Iguazu Falls

Before leaving South Africa we had heard of the splendours of Iguazu (Iguaçu/Iguassú) and stuck a pin with a beady red head into it’s location on our world map, signifying a “must make it”. The pin was stuck through the snaking Iguazu River, marking the boarder between Brazil and Argentina, just before it flows into the Paraná River. Besides pinning down the thin strand of blue, the bead at the end of the pin formed a bright red nucleus in the top left corner of a distended green cell which, on its own, could have easily been a biological cellular diagram. However, this small green cell turned out to represent the Brazilian and Argentinean national parks that protect a vast area of tropical forest (more like jungle) surrounding the falls. Had the map had sufficient detail, there would also have been two small black specs attached to the cell walls near the nucleus but on either side of the blue strand, representing the towns of, Porto Iguazu on the Argentinean side and, Foz de Iguazu on the Brazilian side.

We wanted to stay on the Argentine side because it would be cheaper, since Argentina hadn’t fully recovered from its currency’s depreciation. With this in mind, we intended to fly into Foz de Iguazu and then catch a bus across the boarder to Porto Iguazu. Once again, Varig disrupted our plans- they had cancelled out flight and forgotten to inform us! We were put onto a much later flight that had to go via Sao Paulo and, as a result, would arrive at Foz de Iguazu around midnight, rendering it impossible for us to cross the boarder until the next day. Fortunately, Varig had a conscience and arranged accommodation for us on the Brazilian side, at their expense. So, in the morning after our arrival, we decided to view the Brazilian side of the falls first, and then, cross to Argentina to find the hostel we intended to stay at near Porto Iguazu. We discovered that getting to our hostel from the Brazilian side involved catching three separate buses. So perhaps Varig’s intervention was a blessing in disguise, because, even if the plane had arrived on time, we probably wouldn’t have had enough time to cross the boarder before it closed.

The following day, we explored the Argentinean side of the falls. While there is much debate as to which is the better side, it matters not, because you have to see both! We loved them so much, that when coming back to catch our return flight, we revisited the Brazilian side of the falls. While we would have loved to also explore the jungles, it took so long to explore the falls that there wasn’t enough time. Anyway, it was too expensive for our limited budget which just covered the entry fee to the national parks (provided we took a pack-lunch). We did, however, fork out for an exhilarating adventure boat trip under the falls which is described below.

The factually inclined will no doubt want more specifics about the Iguazu Falls. Briefly, the falls have their origins in the Cretaceous Geological Period, some 120 to 150 million years ago, when the world, as we know it today, started to take shape and the southern part of Pangea, Gondwanaland, broke up into different continents forming, amongst others, South America. The tearing-off of South America from the other parts of Gondwanaland, caused distension fractures through which the largest Basalt flood in the history of the world welled out over a desert plain to form the Parana Plateau, which today covers an area of 1 200 000 square kilometres and is up to 1 500 meters thick. Ever since its formation, the Iguazu River has persistently cut into this formidable plateau. But it’s only just begun its work in terms of geological time frames. (To give an idea of the time scale, if the last 4.6 billion years of geological history were scaled to one year, mankind would have been on the earth since 8:14 pm on 31 December and dinosaurs would have only lived for eight days.)

The result is that, after flowing for some distance across the Paraná Plateau towards the centre of South America (yes, away from the sea), the Iguazu River passes over a few small rapids, and then separates and mergers around a number of jungle covered islands, before suddenly plunging down approximately 275 separate cataracts over a curving 4-km wide stretch of the plateau. In the dry season (when we visited), two wide crescents of water are formed along the edge of the plateau, which, in the wet season, merge into one vast 4-kms wide fall. At the base of the plateau, the water converges into a narrow rushing gorge. Interestingly, the falls were, at one point in time, called the Victoria Falls and therefore have a nomenclatorial link to their namesake in Africa discovered by Dr David Livingston. While wider, they are not as high as the Victoria Falls (the same applies to the Niagara Falls). Nevertheless, the Iguazu Falls could, just as aptly, be called “the Smoke that Thunders”.

While names can assist and the falls could be described as a fugue of smoke, cloud, mist, water, thunder and jungle, these are as vague as splendid, majestic and breath-taking, all of which are equally applicable. We shall therefore attempt, in vain, to elucidate where words fail, by describing our experience.

