There’s a key concept to understand the miracle, if there is such a thing, of Brazil entering the ultra-competitive club that moves the global economy: “gambiarra”.
Here, the word conveys a certain negative connotation, but became as popular in Brazilian culture as soccer. To make a “gambiarra” means to solve a technical issue in an improvised, if not illicit, way. One of the first and most famous Brazilian “gambiarras” – which spread across the country like a virus – was the technique of hanging a steel sponge from the end of the antennas of the old television sets to improve the reception.
It’s important to point out the characteristics that separate the Brazilian “gambiarra” from other similar campaigns, such as the Maker Movement in the United States or the simple “do-it-yourself” trend in other parts of the world.
Brazilian “gambiarra” is an only child of a marriage between need and the absolute lack of resources. In the Houaiss dictionary of the Portuguese language, “gambiarra” means “electric extension with a lamp in its extremity, used to work in dark places”. In the same dictionary entry, it’s registered the informal meaning of the word: extension pulled fraudulently to steal electric energy, also known as “gato” [“cat”]. With the digital revolution, the naughtiness spread to other models of business such as illegal cable TV distribution or broadband internet in the peripheries of the big cities.
I think it’s time that Brazil and its business community recognize the Brazilian talent for improvisation, which is driven by the desire for recognition. Garrincha, the most famous Brazilian soccer player after Pelé, was a classic example of this virtue. The “curved-legs angel”, as he was known, was born from an alcoholic father and with several physical dysfunctions. His right leg curved to the inside and his left leg, which is six centimeters shorter, curved to the outside. Garrincha learned how to use this involuntary swing, caused by the unusual displacement of his center of gravity, to become one of the best dribblers in the history of soccer. He was the one of the biggest stars in the Brazilian victories in two World Cups, 1958 in Sweden and in 1962 in Chile, scoring crucial goals and assisting on several others.
It is possible to find “garrinchas” even in the remotest parts of Brazil. These are people such as José Junior Luísa, who lives in rural Taperoá, a small town in Paraíba, one of country’s poorest states. Facing the need to transport milk from his small farm to the city and lacking money to buy an automobile, Junior created with his own hands an improvised Brazilian Smart car. He started his creation with the motor of a 125 cc motorcycle that was falling apart. On a tubular steel chassis, he configured a drive train system using a chain. With friend’s donations and by scrounging around local junkyards, he improvised seats, a control panel, a gear shift, pedals and even a rear view mirror. He equipped his vehicle with four motorcycle wheels but was careful enough to outfit them with the hubcaps from a car to lend it an air of dignity.
José Júnior, entrepreneur from Taperoá, one of the poorest villages in Brazil, and his “smart car” made out of his old and useless motorcycle
Silvio Meira
I’m not suggesting that Junior’s Smart Car will ever compete with a Mercedes Swatch. But its existence, and the many other examples of Brazilian innovation, is reason enough for the country to consider renouncing its inclination to exporter only raw materials. We have, as it’s known, the best soccer in the world. But instead of exporting soccer – rights to TV transmission, for example, like the Europeans do – we export the raw material: the players.
Even our country’s name came from the first raw material found here, ripped out and exported for low prices: the pau-brasil wood. Maybe it’s time for the government to invest in the talent that improvises and creates the “gambiarras” and create an industry of ideas. Perhaps it’s time for Brazil to show the world the ingenuity it has to offer.