Many genuinely Brazilian products only gain national prestige after being legitimized abroad. This inversion of values — where a foreign gaze is needed to validate what is ours — has become informally known as the “Havaianas Effect.”
The analogy comes from the traditional Havaianas flip-flops, launched in the 1960s and long associated with the working class. For decades, they were disregarded by much of Brazil’s elite. The turnaround happened when trendy foreigners began wearing them, and they appeared in fashion editorials like Wallpaper magazine in the 1990s. Only then did they start being seen as a style icon within Brazil itself.
This phenomenon repeats across various categories. Take mead, for example:
For four years I’ve been trying to consolidate the category here, with meager results. I believe one of the main reasons is the lack of a cool foreign reference — like the American brand Superstition Meadery — that could “legitimize” the category in the eyes of Brazilian consumers. Without this external seal of approval, local products end up stagnating, even when they have quality and history.
Recently, while presenting the Cauim Tiakau (know more) project, I heard from an experienced marketing professional:
“You need to launch this product first in Europe, the U.S., or Japan. Here, it will take a long time to catch on — if it does at all.”
It’s the same old logic of the Havaianas Effect. Cauim, the ancestral Tupi beverage with deep historical, environmental, and cultural value, remains marginalized in its own country. In the 16th century, it was Brazil’s main drink; today, it has practically disappeared from Brazilian tables. Reversing this scenario is a challenge — and, ironically, requires international recognition to restore national pride.
This model of international repositioning as a local value-building strategy was successfully put into practice in 2004 by Sagatiba, a cachaça brand created by Marcos de Moraes, son of businessman Olacyr de Moraes. Marcos had a clear vision: to transform the image of cachaça — often seen as rustic and too “common” — into something sophisticated, exportable, and desirable for cosmopolitan audiences.
Instead of investing directly in Brazil, Moraes decided to launch Sagatiba first in Europe, specifically in London, with the support of one of the world’s biggest advertising agencies: Saatchi & Saatchi. The concept behind the campaign was simple yet powerful: present cachaça as a premium drink, with minimalist design and elegant Brazilianness, worthy of upscale bars and modern cocktail scenes.
The strategy worked. The brand quickly gained traction in clubs, hotels, and trendy bars across Europe, becoming a symbol of authentic Brazilian culture — but endorsed by European taste. Only after this success did it begin to be seen more positively in Brazil, competing for shelf space with vodkas and whiskies in high-end venues.
The “Pure Spirit of Brazil” Campaign
With a £20 million budget (around R$150 million at the time), the challenge was clear: to create a new image for a Brazilian drink without falling into clichés. No samba, carnival, soccer, or favelas. The brief called for something disruptive, surprising, yet still authentic.
After several rejected ideas, the bold creative solution emerged: a living, human embodiment of Christ the Redeemer in irreverent urban settings — playing pool, going clubbing, chilling in a pool, even crowd surfing. All under the tagline “Pure Spirit of Brazil.”
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| The human, laid-back, worldly Christ shocked — but worked, especially in European markets like London, Paris, and Berlin. The campaign made the cover of design and trend magazines like Wallpaper and generated buzz precisely because it played with Brazil’s most sacred national symbol, now reimagined with irony, lightness, and pop aesthetics. |
Cool Abroad to be cool in Brasil
This campaign perfectly sums up the “Havaianas Effect” we’ve discussed.
Sagatiba, under Moraes’ leadership, understood that cachaça — despite being inherently Brazilian — carried local stigmas. Investing first in an international and aspirational image was a deliberate strategy to later reposition the product for the Brazilian public.
Had Moraes invested the same amount directly in Brazil, would it have worked?
Very likely not.
Foreign validation still serves as a seal of approval in the imagination of Brazil’s elite. It was this desire to be seen as international that helped Sagatiba become a global brand, eventually paving the way for its acquisition by Bacardi.
International branding gave the brand the pedigree it needed to overcome internal cultural resistance — still deeply marked by what Nelson Rodrigues famously called the “mutt complex,” a term for the Brazilian inferiority complex toward anything national.
Other Brands Cool Abroad
This dynamic isn’t limited to cachaça or flip-flops. It also applies to art, music, and fashion. A classic example is the artist Romero Britto. Born in Pernambuco, Britto had to leave Brazil to be valued. His work first exploded in Miami and European galleries before gaining recognition at home. Today, he’s one of the most internationally known Brazilian artists, but for a long time, he was met with skepticism here due to his pop, commercial style. Only after winning over the “foreign gaze” did he start being treated with the respect he had already earned abroad (even so, many in Brazil still turn their noses up at his work).
The same happened with other Brazilian brands. Melissa, the iconic plastic footwear brand from Grendene, won over fashionistas in New York, Paris, and London with designer collaborations from Karl Lagerfeld, Vivienne Westwood, and Jean-Paul Gaultier. Only then did it gain renewed prestige in Brazil, evolving from a kids’ sandal into a coveted adult fashion item.
Another case is Chilli Beans. The eyewear and accessories brand first invested in concept stores abroad to build a bold, global image — which later helped solidify its presence as a young lifestyle symbol in Brazil as well.
This kind of movement reveals an uncomfortable truth: Brazilians still need external validation to recognize the value of their own.
And that’s exactly the challenge I face with Cauim Tiakau. A ritual drink, ancestral and Brazilian to the core — but one that may need to first win over palates in Tokyo, Copenhagen, or San Francisco before being taken seriously at home.
Today, when I think about projects like Cauim Tiakau, which seeks to revive an ancestral Brazilian beverage with transformative potential, it’s impossible to ignore this factor: being valued abroad is still, for many products, the gateway to success at home.