Before we disembarked from the bus, we could already hear and feel a distant rumbling that suggested a massive heard of buffalo stampeding across a plain or a stormy ocean shore yet, was somehow different. It carried the anticipation of a shivering railway line heralding an approaching train and had all the excitement of a large hungry feral cat purring directly into your ear. Eagerly, we stepped off the bus and were washed with cool moist air from the, as yet to be seen, falls. After the claustrophobic heat of the bus, it was both refreshing and releasing. A good analogy would be a diver, having sat in the sun sweltering in his full-body wetsuit, finally peeling off the wetsuit and feeling the cool ocean breeze on his naked body. We filled our lungs with the cool air, thick with the scent of moist vegetation and mulch, and then, following a thread of a trail, needled our way through a tangled morass of tropical forest. The air and thick green leaves of foliage reverberated with the increasing rumble of the falls, building anticipation like a rolling tattoo before the grand finale to a circus act. Then suddenly, the lush curtains of the greenery opened to reveal a spectacular never-ending amphitheatre of cascading waterfalls. Just imagine yourself sitting at the one side of the Colosseum in Rome and a tidal wave suddenly breaking over the opposite side and cascading down the stands into the arena, then magnify the scale twenty fold, and you’ll have an inkling of what it was like.

After we had picked-up our jaws, we uttered some inadequate expressions of admiration and attempted to absorb the spectacle. Eventually we gave up and started to make our way eastward along the Brazilian side of the river, tracking the never-ending amphitheatre on the far side for about an hour. Along the way, we gawked and gaped at every kind of cataract, cascade and waterfall imaginable. It was overwhelming and drew to mind what a simple medieval peasant might have thought when, after having endured a long pilgrimage to the Vatican City, he finally entered St Peter’s Basilica and then, after being overawed by its ostentatious splendour, made his way along the decorated halls to the smaller Sistine Chapel and looked up at the genius of Michaelangelo. Presumably, for a moment his mind must have simply stopped before being awestruck by the influx of splendour, wonder and beauty. Well the experience was not dissimilar, and nature’s glory surpasses man’s valiant but lesser endeavours in the Vatican City.

Still overwhelmed, we started descending down the northern side of the river gorge towards what is called the “Devil’s Throat”, no doubt, for want of a name that could do it justice. The approach to the Devil’s Throat cutback about two hundred meters into the Paraná Plateau to form a massive vault-less nave with the river spilling over the towering basalt walls on either side forming giddyingly high columns of flowing liquid silver along the entire length of the gorge. The furthest end of the colonnade dissolved into mist, its penetralia engulfed by a great plume of cloud that rose to the height of the plateau before dissipating in the blue sky above. The overflow of fine mist veiled the entire chasm with soft silk and smoky tendrils while the booming voice of an ancient god issued forth from the base of the plume, thundering down the gorge and drowning out all other sound. In answer, the sun poured in from the other side, burning the ends of stray tapers of silk and refracting into a giant iridescent rainbow spanning the entire length of the gorge with its brilliant celestial arch.

As we walked out towards a platform suspended at the base of the falls, like hands warming up an African Drum, our hearts began to beater faster and faster, until they beat in harmony with the pulsing thunder of that ancient god’s voice. At the same time, we were baptised by delicate drapes of fine ionized spray, the small fiery dew drops clinging to our trembling hairs and eyelashes, while their static energy tingled through our bodies. Finally, like the priests of yore gathered upon a pinnacle of rock to appease their god’s wrath, we stood on the platform with the roaring voice of the ancient god emanating from all around us, speaking words of power used to forge the earth.

Many ancient texts advise against looking upon the visage of a god. While we only gazed at the vestments of this god, it became apparent why. We looked up to see the universe folding in on us, a sight reserved for immortal eyes alone. And while we weren’t struck blind, probably because this was just the shrine of a lesser river god, the mind failed to comprehend. The humility was utter as we were forced to realise the limits of human comprehension. The mind and senses could not grasp the immense complexity of the imploding galaxies of billions of glowing orbs rushing into a great steaming white-hole that melted whole Milky-ways into pearly streams of light. As the mind overloaded, it felt as if we were warping through space at the speed of light with sheets of white stretching towards us and time dissolving.

