For two weeks I walked a sparsely populated area of Brazil called Sertão, the sun-scorched backwoods and banks neighbouring the colossal São Francisco river, or Velho Chico, how the local dwellers affectionately refer to it. The area in Alagoas state, infamous for its dry unproductive land and widespread poverty is also home to an incredible mix of cultures, religions, folklore and people. A melting pot established through hundreds of years of haphazard colonialism and immigration. More than just a river, Velho Chico is where folklore and reality seamlessly blend, becoming impossible to distinguish one from another. Here every encounter and every photograph seem to lie midway between the real and the surreal, in the crossroads between the fictional and the non-fictional. Velho Chico is not made out of water, it's made out of people.