The thunder of water

Having generally experienced a fairly wet month in Brazil, what better way to round off my time there with a trip to Iguazu Falls.

The bus departed Sao Paulo last Sunday at 10PM and after two hours of eye-spy with Ciaran and an awkward moment when I walked in on a lady on the coach toilet, I gradually drifted off to sleep. The only real interruption was a spectacular thunder and lightening show at around 3AM which turned the inside of the coach into a dreamy mobile disco, but without the music.

Come 2PM the following morning, we had landed safely in Foz Do Iguacu, the Brazilian town closest to the falls. Not much to shout about, just a dusty town which happens to be close to a major tourist attraction.

There, at the spacious Hostel Bambu, we met Asim from Bradford and soon found the need to grab a bite to eat. We tried to get some local cuisine but they weren't serving until after six so we settled for a foot long Subway and Fanta.

Of all the things on offer in the area, the activity that seemed to get Ciaran most excited was a go-karting trip. I didn't take much persuassion and after a few games of pool in the hostel, we got a taxi to the outskirts of town where we were dropped at a rather dilapidated race track.

Despite the fading light and lack of life, a couple of characters soon emerged from the service area and got us kitted out in the latest motorsport apparel. A few confused conversations were exchanged, followed by a thirty minute wait but then some cars pulled in and suddenly the population had swelled ten-fold. At this point, we had a PC trackside, five race officials and a local karting rookie to compete against.

With the floodlights on and everyone in position, I had a decent qualifying session and finished second on the grid. Twenty two laps and a chequered flag later, I'd maintained that position. During this period, I put in an adequate show, at times giving the local a race, others, just smiling when I got puddle spray in my face. Although I spun plenty of times, Ciaran appeared to think this was the main objective as at most turns, he was generally parked up on the verge and facing the wrong way.

By the end of it, we were both shattered and wet. A few beers and a shower back at the hostel soon put pay to any lingering thoughts of self pity we may have had.

And so to the main event.

Tuesday greeted us and so too did the roar of Iguazu. Myself, Ciaran and Asim were joined on our excursion by the wonderful Jochen, a sixty year old German with the enthusiasm of a sixteen year old.

I knew what was coming would be impressive but my head would never be capable of predicting the scale of what I actually came to see. In all, two hundred and seventy five falls make up this incredible force of nature and with the sun shining, the stage was set for one hell of a day out.

With less to do but with greater views, the Brazilian side of the falls (as opposed to the Argentinian) was the perfect way to meet and greet this beautiful monster. Walking along a hillside path, we were constantly in awe of the overhwhelming size of the falls. Waterfall after waterfall, they just kept coming until a huge blanket of mist greeted us, behind which sat the centrepiece, the Devil's Throat. Initially fearing we may not be able to see this at all, after a five minute stroll, we got behind the cloud and saw it in all it's glory.

Although the water levels were fairly high, the walkway out under it which had been closed off the day before, was now open. Wrapped up in our ponchos and cameras conceiled, we headed out into a storm of wind, spray and sun. The sheer force of it all was immense, Lord knows how they actually built the path, presumably not in these conditions.

Drenched and ecstatic, we caught an elevator up to a vieiwing platform at which point I realised my bigger Canon camera had probably seen more water than I´d thought. I flicked the switch on and off but nobody was home.

On the bus back I opened up my baby to find a slightly horrifying site of water and rusty goo. A girl we´d met on the way round the park luckily had some tissue to hand so I immediately carried out emergency surgery, carefully wiping away as much of the mess as I could. Suddenly, she was working once more.

On our return to the hostel, we met up with a group we'd briefly seen in Sao Paulo and all shared the same enthusiasm for quick trip across the border to Paraguay and the town of Cidade del Este.

A short and simple bus ride took us there and within half an hour, we were at the bus depot but with no currency or knowledge of what to do. Ciaran managed to get some money changed at a decent rate, so with just the right amount, we were able to afford a can of beer each to celebrate our arrival.

Keen to see more of the country, we wandered outside where immediately upon us was a sorry looking football stadium. Again, everyone seemed excited by the idea of checking it out and so of we went. With the entrance gates to the complex open, we strolled in to take a closer look. Our eyes upon entering were first drawn to some girls doing rollerskating ballet to classical music on a playground and then to a football pitch. With no ball to hand, we lay down an empty beer can and proceded with a penalty shootout competiton. Ross from Scotland scored from a rebound but Andy slipped and cut open his elbow, much to the joy of everyone who'd caught it on camera.

Shortly we were being eyed up by some locals from a nearby building, so with rational thought in mind, we trundled over to ask if they could let us inside the stadium for some photos. Like clockwork, stadium attendant Lorenzo agreed and simply picked up a key from the floor and unlocked a door to the stadium. Here we larked around and took photos until Asim, who was trying out his Spanish, told us we had to leave or else Lorenzo may get in trouble. A few other Paraguayans joined in with the enquisition when we left but we just pleaded stupidity and returned to the bus station and normality.

For our evening meal, a large group of us headed to Tropicana for a buffet and beers. The beers continued to flow afterwards at the hostel, as did the stories of our fascinating last day in Brazil.