To give some perspective, pause to consider the wonder of light refracting through a single drop of water. It is amazing that light, having traversed the vast span of distance and layers of atmosphere between Apollo’s racing chariot and the earthly realm, suddenly splinters upon the fragile quivering viscera of a tiny liquid orb, presenting a prismatic blaze of colours and diffracted sparkles. When this happens to a whole host of water vapours, we just marvel at the chromatic display that reaches our eyes uninterpreted. We don’t consider what is occurring, let alone, follow the other unseen rays that project in other directions, ricocheting off the other surrounding mirrored balls. Try multiplying this by infinity and have the molecules of water rushing down into a steaming pit, blasting off rocky shelves along the way in blazing detonations, and you are faced with a spectacle beyond human calculation, even before trying to consider the inter-play of gravitational forces, air currents and angles of rock. In the end, you just find yourself staring at a milky white wall of melting wax intersected by an incandescent arch of smudged colours, a feeble proxy of for what is taking place before you. The mind tries to seek refuge in humour and more mundane references, and suddenly you’re an ant floating on a crumb at the bottom of a butter-churn looking up at the swirling cream, giddy with the tidal forces of the deluxe milkshake. The conscious mind tries to master the situation by trying to process intelligible fragments of the whole, for example, the fragrance of rain and slick water plants rather than the boiling furnace below. The eyes realise their egotistic folly and try to deal with but a splice of the panorama before them by following the flow of molten wax as it races downwards. For a moment the speed of the eyes and the falling water align and the creamy blur resolves into liquid crystal brilliance, with necklaces of blazing beads and shimmering sheets of molten glass coming into focus for an instance before shattering into smithereens. The ears, however, never manage to attune to the resounding voice of the ancient god and remained deafened by the roaring words reserved for immortals ears alone.

In the end, we surrendered and simply let the experience wash over us for a while, before retreating from the heart of this sacred place. Humbled, on the way back, we appreciated the more comprehensible wonders around us. We watched small black birds shoot through the interstices between the curtains of falling water to reach the concealed caves behind. Whether they nested there or collected clay or simply fed on plants or insects behind the waterfalls, we do not know. What was apparent, is that these birds loved the water and whole flocks would sweep in and out of the misty clouds, bathing in the showers of water vapour. While these kamikaze pilots continued to race above, we paused to appreciate the texture and colour of the large tufts of glistening wet greenery that clung to every exposed rock and cliff face. In the face of the continuous flow of water, the inert greenery presented a meditative calming force on which to anchor the mind - a tranquil state of disengaged observation, which brings to mind one of the legends surrounding the falls.

The local Indians tell the tale of a prince who fell in love with a princess destined to be sacrificed to the great serpent god of the Iguazu River. Before the priests carried out the sacrifice, the prince eloped with the princess in defiance of the god. The huge serpent god writhed in fury, and in his wrath smashed the land to form the Iguazu falls. He then pursued the lovers, who had set off in a boat down the river. When he caught them, as punishment, he transformed the princess into a smooth stone at the base of the falls and the prince into a palm tree standing on the far bank looking at the stone, so that the prince was forced to stand there inertly watching the painful beating of his unattainable lover for the rest of his life. Looking at the beads of water dripping off the slick leaves, we were reminded of the prince’s tears of grief. Then a drop fell from a leaf like a tear into a translucent sheet of water that continuously spread out and melted back into a pleat of rushing water. Staring through the translucent pane of poorly-cast glass, we could make out the distorted images of slick rocks, as if we were looking at them though the prince’s tear filled eyes. The rushing water continued to distort and shift the rocky images below like a quivering mirage. And, while we stood mesmerised by the ever-changing aquatic hall-of-mirrors, suddenly we glimpsed, through the bridle veil of water, the face of an exquisitely beautiful woman in the rocky wall. The moment didn’t last, for the great roaring voice bellowed in outrage, and instantly an obedient wave of water swallowed the majestic visage and we were left watching the light zither across the mirrored surface of the ever-shifting window.

With this, we said a sad adieu, and headed back to the bus to make our way to the Argentinean side of the river to find our hostel. Nature had displayed her awesome power, sheer intensity, and attention to detail. On the way there, we sat in the bus with the mighty roar still buzzing in our ears and our eyelids kissed by fine vapours and delicate hues as light as sun-shot butterfly wings.

