In The Delta Of Parnaiba

The Parnaiba is one of the largest rivers in Brazil. In its estuary, it divides the mainland into countless green islands over an area of 50 square kilometres. We are in the realm of crocodiles, anacondas, herons and monkeys. We travel for just under an hour in a fast motorboat through the mangroves to the last sandbank in the Parnaiba Delta. Here, the river merges with the sea under the crashing waves.

The place is more than worthy of marking the turning point of my journey. Over the past two months, I have travelled almost 1,800 km along the Brazilian coast by donkey cart, car, bus, boat and on foot. My board has made tracks in the water at 30 spots. This is as close as I will get to the equator on this trip, and nowhere will the wind blow stronger and more consistently.

The previous day brought another good session at Coqueiro Beach between Parnaiba and Barra Grande. At midday, hundreds of Brazilians gather in the barracas on the beach for the bank holidays. The three of us hit the water in beautifully breaking waves and initially light winds. Our new fellow traveller is the shy Viking Johann. He gets some branding on his waveboard in the waves on the reef while we entertain the roaring beach crowds jumping behind the shore break.

The sign at the beach bar says “Nao aceitamos som carro”. But laws are worth nothing in Brazil. From four o’clock onwards, the crowds rage between four monster trucks, each with at least 5,000 W sound systems in the back. We would love to join in the celebrations, but our accommodation in Parnaiba is still a long way away, and on a bank holiday at least one person in Brazil should drive reasonably sober. The evening brings us a taxi travelling in circles that drops us off at an overpriced restaurant. Although the portions are too small for one person, they are advertised as “enough for three”, cold and – what angers the shy Viking the most – again not with bloody meat. His fluent Portuguese, massive stature and persistence earn us two small, expensive free meals.

We set off early the next morning. Isla Canarias forms the last sandbank of the Parnaiba Delta before the sea. A few hundred Brazilian day trippers travelling in large boats gather on it. We anchor just behind them, where the wind whistles at a good 25 knots over a mirror-smooth expanse of water. In places like this, your bum is always just a hand’s breadth above the water. The angle of your body approaches the horizon. Between the sandbank and the other bank of the estuary, 300 metres away, the wind blows in gentle waves from the sea. I cruise a kilometre out into the open sea until the water leaves salt crystals on my skin again. This is the end of the Parnaiba, and the end point of my journey. I turn back.

Waves are music. We always see them. Sometimes we can hear them. And in very few magical moments, we can feel them – and become one with them. Then we breathe in their rhythm. We jump to their beat. The Brazilians on the boats call for more. But the wind and the waves are the only ones whose calls we follow. We are kitesurfers in the endless expanses of the Parnaiba Delta.