Ahead of schedule due to the weather, budget and lust for the real Latin America, I along with a minibus full of travellers, made the short trip across the border to Argentina and it's version of Bambu Hostel in the town of Puerto Iguazu. Here, I discovered my Canon camera had once more perished on me.

Regardless, me, Ciaran and a couple of siblings called Marianne and Ross joined us on an afternoon walk up to the point where Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay are all visible. The view wasn't by any means spectacular but it was interesting.

By nightfall, the gang from the Brazilian Bambu had joined us and we headed out for a buffet meal. Things soon derailed however as the food was poor and there was a power cut which meant waiting at least ten minutes for a candle to illuminate our food. Also missing were the free caipirinhas they'd promised. With this in mind, we chose to leave twenty pesos instead of the agreed thirty five. Needless to say, the staff weren't happy but after minor confrontation, we all decide to leave en mass and walked away with our fifteen pesos discount.

A game of poker at the hostel followed, although I was a bit wild and was soon out of contention and reading my travel book.

Thursday brought a packed hostel and therefore an even bigger outing to the falls, this time on the Argentine side. We all signed up to an adventure package which involved a jeep, boat and walking.

Before we knew it, eleven us were perched in a jeep complete with tour guide and heading for the waters beneath Igauzu. After gazing at trees and Ciaran ducking branches, we arrived at the edge of the Rio Parana, where we were given life jackets and waterproof bags for our belongings.

Within ten minutes of the ride we were floating directly in front of the falls and after a few snaps, were whisked to within metres of the cascading falls. Poncho or not, everyone got a soaking and this was repeated a few minutes later as we were taken upstream to another point to get the same treatment. Regardless of this excessive downpour, all I remember was smiling and giggling like a little girl.

The gang disembarked and climbed up past some other falls, posing for more photographs and soggy memories along the way. Soon we found calm and a cafe where I had a pastry and fizzy pop to recharge the batteries.

By now the sun was above us and with spirits high, we caught the park train towards the trail that takes you above the Devil's Throat. Over one kilometre long, the walkway built up an amazing amount of suspense until a billowing cloud of mist once again confronted us and the climax of our adventure. Like in Brazil, aside from the time spent taking pictures of this unbelievable spectacle, most was spent merely looking on in awe.

Spellbound, we left and pressed on towards one more trail that took us above another set of falls which were equally beautiful and humbling as those previous.

To celebrate our days work, we found a local eatery where I uncovered steak in Argentina for the first time. Huge, sublime and ridiculously cheap is the only way of describing it. A pancake and red wine later, we walked across the road to the Rock Bar where a few of us performed a live rock air-band gig in front of several people. I played acoustic guitar and then drums.

My fingers are tired and so too will your eyes, so I shall try not dwell on the prodceding days.

Hungover, people began to surface around midday and by 2pm, we meandered into town where I had a burger and 7UP. As this crowd hadn't seen the Brazil/Argentina/Paraguay viewpoint, Ciaran and myself agreed to take them there. In the late afternoon sun we strolled back there once more and feeling warn out, saw a hotel pool as the perfect place to relax.

Confusion ensued but ultimately, we were granted access for six pesos each (less than a quid). It didn't take long for me Ciaran, Ross and Ben (an Aussie) to find a more secluded pool where we could dive bomb and make human towers to our hearts content.

On the way back, I dropped by a camera shop where I had earlier left them my Canon camera to see if they could bring it back to life. To my relief and surprise, we were in business once more.

As it was Ross' birthday, the evening kicked off with lots of drinks (including what we thought was Viagra for Ross), a big meal and then back to the Rock Bar. By 5AM we were on our knees and sleep inevitably followed.

Before I knew it, Saturday had arrived and so had midday. In a slight rush and tropical storm, I packed my bags, said ciao to my dearest Ciaran and the others, and jumped on a bus heading south towards Posadas.

Six hours passed before I arrived in the capital of the Missiones region, an area dominated by tropical jungles, forests and maté plantations (an Argentine form of tea). I arrived early evening and after a brief consultation with the internet and the information point, I caught the 21 bus towards Belgrano and via a five minute walk, my hostel.

Shattered and without much food, I wandered down to the port, which faces Paraguay and for under a tenner landed two boulders of steak, stir fried veg, mashed potato, an assortment of breads, a litre of chilled beer and a riverside view.

I returned to my room, complete with a framed print of Che Guevara's final letter to Fidel Castro, and drifted off to sleep.

And on to today.

A lie in was deserved and fully appreciated. After sticking my clothes in the wash, I joined the boss Lucas and a Dutch guy, Rene, to watch the Liverpool v United on his laptop. We lost 2-0 but there can be no arguements despite some of the dodgy decisions. More football followed as me and Rene returned to the port to watch the Buenos Aires derby between River Plate and Boca Juniors. We drank Heineken from Man United branded glasses, and ate popcorn and sandwiches. The game finished 1-1 and I returned to the hostel from where I now write.

Tomorrow, I intend to travel four hours back the way I came, to visit the village where Che Guevara was conceived and also lived the first two years of his life. Following his trail was always a part of my plan so making this trip is integral to my journey. A touch inconvenient but it's not as if I'm in any kind of hurry after all. If time permits, I shall also try and visit a Jesuit town called San Ignacio.

My next words will hopefully be typed from the city of Cordoba, another big bus journey away, in three days time.