Ricky: That night, still elated from the experience of seeing the falls, I received a shocking e-mail from my brother, Anthony, telling me that Aimee de la Harpe, my cousin Kevin’s daughter, had committed suicide. It was reported in the papers as follows
“A teenage girl from Johannesburg who filmed her own suicide last week apparently was involved with a pagan cult and had earlier mentioned her thoughts about suicide on an internet website…. On [her] blog, she told about her biological father’s suicide a few years ago, her poor self-image and depression, her visits and strange obsession with cemeteries, as well as wild drinking parties with friends.”
Her blog was quoted as saying:
“Is suicide brave? In some way, I suppose it is.
“It’s the knowledge that you are entering a dark place and you are withdrawing yourself in advance from a situation you cannot handle.
“I have never considered it to be selfish,”.
It took a little while for the news to sink in and then a cold tide sucked my heart out into a dark sea. While the sea might have been similar to that in which the Titanic sank, in that its was cold and dark, it wasn’t the same because there weren’t any stars in the sky above nor was the sound of the band playing drifting over the waters. Filled with despair, I surrendered quickly and sank into the black depths - this was not, however, your ordinary ink black, tar black, bible black nor midnight black – it was the type of darkness that existed before God said “Let there be light!” - it was the darkness before the womb - a Hades of aloneness and stranded memories. For a while I just hung there, a floating corpse in the mind numbing gloom, waiting for ghoulish hands to take my soul. Then I began to hear indiscernible spectral whisperings drifting out of the lightless universe. My mind fumbled for dark unseen strands of algae, slowly beginning to sift out vague phrases and sounds, as if, remembering a lost language:

“Red Glove, Black Glove…Put your hands in the air!... careful, put the safety catch on, that shot nearly hit me! … if only we could glide over the cliff … we’re sliding!… punch out the windscreen!…there they come …and they laid down their lives for us …I posthumously award these heroes the Victoria Cross …what is your last dying wish?...I am a writer… By way of passion never forget!”

Then a deep belly-laugh filled with joy bubbled up from a great depth and with it came the echoes of a sonorous voice:

“Up an at ‘em!...Here comes the heiferlump!… and then the great bull smashed through the front door!...Ogg the giant lives in that cave…you can do it … there’s no such thing as can’t!… …you just put this thingamajig there and Bob’s your Auntie …get the ball and run like a dirty-shirt …squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it… get back up on the horse … what would happen if you could go backwards through time?”

These hooks of the past lured me “backwards through time”, and, like the fish at the very depths of the ocean, the memories emerged like spectral lights and bit deeply with long gleaming prehistoric teeth. Kevin’s wide wild grin and tuft of unruly auburn hair and Dad,s freckled face and intense creative eyes swam before me … and warm salty tears burned like phosphorous on my cheeks.

All this must be confusing from the outside. The truth is, I didn’t really know Aimee, I last saw her years ago. Her suicide and pain was but the dark tentacle that drew me down into the gloom of nostalgic memories, loss and sense of estrangement. There, I found a disturbing empathy for her despair. To make some sense of it, you need to understand how Aimee is but another link in a painful chain of events that loom too large in my heart. I shall give you the bare bones and hopefully these will act like a dream catcher and capture the essence, while your minds eye fills in the rest.

I grew up on a farm in the Eastern Free State on the Lesotho boarder near a small village called Fouriesberg. The Farm life was fairly isolated, but for visits from friends and family during the holidays. For me it was even more isolated because I didn’t get on with my elder brother, who, at the time, tormented me (today we have a much better relationship). So my bonds were with the visiting friends and family, but none so deep as that with my cousin Kevin, who for all intents and purposes was as close to me as a brother and best friend, combined. It wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration to say that life, to me, was tearing around the farm with Kevin and my cousins, and then waiting in anticipation for their next visit. While I loved the farm life, in general, my memories are mainly of the times my cousins and other friends were on the farm, with vast empty interregnums in between. When together, Kevin and I lived in an imaginary world, which was full of heroes and death. While our adventures didn’t all take place in the imagination – we also hunted, rode bikes, climbed mountains and swam in the river - our imaginative exploits superseded all else. The great dragon of the imagination would sweep over the lake of reality and pluck us out of the mundane world like fish, from muddy water and take us soaring to giddy heights. We would remain up there until the air became too thin for our gills and we were forced to return to deal with duller matters, such as supper. Every day we would immerse ourselves in this fantastical world of high adventure in which Kevin and I were heroes fighting in World War II, or two infamous bandits called “Red Glove Black Glove” pulling off daring robberies or two famous racing drivers racing in the Le Mans Grand Prix or the Roof of Africa rally. These high adrenalin packed adventures were acted-out on mountain sides, in rivers and in dusty sheds.

