Last week Lenay and I took a long, I mean long trip to see the waterfalls at Iguazu. Situated at a border between Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay, it's a long shot away from Buenos Aires. But I've been thinking about Iguazu since preparing for this trip. We were going.
Before leaving the city, we needed to move our lugguage from Hostel Nativo to Manu's house. Frankly, I didn't trust a certain Brazilian, who for the last week had been offering us chewed salami while lounging in his tidy whities. Neither of us felt good around this guy. Five minutes after our cab had I arrived I was yelling at Lenay from outside of Nativo. We were running late, but I knew she had forgotten something. Cheerfully, she skipped out the door, being in complete contrast to the anxious frown I had been wearing. With that the cab pulled out onto avenida Santa Fe and eight blocks later we arrived at Manu's apartment building.
After dropping off the luggage and getting a ride to Retiro station in north east Buenos Aires, and questioning a dozen agencies, we decided on a 6:55 departure with Rio Uruguay. During our hour long wait for the bus, we sought out the nearest choclo empanadas, a culinary favorite of ours.
By 8 Pm we were on our way out of Greater Buenos Aires, enjoying upper deck seating and an 'in-flight meal.'
At this point an interruption must be made to talk about the difference in quality of coaches. This was no Greyhound or Jefferson lines bus, dirty, cramped, sitting next to that sweaty amish guy on his way back to the farm. I spent my bus ride sprawled out in a double wide bed sized seat, sipping a whiskey rocks, sitting beneath a full powered ac blower. After a hot dinner the stewardess passed out champagne and confections. It was a true sybaritic pleasure.
The bus ride was seventeen hours long, so we arrived in Puerto Iguazu around noon the next day. I stepped off the bus to a climate far different from that of Buenos Aires. Hot and muggy, in this touristic sub-tropical village lying within thirty minutes of the border of three countries, something of a crossroads, you might say.
After Lenay tried Argetinian veal (BABY COW!!!) at a local restaurant, and I found a Sherwin Williams store, we paid eight pesos each to catch a ride to the national park. The entry fee was forty pesos, and inside we climbed aboard a disney-esque mini-train that shuttles people across the park to various vantage points.
Disembarking at the Argentina-Brazil border, I followed a string of tourists down a kilometer long catwalk. Crossing massively wide streams through subtropical forest, I spied a mist rising nearby. I was close to something big. Very big!
La Garganta del Diablo, or the throat of the Devil is a massive, semicircular cataracta (waterfall) that spews unimaginable amounts of amazonian river water every day. It is also the pride of the park, only rivaled by Niagra and Victoria in terms of sheer awe. La Garganta, however, is flanked by over a dozen others on each side. I was told that it's name springs from a legend of lost love, and the ensuing divine wrath. I'm sure you could imagine the details, but that is the general picture of it. The deafening roar of the cascading water does support it's veracity. I'm convinced.
It's epic scope makes the waterfall a common place for suicide. In fact, an English woman mde the plunge not weeks ago. I unknowingly stepped up onto the guard rail to get a better look, and for a few insensitive snap shots. Suddenly I felt thirty pairs of eyes burning into the back of my skull. It was hot.
I didn't know ok?!?!
Lenay and I enjoyed the vistas for a few more hours, exploring some trails and taking pictures. Honestly, the panoramic view left me in shock. All of the adjacent waterfalls, coupled with the tropical foliage, seemed to be sixty five million years displaced from its time.
This place is an anachronism.
All in all we spent five hours in the park. Exhausted, and missing Buenos Aires and alfajores, we bought bus tickets and went home.
34 hours of bus in less than three days. Insane. What were we thinking?
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