Iguazu Falls, and Flying in Rio de Janeiro

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If there is a part of the body that intuitively knows that you’re putting yourself in harms way, it must be the bladder. That’s why, running towards the end of the wooden platform of the top of Pedra Bonita, the only thought in my head was “I really need to pee.” However, once I had jumped into the air, hundreds of metres above the thick jungles that surround Rio de Janeiro, all I could do was silently open-mouth the emotion of finally seeing yet another of my dreams being realized. “We’re flying, Pedro,” I said softly, choked with tears. Carving the hang glider with the grace of a condor, Pedro hollered back: “Like a bird, Robin, like a bird!”

But before we take to the skies, lets hit the ground running with the night bus from Buenos Aires to Puerto Iguazu. Having slept for a day to recover from the madness that is the Millhouse, I went north to see what many consider the most spectacular sight in all South America, the 275 waterfalls that join together to create the awesome Iguazu Falls. Located on the borders of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay, Iguazu is one of those must-sees - a natural wonder that soaks up (and soaks) thousands of tourists a day. As I approached the border with now-familiar crusty night bus eyes, the ground turned sunset red and the trees junglefied (if you create a new word, it belongs to you). As winter approached down south, here the Weather Mistress refused to cover up her sexy string bikini. I was blasted with heat, dust and humidity, which meant only one thing. Pool time. The hostel I found was located a few miles out of the holiday town of Puerto Iguazu, a minor inconvenience when considering it used to be a casino and still maintained its glorious pool, complete with palm trees and pina coladas. When you speak to travelers about Iguazu, they usually ask if you visited the Argentinean side, the Brazilian, both, and which did you prefer? Knowing full well my stay in Argentina was coming to an end (and in Brazil prices would double) I feasted on steaks and red wine, selecting the Argentinean side as my point of reference. Later I would have the opportunity to visit the Brazilian side, but at some point you have to ask yourself the question: Just how many pictures of a waterfall can you take anyway?

64 pictures were enough for me. Together with Sally from Wales (who knew someone I knew from my university days in South Africa, hence proving the Six Degrees of Esrock’s Bacon) I caught a bus to the natural reserve that hosts this excessive display of water works. It was still early but the sun was already frying the black fur of the coatis - rodent-like rodents that prowl the park, along with jaguars, hundreds of species of birds, snakes, spiders, you get the picture. Utterly civilized to appeal to even the largest Yankee fatso tourist, the trails and catwalks were modern and well maintained, looping above and below the waterfalls. Rounding each bend demanded another “wow!” the way fireworks do, with cameras to the fore as I did my best to avoid getting someone’s elbow in the shot. There was something so unmistakably South American about these waterfalls in the jungle. Forgetting the tourists, I imagined myself an explorer in search of El Dorado, happening across this miracle of nature the way I happened across Montezuma’s Revenge in Bolivia. Or Indiana Esrock, with my trusty fedora. I have visited Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, one of the seven natural wonders of the world, and Iguazu gives it a run for its money. Although it was not even half its normal capacity, the sheer size of this system demands entry on nature’s exclusive club of wonders. Feeling a little brave, I decided to have a closer look with the help of a powerboat. After seeing drenched tourists all day, I knew what to expectäa good scrubbing I stripped to my underwear, put on a life vest, and had a looksee with a dozen others while some guy filmed the experience in a wetsuit to make that extra buck or twenty. The “Ride to the Falls” cost $10US for 10 minutes, but giving these sharks their due, I have spent 10 bucks on much dumber things. The dinghy powered its way up the current, giving us a quick shower beneath one of the falls before heading into the fizz of a major tributary. The loud roar of crashing water surrounded us as we got soaked to the bone, disappearing momentarily into this natural washing machine. Pre-washed, soaked and spun, I felt like the one sock you never find when you do your laundry. I dried off quick, but felt sorry for the guys in their jeans who maintained their dignity at the price of certain jock itch. Besides, I look smashing in my black spandex underwear.

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