At the time it wasn’t so evident, but in hindsight, I realise that in just about every adventure, we both always ended up dying heroically (In our minds there wasn’t much distinction between us and the characters we portrayed, we spoke as if we were our characters). If there was a battle, we died heroically in the process of overcoming the enemy. If we were in a race, the car would explode or crash just after we passed the finishing line. And, Red Glove Black Glove would inevitably be caught and executed or die in a gun-blazing car-chase. Even in the movie I made with my cousins, “Jessie James and James Jessie”, our characters were executed by firing squad in the end. This theme became so ingrained that, in my mind, sacrificing of one’s life became the only proper ending to any adventure. It was the ultimate sacrifice that vindicated living to the extreme! Posthumous glory was everything. Life had to be lived to the full, without regard to the personal cost. Our characters deaths were always filled with a sense of pride and honour, no compromise, no grey life, no grey death. Our characters pursued their adventures with such passion, they laid down their lives for others and glory and honour. Since Kevin was usually the master of these narratives, the doomed endings sadly foreshadowed the future.

In an entirely different way, my Father loomed lager than life. A charismatic fireball of positive and creative energy that never seemed to stop, he was life incarnate to me. On the farm he was my hero riding horses over fences, diving cars through mud so thick it would’ve stopped an elephant and taking Landrovers on icy roads up into the Maluti Mountains. He was also an alchemist and artist, extracting essential oils from plants, painting watery landscapes and drawing wonderful cartoons. He’s talents, however, did not end there: he designed castles, fixed tractors, sailed yachts, was an excellent marksman, dabbled in photography, told fantastic stories, created games and wonderful treasure hunts, wrote stories and poems and more. He was a treasure chest of inspiration, creativity, humour and warmth and loved celebrating life, living it to the hilt. And, unlike most teenagers, I never became distanced from my Father. To the contrary, I grew closer and closer over the years and nothing was better than a great bear hug from him. We would stay up late into the night debating philosophy and discussing the wonders of the world. And while he wasn’t faultless, I loved him with all my heart.
Dad died during my second year at university, shortly after diagnosing himself as having cancer (before the doctors did). In short, my world stopped. I remember driving out to a lookout point over Llandudno and staring down, through tear streaked eyes, at the rolling waves below, wishing them to stop, while I reached out for some thread of my Father’s immortal soul. But the waves didn’t stop and there was no answer in the wind. After much anguish, I tired to smile, as my Dad would have wanted, and go on, trying to lose myself in my studies.
A few years later, Kevin, who was then raising Aimee in Pietermaritzburg with Celeste, committed suicide and my heart tore a second time. While we were no longer as close as we once were, I would have gone to the ends of the earth for him. He had, however, chosen to leave this earth. Once again, I returned to the lookout point over Llandudno and cursed the impassionate waves, as a stream of sepia memories washed up on the shoreline.
Kevin’s wife, Celeste, struggled after his death, also attempting to commit suicide. I tried to keep in contact, but after a while Celeste met Giles (Aimee’s stepfather) and it became apparent she wanted to start afresh and put the past behind her – and the de la Harpe family was part of the past. So, even though a part of me I wanted to stay close to Aimee as a way of staying true to Kevin, I thought Celeste deserved the space.
So when I heart the tragic news, Aimee’s suicide struck like a third wave of pain and helplessness, with Dad, Kevin and Aimee’s deaths all engulfing my heart. All their deaths were linked in some way. Dad and Kevin’s by their close relationship and my love for both of them. Aimee’s death, because she was Kevin’s daughter and also elected to withdraw herself from a situation she thought she couldn’t master. While I know her life and its challenges were her own and had heard that she had grown up into a wonderful girl, because I didn’t know Aimee personally, to me, her suicide was the last eddy of Kevin’s life finally playing out in a tragic slimily. And, I was forced to face buried memories as they welled up out of the gloom, just like the prince of the Iguazu legend was forced to watch his unattainable princess.
To me there is also an odd causal connection between Dad and Kevin’s deaths that may be more my fantasy than reality. It surrounds two shotguns my grandfather gave to each of my Father and his brother, Roland. Roland’s shotgun went mission a long time ago. When we were still living on the farm, my Father found Roland’s shotgun while clearing out the farm-house attic. For some reason, my Father kept the shotgun and didn’t tell Roland about the discovery. I recollect my Father mumbling something at the time, but the specifics are lost to me. After my Father’s death, Roland was asked to look after my Father’s guns. When he went to collect them, he was surprised to discover his old shotgun amongst the collection and took it back.
A few years later, Kevin told Roland that he thought some robbers were staking out his house and he felt unsafe. He asked Roland if he could borrow a gun for protection. Roland duly gave him his shotgun (I have for some reason assumed that it was the one my Father had retained). At times Kevin’s gills couldn’t breathe in the thin air of his imagination and he fell prey to darker images and their tentacles would rise up from the murky depths to take hold of him and drag him down. Under the strains of the material world, demanding ambitions, relationship problems and who knows what else – he became depressed and in the end elected death, the only proper ending for his adventures. He drove to the South Coast, where our grandfather used to live, and there he shot himself with his father’s shotgun.

