Defying fears in the Brazilian dunes
When the dune-buggy driver asked if we wanted the experience “com emocao” (with emotion), I nodded a noncommittal “Si.” Thirty minutes later, after our driver eagerly offered some of our petrol for another driver, whose passengers looked horrified at being stuck in the dunes, the buggy did a doughnut and my husband nearly flew out of the backseat.
I could guess which “emotion” the driver was trying to induce.
In local Brazilian circles, a thrill ride through Natal’s sand dunes is something of a rite of passage. As one Brazilian friend said, “It is the most exhilarating adventure you’ll ever have.” These sand dunes are the highest in the country and span nine beaches and three lakes. The best drivers — though these are also the people who will have you doubting your decision-making skills — scale the vertical dunes only to zoom straight back toward sea level at heart-attackinducing speeds.
Our driver, Martin, was a kamikaze, no doubt about it. He sped along the white dunes, giddy at the terror on the mugs of my three adult travel companions in the buggy. Every so often he would stop to chat with another driver, share snacks or assist with some small task without even being asked. But for the majority of the first two hours of our fourhour ride, the men were begging Martin to provide a touch less emotion. He’d giggle, zoom down a steep dune and across a rickety woods latted bridge, and holler to the wind, “Rapido!”
Suddenly he came to a screeching halt in front of a brownish lake backed by palm trees. He muttered something in Portuguese that my Berlitz CDs never taught me, but was clearly a mixture of despair and anger. He hopped out of the vehicle and walked a slow circle, bending at each tire, shaking his head. “Flat tire.”
The guys hopped out, visibly grateful for a break from all that bouncing. I asked if we could help. Martin smiled in a way that told me there was nothing we could do, explaining in half English and half Portuguese that he didn’t have a jack; we’d have to pick the car up on one side so he could change the tire. He looked us over, sneered, then focused his gaze on the lake, where there was a group of shirtless teenage boys practicing front and back flips into the water.
“Wait here,” he instructed as he sauntered down to the crew of boys.
Truth be told, we were in a slightly precarious situation. Four tourists, whose cumulative knowledge of Portuguese consisted of my level-one City College class and a couple Berlitz CDs in a broken-down vehicle at least two hours from the nearest city. Before coming to Brazil, everyone had warned me of gangs and crime and kidnappings; even my toughest Brazilian friends told me to watch my back at all times. Suddenly, I felt vulnerable. Here we were surrounded by stark beauty in the blazing heat, in only our bathing suits, deep in the middle of nowhere, led by a local whose most notable trait was inspiring men to holler like children.
I wasn’t calmed when the teens all followed Martin back toward us, with looks of amusement. As they got closer, I realized they weren’t focused on our sunburned faces and fearful eyes. Sure, they nodded hellos, giggling. But their charge was the dune buggy. They knew exactly what they had to do.
On Martin’s orders, we tourists moved back as the seven teens lifted the vehicle up and onto its side. Martin quickly took the flat tire off and replaced it with the spare. The boys cracked jokes as the sweat dripped down their faces. Martin laughed with them, joking, as if they had known each other their whole lives.
Working together, they eased the buggy down to the sand. They each high-fived Martin, then turned their attention to us, growing confident by our smiles to throw in some more English words — “Obama!” “How are you?” “Where are you from?” — before wandering back to flip into the lake, as if doing some free manual labor for a stranger was the highlight of their day.
On our mellow ride back, Martin explained that in Brazil, a country filled with gangs and jungle creatures and poverty, you must help each other out to survive. “That’s what it means to be Brazilian,” he said, and as punctuation, he stepped on the gas as though this cultural reality allowed him the freedom to be as reckless as he wanted.