Rebirth; falling for Iguazu

Rebirth; falling for Iguazú

The roaring in my ears is at fever-pitch. White water boils and froths, plunging out and downwards, sucking in sound and air and everything; sucking me in. The scene around me seems to quiver, alive with a charged energy of excitement. Trees shiver, the sky shrinks at this phenomenon within their natural midst. I stare at the sheer wall of water falling away mere metres in front of me, safe high upon my vantage point. Largest of the 275 recorded waterfalls comprising the magnificent Iguazú Falls, the mighty ‘Garganta del Diablo’ (Devil’s Throat) roars relentlessly into the abyss. I feel decidedly insignificant and yet; I feel also an incredible sense of wonder and awe.

The shadows are lengthening across the damp, loamy path as I enter Parque Nacional Iguazú. After an arduous, seventeen-hour bus journey from Buenos Aires, reluctantly I have quit my unexpectedly luxurious hostel and the siren-call of its refreshing plunge-pool to rush a hasty exploration of this world-famous natural treasure. My breathing is ragged as I fly along steel gangways, winding nearer to my goal, the constant, rumbling thunder a steady crescendo.

A sudden flash of colour precedes the lush, melodious song of a plush-crested jay, electric blue plumage highlighting an inquisitive, strikingly yellow-rimmed eye. My acquaintance seems amused to observe my frenetic state: utterly unafraid, his voice and disposition quieten my pounding heart; calm my flighty soul. The thin fabric of my cotton shirt clings restrictively to my back: even stood still, the sultry, cloying air wrings my body; the salty, sticky tang of sweat fills my mouth. I focus attention upon my camera, seeking to capture something of my feathered friend’s grace, when my gaze alights upon a radiant butterfly resting contentedly upon the cuff of my sleeve, its vibrant wings pulsating like tranquil breath. A daring coati, clearly related to the raccoon, moves stealthily towards me, a roguish eye upon my water bottle and matching impish swagger. A smile creeps gently across my face; hectic clouds part irresistibly before the sunlight of nature at play.

I continue more cautiously, budding reverence measuring my stride. A slight breeze rustles the trees, promising a crisp, revitalizing evening after the oppressive heat of the day-time. These gusts stir my spirit; tug me teasingly onward to an expectant launch, moored patiently alongside a rickety, adventurous jetty. I board the day’s final voyage and venture forth upon the water, my fragile, technical possessions stowed safely beneath a hard, plastic seat, protected within waterproof bags. We near San Martin fall, second only to ‘Garganta’ in size and majesty: the teeming water throws up a splendid sheen of mist that caresses my feverishly hot face. The crashing cacophony swells, enveloping me and all others indiscriminately. Spray washes over me; a soaking, vivacious embrace, cleansing my whole being.

I emerge reborn, ready to complete my surprising pilgrimage before the crowning pinnacle of ‘Garganta’: Iguazú (“big water” in the language of the local Guarani tribe) has surely claimed me.