For a good while after loosing Dad and Kevin, life was like undergoing the ancient druidic torture where the druid split your belly and nailed your guts to a tree, and then, forced you to walk around the tree as your innards slowly unravelled. During this time, I had a gnawing guilt that I had betrayed Kevin or he had cheated me. We had always died together at the end of our adventures. Should I not have gone with him? In addition, I felt the renewed pain of the loss of my Father and a sense of guilt that I should have spent more time by his side as he struggled to recuperate. Often my capacity for tragedy would threaten to eclipse my passion for life.

My Father’s death had indirectly provided Kevin with the instrument of his own death. And oddly, my Father had left me his shotgun, notwithstanding that I’d hardly ever used it, preferring his rifle. To me this gun, while different, was in spirit the twin of the one Kevin had used to take his life. At times, its narrow eyes beckoned, offering the solitude of sweet nothing in lieu of the pain - The chance to join Kevin in a “proper” unified ending to the adventure of our lives. So in this way, I have a great deal of empathy for what might lead one to elect to leave this life, particularly bearing in mind that happiness and sadness are generally mutually exclusive. When happy, we tend not to remember or understand sadness, and when unhappy, we tend not to remember or understand joy.

At times the gloom could be all consuming, but in the end I overcame the temptation of suicide by drawing on my Father’s passion for life and challenging myself to first do something with my life, having regard to the liberty of knowing I would end it. I could then do anything, since I wouldn’t have to bear the consequences. I could borrow money and wouldn’t have to repay it, race recklessly on dangerous roads without worrying about dying, travel to the ends of the world without concern for my career, try and assassinate an evil person, embark on an orgy of pleasure, blow myself up in protest or sit idle till my money ran out. So engaged, my mind was forced to consider what it really enjoyed and wanted to do, and as a result, it was compelled to acknowledge the pleasures of the world: a fresh morning breeze on my face, the sun tanning my skin, natures beauty, the pleasure of reading and writing, the thrill of striving for a goal, the warmth of friendship and love, and so on, until, like a bubble rising from the bottom of the ocean, my mind expanded its focus and rediscovered the light of life.

Aimee’s death drew me back down into the dark depths forcing me to once again face the spectres of good times but gone times and the challenge to free myself from the drowning-weight of nostalgia so that I could surge back to the surface. It was late and the battle wasn’t over yet. I ended up going to bed with a great deal of anguish towards the Fates and dreamed that the world was folding under my feet and rushing down the Devil’s Throat.
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Surprisingly, the next day dawned as if the gloom of the previous night had dissolved with the morning mist. We dressed and headed for breakfast as the dawn-light spilt over the rim of the world staining the landscape with a thin wash of tannin. After a quick breakfast, we were bundled into a small van and shuttled to the Argentinean side of the falls, a small pack-lunch stashed into our backpack.

The Argentinean experience was entirely different. We entered a maze of winding walkways that descended to the right of the watery amphitheatre we had admired from the Brazilian side. In between the switchbacks and swaying bridges, windows opened up in the tangled tapestry of jungle to reveal glimpses of sparkling falls and rushing torrents. The variety of falls was endless: delicate white threads that fell like fine salt, thicker snowy horse tails with long wispy hairs sweeping to one side like cirrus clouds, heavier narrow funnels blasting down onto black basalt shelves, wide crystal curtains tipping gently over the rim of the plateau and great rushing torrents beating down on smoky anvils. With the bright blue sky above and the rush of the falls in our ears, we were immersed in the experience, the present sweeping aside the past. We couldn’t help but appreciate what Buddhists are on to when they advocate focusing on the “here and now”. To put it crudely, nature took us by the balls and didn’t let go.

We wended our way down to the very bottom of the gorge, right up to the rocky bank of the river. There, we booked onto an “Adventure Trip”, which promised to take us in a boat to the bottom of two of the larger falls. The park ranger selling the tickets cautioned that we were likely to get wet, but we nonchalantly assumed it was the usual over-cautious tourist warning and that it would be little more than a drizzle. Perhaps we should have looked more closely at the returning boat? The rangers manning the boats told us to pack any goods that might be damaged by water into special thick plastic sacks. We duly obliged and climbed on board the boat which looked like a rubber duck on steroids. It was twice the size of a normal rubber-duck and had huge engines mounted on the back that looked as if they’d been used for one of the early moon missions. Following a subconscious warning, we put on our rain jackets.

