We kiters have many reasons to grumble about Mekkas. We are the number one economic engine in many windy, poor regions of the world. I have lived in many places where kiter friends knew very well how much life is worth – but at the same time complained loudly that the evil natives would charge more than the value of a life.
The sun is burning – and that brings sunburn. If you don’t like it, use SPF100, wrap yourself in a burka, go to Spitsbergen in winter! Or just shut the fuck up! It’s not our meccas who say: “Walk in a circle around a meteorite and yodel ‘Allah u akbar'” – it’s people like you and me who just do it. Some want to give too much and others gratefully accept it.
Complaining about Mecca? Here you go! The lagoon between Fortalezza and Cumbuco tops all the kite spots I’ve surfed in 14 years by several lengths and shallows. A good 30 kiters cavort on 150 x 150 metres. The smell of the river mouth with no outlet is much shittier than that of the sea behind Boracay after one of the frequent sewage treatment plant floods. Half of all kiters here enjoy the wave-free poo cloaca as the first spot of their career – and will probably become permanent heroes simply because of the potential for improvement in their surroundings.
If they had any idea about right of way rules, they are guaranteed to lack their practical implementation. My kiter buddy is shot down – and watches the culprit untangle the lines for two hours after I tear my foot open on a piece of rubbish in the middle of the toilet bowl while rescuing the kiter. The shore catapults me straight into the Middle Ages. I mutate into an enthusiastic spectator of a high-calibre jousting tournament. Our lances may be longer and softer – but our hit rate is much higher here. Every five minutes, kites chained together in their next learn to swim. I catch the owners’ kites, which inadvertently trigger the second rather than the first safety, Space Defender-style on the leeward shore over dead fish.
Enough grumbling. Cumbuco is really very cosy for Mecca, small and not too crowded. If there are 50 kiters in front of the only beach bar, then that’s quite a lot – and bearable in the vastness of the sea. The water is only choppy for the first 100 metres, after that the waves come in evenly and at relatively large intervals, which means there is always nice flat water behind. About 200 metres from the shore, sometimes at high tide, real choppers of a good 2 metres in height form quite suddenly. If you’re lucky enough to find one and you’re travelling with enough speed just before it breaks, you can sail endlessly to leeward. The wind is much stronger than in Canoa Quebrada or the metropolis of Fortalezza, which is only 40 kilometres away. Most of the time I’m travelling with the 9.
The days come and go. People pass by. I survive the first weekend with a secure 2kg supply of limes. Then I develop an almost fatal affinity for passion fruit caipirinha and enjoy the absolutely side dish-free massive barbecues at the Rolling Stone Hostel. A gay marmoset sometimes hops from a tree in the garden onto my upper arm and rams it. Not much else really happens.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.