Water Falling off Cliffs

When I was asking people what I absolutely must do in Argentina, 90% of people said their cats preferred Iguazu Falls. Those 90% were quite firm: Iguazu is one of the most amazing things ever, life changingly, breath-takingly, heart-stoppingly awesome, said they. The 10% barely disagreed. Yeah, it's lovely, they conceded. But - they added, being the 10% 'n' all - it takes a lot of time/money/both to get there and see it, and there's lots of other lovely things, such as penguins.

In 2002 I missed three of history's most awesome Test cricket centuries to look at penguins. I'm not making any sacrifices and missing awesomeness for those waddling twats* ever again.

In all seriousness, taking a 2 week trip around somewhere as vast and amazement rich as Argentina does require what Tony would call hard choices. So it wasn't until several days into the trip that I though "sod it", and bought myself a ticket. Well, 10%, I'm glad I went with the ask the audience majority.

I arrived still a bit sick from my mystery cheese poisoning, so apart from a wander into Puerto Iguazu to find the cheapest purveyors of Coca-Cola and to get ripped off by a Cambio, I did very little. My plan, following further advice, was to start with a little trip to the rainforest wonderland of Brazil.

For those that don't know, the rivers around Iguazu serve as the border of three countries. Poor old Paraguay misses out on the Iguazu fun, the River Parana keeping them locked off a few miles up the road, reduced to luring tourists with cheap over-the-border malls (kill me first). That leaves Argentina and Brazil, two Iguazu Falls grinning at each other across the spray and torrents. Most of the smaller falls are on the Argentinian side, which means you can see them in panorama from Brazil, which also has a clearer overview of the famous Devil's Throat, with an unrivalled chance for you (and your camera) to get awfully soggy.

My original plan had been to be virtuous and bus my way to the Brasil Iguacu. In the end, the prospect of three buses and an uncertain amount of time standing by a roadside in Brazil convinced me to cheat and take a taxi (only $100), which meant my slim Spanish and my utterly non-existent Portuguese (taxi guy had to tell me how to say 'thank you') did not hamper me as we eased through the border controls.

The Brazilian side is a slick, modern operation, clearly having had an overhaul since 1939. There are cash machines (making me an utter sucker for using the Cambio), and cards can be used for most costs. A fleet of buses, more regular than the 38, sweep by to convey you to the park proper, dumping you outside the charming, pink Hotel das Cataratas.

Brazil is a country that I'd really like to visit, but this (ahem) well-trimmed Brazilian visit was merely a slow introduction to the wonders of the Falls, and not the nation. Iguazu on this side builds gently to a crescendo, each successive viewpoint giving you a little more until you hit the major viewing platforms around The Devil's Throat.

Step into the spray and you gain a rainbow, but lose a camera

There the Brazilians have built a huge platform jutting out to the edge of a lower fall, so that you stand looking down at a cascade below you, loomed over by another to your left, and faced with a wall of Argentinian splendour straight ahead of you. It is monstrously impressive. It is also, it must be said, very, very wet. Standing inside the cloud of spray will show you rainbows of vivid colour that follow you about, so that you are your very own crock of gold. They are, sadly, almost impossible to photograph without a waterproof camera, but that's not really the point of having your own personal rainbow anyway. I said goodbye to my own multihued serpentine pet of pure refraction with great reluctance.

One of the more bizarre features is the signage for the main viewing platform. It proclaims the platform's accessibility via elevator, and a zizag of patient tourists line up awaiting the once in the lifetime chance for 30 seconds in the world's sweatiest lift. However, you can reach the same platform by walking for about 4 minutes (but the signs do not reveal this). Just so you know. By the time you've queued, the more fleet of foot have been gazing at rainbows for about 10 minutes.

The Brazilian experience is shorter and more compact, and more is about giving you an overview than it is about chancing upon a surprise cataract, offering the climax of the Devil's Throat with little in the way of entertaining foreplay. I was worryingly underwhelmed at first, and sloped off with my impromptu travelling companion for the day, Jess of New York, to have a look at the bird park outside the entrance.

Even more underwhelmed by that, I decided it was time for another go. I left Jess to her Quilmes and plunged back into the park (I say plunged, the bureaucratic process for re-entry was fiddly). It was steamingly hot. I reapplied suncream (taking a short, shady wildlife walk to let it sink in, spotting an agouti as a reward) and then retrod my early steps.

Whereas before there were hordes of tourists, squeaky children and crushes on the narrow walkways, now there was just me and – occasionally – a pair of Germans photographing coatis. Each viewing station was deserted and beautiful, I could stay as long as I liked without guilt (though not without concern about the last bus) and the experience was transformed as a result. As I reached the Throat it was then that I was introduced to my pet prism, and it danced around me for ten minutes as I revelled in the roar of the falls unsullied by the screams of fellow humans. Finally, aware of the passing of time, I tore myself about from the spray and headed back to the buses, hot but very happy.

Pet Rainbow

* OK, I love penguins, but still...