After some jostling and jockeying for positions, the boat roared to life, the front rising up like a wild stallion. We clung on as the boat bounced upstream to the first fall, a high column of molten white marble plunging into the river. The boat paused in time to warn us again to put cameras, wallets, etc away, and then, like a bull doing a mock charge, it rushed forward and stopped under the front of the fall. This wasn’t anything like a lady gently stepping into the mist of her perfume, it wasn’t even the usual buckets or cats and dogs, the front of the boat plunged right under the deluge. We were totally drenched by the icy blast of water that beat down on us until the boat finally retreated. The adrenalin rushed into our veins with equal force and we grinned madly at one another, our eyes wild and wide as the boat raced on to the second fall.

Soaked, the rushing wind froze us mercilessly but our attention was already focused on the second fall which loomed three times as large as the first, plunging into a great steaming cauldron of boiling water. The boat paused and we all braced ourselves for what we now knew would be an ordeal, not by fire, but freezing water instead. Like a bull pawing the ground and snorting, the driver revved the engines, positioning the boat for the correct run up. Then we charged forward, the screams drowned out by the all-powerful roar of the falls. Hearts hammered and water pounded as we were engulfed in a relentless crashing wave of water. To be between “Scylla and Charybdis” took on an all too literal significance. Buckled down by the barrage of water, we couldn’t see a thing, but could feel the front of the boat dip with the pressure of the thundering water, and then, jerk and buck as maelstroms and currents threatened to swallow us whole or tear the boat apart. Just as they were about to succeed, the engines roared out an impudent challenge to the mighty thundering beast and we shot out from its watery maul, skimming away to safety. We all whooped with relief and delight at having eluded a watery doom. It was great to feel so alive with the overdose of adrenalin coursing through our veins.

The boat then made its way back to the jetty and we scrambled onto the shore like a pack of bedraggled rats. We were totally drenched, save for what was covered by our wind-sheeters, even the “safe bag” turned out to be full of water! Thankfully Ricky had kept the camera under his jacket. Because it was morning, the Argentinean side of the river was still in shadow and there was a nippy draught. Luckily, there was a sun-washed island in the middle of the river with a lovely sandy beach, the perfect spot to warm up. But it wasn’t that simple, we had to catch a ferry there and it was idling on the island side waiting for passengers. We ended-up standing shivering in the cold shadows for ages before it finally arrived. Thankfully, we soon had our costumes on and were basking in the sun like lizards, our sopping clothes draped over the nearby boulders. It felt soooo good to be alive!

After exploring the island, we returned to the mainland and began to ascend to the top of the plateau. On the way up, we stopped to admire a particular waterfall that purled neatly over the smooth wide lip of a sheer basalt cliff. The rays of the sun illuminated most of the fall presenting a wall of radiance that spontaneously folded and moulded the light. Held in thrall, we advanced to end of the viewing platform to a point where we could almost trail our hands under the falling water. Looking more closely, the molten glass sculptures and columns of light moulded by the waterfall resolved into thousands of bright droplets. It was like magnifying the grains in a photograph, only these were alive with motion, each quivering drop holding a darting star of sunlight as it hurtled through the air. From this close perspective, the waterfall transformed into a multitude of crystal chariots bearing fairy souls on a wild exhilarating journey, before being dashed on the rocks below.

Watching the fairies’ fey souls rise in smoky wisps from the splintering crystal fireworks on the rocks below, it appeared quite tragic that their fragile lives were so ephemeral. Surely, it was pointless to give birth to these doomed fairies that hurtled to their death like suicidal lemmings. But this was belied by the droplets that literally wobbled with carefree laughter and delight as they hurtled down, their fiery occupants dancing and sparkling with reckless abandon. The sheer beauty of the spectacle defied any thought of tragedy. The river gave birth to these individual droplets that celebrated their brief vibrant independent existence. And, after shattering on the rocks below, the smithereens miraculously reconstituted back into a flowing river.

Ricky: I started to speculate, is life not like this waterfall? - the waters of life suddenly giving form to thousands of tiny souls that scream their hurly-burly way down to the bottom where they are dashed on the rocks below, only to merge back into the river and continue on the journey towards the “Ocean of Life”. That is, we are born from a much greater life force, live our individual lives - some screaming, some laughing, down Fate’s precipice – before being reclaimed back into the cosmic flow.

