Brazilian Humour

The TV presenter jokes about three bus robber Bandidos who are currently being interviewed in Rio. They were successfully lynched by passengers. Two motionless bloody bodies are censored, one stammers with a rather blue face about failed heroic deeds. Brazilian humour is harsh. And Galinhos is safe, because there are only donkey carts and buggies here.

My Portuguese is making decent progress. I successfully inform the housekeeper that I have just eaten a cat. Impressed by my good taste, she immediately asked me if she should wash my grandad. After just a few minutes of sign language, I realise that she means my washing. I rarely understand the answers to my questions, but I am very impressed by the effect of my words.

After four days searching for the Galinhos ATM, I am unexpectedly enlightened. Apparently, I had completely misinterpreted all of the villagers’ directions, which were garnished with impressive gestures, and had followed their every hint. But all they kept telling me was: there is none. Sometimes enlightenment simply means understanding that there is nothing to understand. I take the boat to the mainland to Guamare, withdraw money and start confusing the villagers there with complex questions about guitars and iPhone boxes.

The village of Galinhos plays its own telenovela. I don’t understand the content, but fortunately pictures are usually enough when it comes to highbrow content. The donkey drivers play dominoes in the shade of the trees. According to authenticated witnesses, the local court language uses an almost endless variety of flowery faecal language. That’s why even the youngest children learn the good tone, because once you’ve lost the connection, you’re guaranteed not to find it again. Or becomes gay. Or both.

My language is that of the wind. It blows. Every day. Today Windfinder gives us a little break until the afternoon. I make the most of the time and walk along the sandbank for a few kilometres to the next village. The power line running across the lagoon was successfully cut by a kiter some time ago. However, there was no sudden increase in the birth rate in the weeks that followed, despite his efforts. Sunset here is 17:15 and I think Brazilians prefer to have sex during the day anyway.

In the afternoon, the three of us go out on the lagoon again. The wind is blowing at a good 17 knots, with 7, 9 and 13m² we start our downwinder to the other side of the lagoon a few kilometres away. Even after 14 years of kitesurfing, my navigational skills still impress me from time to time. I almost land a jump on the kite instructor’s camera. I adjust my own cam on top of the kite so self-centred that I can be seen exactly twice in 2.5 hours of footage. No matter, I couldn’t top the colours of Galinho and the mangroves at sunset anyway.

In the evening, the wind picks up to over 20 knots. We’re all completely overpowered. Despite my monkey arms, the last knot and full depower, the wind rips me mercilessly to leeward several times as we tack. Heating over the ironing board in the lagoon brings new top values, and a few times I wonder why the water doesn’t form permanent craters after a botched high jump…

Video Kitesurfing Galinhos, below without sound. Better: with sound via Videodoubler.