His pride was unmistakable. “This is my home, my office, my place in the world,” he told me. That sense of belonging, he said, is what brings him back season after season. “We need to turn our attention back to the traditional communities. Because of everything they’ve lived through. All the struggle, all the hardship. So they, too, can feel that sense of belonging to this place, to this nature,” he said.
By the time we reached our second overnight stop, the community of Baixa Grande, we were no longer alone. Two other hiking groups were also staying the night, including one on a four-day trek . Yet the evening still felt intimate, ending around a small bonfire as Tav played the guitar.
Our final day was a quicker, 5km (3 mile) hike, which meant a slower morning at our community base. When we set off later that afternoon, I sensed it would be the most beautiful stretch yet. Under a cloudless sky, the sand looked bone-white and the lagoons shone bluer than ever.
Despite the beauty of it all, I was ready to return to civilisation when our Jeep transfer appeared in the far distance, signalling the end of our trip. We half-jogged toward it in exaggerated relief. We had officially reached the outer banks of the park, and the rest of the journey would be on four wheels, following the coastline to Atins. I hopped on and turned back toward the dunes. We had just walked 36km (22 miles) across the park, yet within hours there would be no trace of us at all.
Nothing here holds its shape for long. The dunes shift. The lagoons appear and disappear. Footprints vanish. The only constant in Lençóis Maranhenses, I realised, is change – and the people who have learned, over generations, to live with it.