When viewed from this perspective, generally life is taken too seriously. It is no more than a brief giddy waterfall forming but a part of a much greater journey. An innate sense of alienation is then, but a reflection of the distant memory of being part of a greater flow, the price of individuality. Sitting like burning fireflies in our falling orbs, we can’t see the bigger picture. As a result, so few realise the “Unbearable Lightness of Being”. In the premise, the length of life matters little; it is but a fleeting experience. It would appear that, the longer, the more ponderous life becomes. If we lived forever, we would have so much responsibility because we would have to live with the consequences of our decisions and actions forever. We would carry the scars of life forever! This appears to be vindicated by nature. Generally, longer lives appear much heavier. Short lived dogs seem to take each day as it comes with a positive wag of the tail. Carefree butterflies sail from their cocoons to glide on through the air for but a season or a couple of days. Some beetles burst forth buzzing for but a brief moment of dizzy courting. In contrast, long lived elephants’ deep eyes seem to be weighed down with the weight of tragedy. And, ancient tortoises seem to carry the world on their backs. It is certain that we will die. As to when our mortal coils are snuffed, does it matter so much? There’s probably another ledge to dive off just ahead.

Following the racing delight of the bright orbs before me, I couldn’t help but appreciate the joy of life, and looking down, the deep swirls of the pool below, heralded mysterious wonders to come. Suddenly, I could see Dad, Kevin and Aimee streak past as three shooting stars diving into the deeper space of the sparkling cosmic pool. I smiled at the wonder of it all, as my orb raced on by….

Stepping more lightly, we reached the top of the plateau and followed a walkway along the top of the falls. The panorama of the river cascading over the series of giant steps into the pools below was majestic. The lithe waters chortled and leapt over the edge, weaving creamy ribbons between the bursts of slick greenery and rocky outcrops. Like little kids discovering a pirate’s hidden treasure trove, we marvelled at nature’s jewellery: strings of diamonds and pearls adorning its milky gowns, broaches of jade foliage emblazoned on walls of adamant, gleaming silver splashes decorating pools of dark agate and islands encrusted with emeralds, all crowned with a magnificent rainbow tiara and set in a sea of malachite jungle. Looking down from the heights of the plateau, it felt as if gravity had lost its hold of us and we glided as light as butterflies through paradise. Gazing upriver, we watched the wide watercourse swirl in languid torpor towards us, its brown back basking in the sun with the gators on the rocks nearby. Indolently pondering the few lonely clouds scudding across the blue sky above, its dreamy surface seemed oblivious to the precipice ahead. It appeared to have also forgotten about gravity.

But, as we approached the Devil’s Throat, our reverie was broken by the great rolling rumble. It must have sounded like this during the first few days of the Battle of the Somme in World War I, as the cannons belched flame and thunder and a million souls were dashed upon the German defences. The sound bespoke of an impending doom. The vultures could sense it, circling like angels of death above the steamy pit of Hell. As we came within sight of the source of the thunder, our worst fears were realised. The great rushing and rumbling shattered the glazed surface of the river, suddenly swallowing the reflected sky down into a great white maw. The Gates of Hell were opening – sucking the world into its insatiable maw. In a trance, we stumbled to the very brink of the abyss and dared to look down like Dante’s protagonist staring into Hell from whence the fire and brimstone issued forth great gouts of smoke. God looking down on the temple of Solomon tumbling in on itself, only this was here and now! This was the apocalypse and we were staring into the thundering whiteness that marked the end of Time!

Then we experienced a revelation akin to Escher’s reversal of perspectives and realised this must also be what it would look like on Judgement Day, a great host of souls rising towards the cloudy heavens above. We were looking at a reflection of the Ascension prophesized in Revelations, so often depicted in the frescos on the domed ceilings of cathedrals with the multitude of righteous, suffused in a soft haloed light, ascending into the lofty heights. Then, we laughed as we looked down the gorge and saw the reconstituted river swirling on its way towards the ocean. Oh, how timid the mind! It will not, in humility, acknowledge that it cannot comprehend everything. How quickly it flees to Heaven or Hell, witchcraft or miracle.

With that, we smiled and breathed in the intoxicating condensation, our senses unfurling like fern fronds to take in the heady experience. Our eyes lightly brushed the snowy avalanche forming the heart of the falls, the steadfast ancient walls of the gorge, the sun-shot streams of water poring from the crenulated gullies and the swirling vapours softening the depth of perspective. Goose pimples rose on our skin as the cool breeze tickled the hairs and sucked at the moisture. But most importantly, our spirits took a leap of faith over the falls and, instead of plummeting down, were borne up on the misty thermals to soar with the vultures above, as we headed back to catch our plane to Buenos Aires.