A Iguazu
I say a rushed goodbye to L who is moving to the Palermo hostel with the will o the wisp. Out of curiosity, I wander the lovely sycamore lined lanes of Palermo, where the wealthy reside, that day and when I get back it is time to leave.
I nearly doze on the cement bus platform, dabbled with stagnant puddles, before I find myself wide awake on my full cama seat, in pleasant solitude, but a smidgen too close to the water closet. The steward walks by, in turn, with a shot of rum, a candy drop, cheese strata, tomato salad, chicken and mashed potatoes, wine, cake and then a champagne night cap before lights out. I read Travels with Charlie by Steinbeck instead of watching the four action movies that play. The 16 hours to Iguazu goes by mercifully fast.
I arrive at a resort of a hostel with club music playing at all hours, an outdoor pool, hammocks, a bar by the pool and an indoor one as well, and a restaurant. The place has not strayed far from its casino roots.
I almost immediately make my way for Iguazu, the cataratas, in the soup, the hot sticky air. I walk down the road and a guide in a tourist van, probably questioning my sanity, pulls over and gestures to me. He wants to know if I need water. Out of pride, or reticence or simply sheer stupidity, I wave him off with a gracias and continue to trod on in full exposure to the sun. I am 11km away when I feel like I should be 5. I consider waving a bus down, or anyone really, when all I have left are a few ounces of lukewarm water.
I’m quite frazzled from the heat and sun but I make it and head into Iguazu NP, board the park train and cross the catwalk to Devil’s Throat, Gargantan del Diablo, one of the most dramatic cataratas on planet earth. The drought plaguing the region several months before is not in evidence now.
Swallows zig zag in and out of the towering mist rising from a deep chasm into which the raging falls disappear. Whole seas seemed to be drained in the space of minutes. A rainbow sifts through the vapors. I take some pictures and walk to the bus stop at the entrance of the park.
I nearly doze on the cement bus platform, dabbled with stagnant puddles, before I find myself wide awake on my full cama seat, in pleasant solitude, but a smidgen too close to the water closet. The steward walks by, in turn, with a shot of rum, a candy drop, cheese strata, tomato salad, chicken and mashed potatoes, wine, cake and then a champagne night cap before lights out. I read Travels with Charlie by Steinbeck instead of watching the four action movies that play. The 16 hours to Iguazu goes by mercifully fast.
I arrive at a resort of a hostel with club music playing at all hours, an outdoor pool, hammocks, a bar by the pool and an indoor one as well, and a restaurant. The place has not strayed far from its casino roots.
I almost immediately make my way for Iguazu, the cataratas, in the soup, the hot sticky air. I walk down the road and a guide in a tourist van, probably questioning my sanity, pulls over and gestures to me. He wants to know if I need water. Out of pride, or reticence or simply sheer stupidity, I wave him off with a gracias and continue to trod on in full exposure to the sun. I am 11km away when I feel like I should be 5. I consider waving a bus down, or anyone really, when all I have left are a few ounces of lukewarm water.
I’m quite frazzled from the heat and sun but I make it and head into Iguazu NP, board the park train and cross the catwalk to Devil’s Throat, Gargantan del Diablo, one of the most dramatic cataratas on planet earth. The drought plaguing the region several months before is not in evidence now.
Swallows zig zag in and out of the towering mist rising from a deep chasm into which the raging falls disappear. Whole seas seemed to be drained in the space of minutes. A rainbow sifts through the vapors. I take some pictures and walk to the bus stop at the entrance of the park.
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