5. Iguacu falls

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Someone once asked me if my adventurous lifestyle was a reflection of wanting to differentiate myself from those around me. He asked if I thought I was above them and wanted to make that overtly obvious. He thought I was wasting my time and money, and should snap out of my childish fantasy-world.

That was a case of complete misunderstanding and a clash of personalities. But on reflection, how much of what we do as travellers is based on our experiences at home and with others?

I feel like I travel because I need to have my options wide open. I want to be doing something new and unusual all the time, and if trapped in one place I get serious claustrophobia. I don't know where the feeling comes from, but I love the idea that I could live in any one of the places I have been; indeed any place I want, and move on when I get tired of it. Home has its fair share of fun and activities, but there's something about a different sky to jump out of, different river to swim down, different school to teach in, language to speak and people to know that makes me happy. And, though Laura differs on this one, I love not having a plan, or (more to her taste) having several and picking one at random. Maybe there's an element of danger in there for some people (especially our parents), but who cares? We laugh in the face of danger, and chuckle when we realise that we very nearly did need the travel insurance which we never got around to buying. The confident traveller doesn't need to justify himself or herself to anybody. The confident traveller likes, and commits exclusively to, what they want.

Ideally. Of course, sometimes you may find yourself in an inescapable position, arguing with the unreasonable as above, or having some Dutch hobo threaten to shoot you in the face. But this is character building, and in hindsight fuel for some of the best travel stories of your repertoire.

In fact it sometimes seems like the dangers of travelling are the real stimuli. The unknown and the scary are great fun. Being tailgated at night by a Spaniard with headlights on full-beam and horn blaring; creeping swiftly through the rainforest in persuit of a jaguar cub; crawling along a path with a 600-metre drop on one side, dehydrated and injured at one in the morning; desperately trying to calm down a drowning Laura: these are some of my favourite memories.

What the guy who asked me the questions at the start of this entry fails to understand is that travelling, and these fantastic experiences, have absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. Your own interpretation, as I have said, is based on what you feel inside. The joy of experiencing a certain thing comes from within your own consciousness, which is what makes it is so rewarding and emotional. For this reason guides get in the way, groups are rubbish, and the Brazilian side of Foz do Iguaçu is difficult to fully appreciate.

Ten hours on a bus wasn't as bad as we had expected. The 'cama' bus (with seats that recline to about 30 degrees) was comfortable enough, and we dozed pretty much continuously. We arrived in Foz at 6am, and in a fit of hyper-budgeting decided to walk to our hostel instead of taking the taxi. It was a nice idea, and not too bad in practice either, though it did take 2 hours of weighed-down trudging to get there.

Walking was a big part of all the travelling we did in South America. Not only did it burn thousands of calories, but it gave a decent ground-level view of the continent. I'd love to be able to instantly integrate into society in these places, but it's never going to happen. Putting oneself in the daily position of the population is a start, however. But instead of finding work or renting a house, we thought walking on their pavement would be adequate.

Foz do Iguaçu was not much of an improvement over Curitiba based on the town itself. We found hoards more European shops and restaurants, and the highstreet was clearly designed with an eye to tourism. Our hostel was very good, however. The Hostel International sign, as it was in general in South America, was a pretty good indication of reasonable standards. We got ourselves in dorms and contacted our families through the free internet access.


However, we didn't go to Foz to see the town or email our parents. We went there to see the billions of gallons of water exploding over the cliffs just outside of town - the Iguaçu falls.

One of the perks of staying in a Hostel International place is the information they have for travellers. They cost a bit more, sometimes much more, but win out on ease of use. We found out all we needed to know about getting around and seeing the highlights of the area from the guy sat at the reception. So, armed with his instructions we went and waited for the bus on the wrong side of the road.

When we eventually got on the bus, it took us to an official 'Iguaçu' coach full of tourists. We drove through some dense-looking jungle, and were let off at the start of a wooden walkway. This turned out to be our track to follow for the duration of our viewing. The whole group moved as one, very fast. Luckily we soon realised that we didn't actually have to move at their speed, it just meant we'd be jostled every now and again as another group walked past, cameras at the ready.

What's the deal with cameras, anyway? They seem to take such control of the photographer that they become more important than the experience itself. More than once I found the first thought in my head at a new attraction revolved around the best camera angle. Women seem particularly prone to this, and Laura's laptop overflows with thousands of pictures of the same people in the same poses.

The first few waterfalls were beautiful dainty streaks tumbling from the parallel cliff-face (which was actually Argentinean territory). The average height of these falls were well over 200-feet, and they imposed beautiful white streaks down the dark rock precipices. The walk was just over a mile and a half, featuring 275 waterfalls. That's a lot of waterfalls. In fact, the combined volume of water is apparently thrice that of Canada's Niagara falls.

The cliffs stood solid and tree-lined, water busting through wherever possible. Looking at all the protrusions from the rock, I was lost in dreams of caving heaven. Imagine the size and length of the caverns in such systems, despite the tough basalt rock… Laura gave me a look which clearly forbade any attempts to venture underground, and we trotted merrily on.

We took our sweet time along the walk, frustrating many safari-jacketed Americans living life through a lens. We had an encounter with the virtually tame Coatí of Foz; a kind of cross between ant-eaters and skunks. One must have smelt the banana in my bag, and managed to undo the zip and stick its head inside before I shoed the cheeky bugger off. Or at least tried to; a Brazilian lady asked me to kindly allow it to investigate the contents of my bag whilst she photographed the hilarious incident.

The path came to an end at the famous Devil's Throat, a horseshoe shaped cliff which offered unstoppable blankets of water falling hundreds of feet. A bridge extended towards the edge for visitors to peer down and around whilst being surrounded by falling water on three sides. Huge clouds of mist swirled around, and a game of count-the-rainbows lay beckoning.

Humbled, soaked and tired, we headed for the bus-stop.

As usual, I was hungry. The on-site fast food place served what masqueraded as a "Super-hotdog". Dissapointed that it was not hot as in spicy, hot as in sexy, or hot as in warm, I searched for the words to describe its unique texture. A German teenager put it more eloquantly than I ever could have as he projectile vomited across the pavement. "His mouth must taste like mine" I mused.

Little did we know then that this teenager would stalk us the entire width of the continent, over three countries and thousands of miles.

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