Imagine a desert where you can hike barefoot, surrounded by shimmering lagoons and ancient pathways known only to local guides. Sounds like a mirage, right? Welcome to Lençóis Maranhenses, Brazil’s surreal desert-like paradise that defies all expectations. This isn’t your typical arid wasteland—it’s a living, breathing landscape where sand dunes meet freshwater pools, and every step feels like a discovery. But here’s where it gets controversial: as this hidden gem gains popularity, it’s facing pressures that threaten its fragile balance. Can we explore it responsibly, or are we risking its very essence? Let’s dive in.
I found myself trailing behind my group, my guide a distant figure ahead, when he abruptly halted, glanced at his watch, and tilted his face skyward, as if seeking guidance from the sun itself. Are we lost? I wondered. The terrain offered no clear landmarks—just endless waves of pale sand and glistening teal pools stretching in every direction. Yet, with quiet confidence, our guide pressed on, following a path invisible to everyone but him.
My three friends and I were hours into a three-day trek across Lençóis Maranhenses National Park, a vast expanse of sand in northeastern Brazil that humbles even the most seasoned traveler. I’d already lost all sense of direction, my feet sinking with each step, forcing me to work twice as hard. Flip-flops gave way to water shoes, and eventually, I surrendered to the sand, walking barefoot as the surface shifted from soft powder to sun-baked hardness. A friend had warned, ‘You’ll feel bones in your feet you never knew existed,’ and now, I believed them.
And this is the part most people miss: Lençóis Maranhenses isn’t a desert at all. Bordered by lush vegetation and the Atlantic Ocean, it’s one of Brazil’s most unique ecosystems. Strong coastal winds sculpt the sand into a desert-like landscape spanning 1,500 sq km, with dunes towering up to 30 meters. But during the wet season (January to June), rain transforms the basins between dunes into hundreds of freshwater lagoons—a swimmer’s paradise.
Our journey began at sunrise, led by Carlos Otávio Rêgo, or Tav, a guide whose connection to this land runs deep. We descended dunes like amateur skiers, slid through waist-deep lagoons, and marveled at a landscape that seemed to shift with every step. But the park’s growing popularity has brought challenges: infrastructure strain, illegal vehicle access, and luxury real-estate speculation. Protecting Lençóis—and its residents—falls to leaders like Figueiredo, who’s working to balance tourism with community needs.
‘Walking is the best way to truly know this place,’ Figueiredo told me. ‘On foot, you notice the small things: the shifting sand, the animal tracks, the stories written into the earth.’
For me, walking barefoot wasn’t just a physical challenge—it was a way to connect with the park’s quieter, untouched side. Our 36km trek began in Lagoa Bonita, a high-dune region near Barreirinhas, and ended in Atins, a coastal town popular with day-trippers. Along the way, we stayed in local villages, shared meals with families, and even fed a baby goat—moments of intimacy that felt worlds away from crowded tourist hubs.
But here’s the controversy: Tav noted that visitor numbers have skyrocketed, with guesthouses overflowing and guides like him stretched thin. ‘We need to turn our attention back to the traditional communities,’ he urged. ‘They’ve endured so much, and they deserve to feel a sense of belonging here too.’ Is mass tourism erasing the very culture we’re eager to experience? It’s a question worth asking.
By our final day, as we hiked under a cloudless sky, the sand bone-white and the lagoons bluer than ever, I felt a mix of awe and unease. As our Jeep transfer appeared in the distance, signaling the end of our journey, I couldn’t shake the thought: How long can this paradise endure?
Lençóis Maranhenses is a place of constant change—shifting dunes, disappearing lagoons, footprints erased by the wind. The only constant is the resilience of the people who call it home. But as visitors, we must ask ourselves: Are we part of its story, or are we rewriting it in ways it can’t recover from? Let’s keep the conversation going—what do you think?
