Argentine Supremacy (Water Falling Off Cliffs II)

The Argentinian side is another planet. I arrived with a decent amount of pesos and dollars. The dollars were a godsend, since absolutely noone took cards. Why this is I cannot imagine – Brazil has all mod cons, and Argentina decides to arrange itself like the wild west. Perhaps there's a certain amount of smugness involved, a “we don't have to try, have you seen our cataratas” that ought to tip the traveller off to something special about to happen.

First, though, I had to get there. One of the worst things about Linguistic Incompetence is an inability to adjust: things are confusing enough, so if something doesn't pan out the way you expect, thr result is a borderline panic attack. LP had told me there was a Falls bus from the Terminal for $10. When I arrived, people tried to sell me tickets for $30. Convinced that someone was trying to rip me off, I got a cab instead for $120. Note: the falls buses are run by a company called Rio Uruguay (for no obvious reason). They are the only game in town as far as I could work out (and I did ask around the English speaking staff at the Park). 300% inflation is pretty startling, but once I worked this out I stopped taking taxis at last.

I'd tried to get there as early as possible, having experienced the claustrophobia of the shuffling Human Centipede of other tourists. I had the walkways largely to myself, but then suffered a small camera crisis as I tried to work out why all the photos were coming out in strips which by the time I had resolved it meant that the crowds had caught me up.

Yup. It's pretty good. 

I was still broadly ahead of the game, however, and so it was that the moment was not entirely spoiled when I rounded a bank of trees to be presented with the magnificent sight of Iguazu curving magnificently in a crescent of green and white, jungle and spray framing the torrents as they bent their way along the visible horizon. Forget the slow burn of the Brazilian falls, this was splendour from the word go. I stood and gawped for a while, before remembering myself and my camera. The photographs, no matter how hard I tried, don't really do it justice.

View from "the other side"

The fun of having been to Brazil the day before is that you realise you are walking the same gantries and paths that you could see from the other side. The walkways snake to and fro amongst the cataratas, giving you a chance to look out over them, or stand beneath their spray or catch them in panorama. I walked the high path first, imagining that it would become busier the soonest. That may have been true, but by the time I tried to walk the lower path under the waterfalls, it was already thronging with people wanting their photos taken in front of bits of water.

Hundreds of people photographing themselves. Probably.  

I'm going to take time out to rant. The walkways are constructed so that if you walk along them you get a magnificent view of one of the planet's most visually arresting landscapes. If you do just that, even if you stop to take photographs of said landscape, the system works very well. Where it breaks down is when scores of people decide that taking photos isn't enough, but they must appear in every single one of them. That requires someone to stand on the opposite side of the walkway taking the picture, physically blocking most of the gantry while the remaining space is a no-go area due to the general politeness of tourists waiting for the impromptu photo shoot to finish. It's annoying, but I truly don't understand the narcissism of sticking yourself in every single sodding shot of one of nature's triumphs. Is your sunburned face, baseball gap and brightly coloured t-shirt really adding much to your memory of your adventure? Will you forget you were there if you're not in the frame? I don't know.

Rant over.

The 1st few rows will get wet. 

After a while the sheer volume of people, whether self-photographing or not, began to get oppressive. It was hot, I fancied a sit down, and one of the boat trips offered by Iguazu Jungle suddenly seems appealing. I bought myself a AR$150 ticket for a 'nautical adventure', which seemed to be the one involving being driven into the waterfalls themselves.  I was then sent down a long and winding path, itself showing some spectacular views of the falls, until I encountered a small throng. There was enough time to change into lighter clothing and apply sunscreen before we were offered waterproof bags and lifejackets. My proper camera was put away, and photo responsibility given over to my iPhone and it's handy waterproof sleeve.  Sadly all the photos look a bit like they've been taken through a plastic bag, but it's better than nothing. The tour takes you around the river for a while before driving you almost into the torrents themselves, getting close enough to give the excited passengers a mighty fine dousing in the spray and some outlying splashes. It's a short trip, but it's fun and extremely refreshing. The waterproof bags are highly effective and I managed not to drop my phone. I could, had I so desired, have bought a DVD of my experiences. I gave it a miss.

At rest... the one on the right has lost its wings. 

After a bottle of coke at a cafe where the main attraction was coatis stealing people's sandwiches,  I set off for the Argentinian view of The Devil's Throat, which juts out over its very highest point and looks down into the spray filled valley. It is also a very long way from the rest of the Argentine falls, and the park lays on a small train to deliver the swarming hordes. I thought I'd avoid those swarms by walking, and instead encountered a most delightful swarm, as a passing train disturbed a mass of feeding butterflies, which flapped and fluttered about my face as I passed them by. They settled down to continue doing whatever they were doing (some of the yellow ones were making friends with a yellow plastic bag), hanging out with small green butterflies and odd waspy looking things, but there were further flurries of butterflies along the track, and these colourful blizzards kept me smiling as I trudged hotly down the red-earth track to the Devil's Throat.

The Rainbow Pit

Whereas in Brazil the thickness of the crowds diminished as the afternoon grew hot, here the sheer variety of sights meant that the trails were still thronged with excited visitors even as the act of walking along the metal gantries began to feel like punishment. The first aids stations positioned along the track were filling up with fainting tourists, but not enough to make it any easier to make your way to the edge of the Devil's Throat platform.  Eventually, enough narcissists stopped their self-photography long enough me to worm my way to the edge, and look down into the gullet of Satan.

There's not a hope of seeing the bottom. Instead, what you are presented with is an image from Narnia or some other fantasy world, a pit where all the rainbows of the world are kept for when they are needed. Tiny rainbows flickered in the spray, and one magnificent bow spread its arch from one side to the other of the massive, spray-filled bowl. Looking up, you can see the fluttering Brazilian flag and the tiny specks emerging from their pointless lift. This is Iguazu's highest point, metaphorically and literally. Behind you the Iguazu river approaches, steadily, utterly unaware of the fate awaiting. To the left the canyon marches downwards, further torrents adding their froth to the passage of the river. But right there, in that spot, you could be a pre-Columbian sailor gripping the railing of your ship and ready to go over the edge of the world.

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...