of the Sahara, if it didn’t rain three hundred times more in Brazil. And it is from the air that one understands how the sea wind has combed the sand and leaves it that way, like a wrinkled sheet, arranged in long strings of thin moons, each one protecting an emerald green lagoon in its sickle.
Before landing, the plane passes low over the runway, in case any cows have to be scared away. Then an SUV, which looks more like a rattle, will take me closer to the heart of the Lençois Maranhenses National Park. We leave behind the town of Santo Amaro to reach the dunes before sunset. There I barefoot. And I ascend through the white sand. And finally at the top I discover, hidden behind, the blue lake.
A flock of grebes rises. How many fish will they have swallowed? They have them in sight, in these sweet waters and somas. The lagoons can dry up, but the fish eggs remain at the bottom, where the algae, waiting for the next rains.
I continue along the crest of sand and discover other lagoons. Here I will bathe, for sure, in fresh water and at the exact temperature. But today this essential landscape is enough for me: waves of white sand, emerald waters and all this celestial sphere, which, with the elegance of an illusionist, when it hides the sun at one end, lights up the moon at the other.
