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Iguazú National Park, Argentina – Iguazú means “big water” in the local Guarani language, and under the spray of the Devil’s Throat waterfall, I can’t help but think this is an understatement.
At 80 metres, Devil’s Throat is taller than Niagara Falls, and there’s no fence between me and its fury.
I’m in a small speedboat, soaked through to the skin and wondering why we haven’t capsized yet. This is only the beginning of my adventure: the pilot has turned to make a run at San Martin Falls, an only slightly smaller neighbour of Devil’s Throat.
Here in the middle of the Iguazú, I can’t tell whether I’m in Argentina or Brazil, since the river marks the border between the two countries. All I know is that I’m definitely not in Canada any more, where fears of lawsuits would have prevented my pilot from tipping the boat on its side to give us thrill-seekers an extra adrenaline rush.
Ten minutes later, I stagger off the boat, wishing I’d packed a spare change of clothes. Thanks to the semi-tropical heat, I soon dry off.
I spend the rest of the day walking several kilometres through the park. Three popular and very easy trails pass through the forest, often on elevated walkways so I can look through the holes in the canopy to see ferns underneath. I see hundreds of different plants, butterflies, parrots and toucans. I see other tourists who were wiser than I was wearing swimsuits in preparation for their boat trips.
But despite the thousands of other visitors here in the park today, I don’t feel their presence as much as that of nature. This park is big enough. These waters are big enough.
Other sections of trail pass over waterfalls and the river. From one bridge, I can wave to a small raft full of visitors lazily sunning in the calm backwaters. Here the river seems so tranquil – it’s hard to believe that just half a kilometre away is a giant cascade.
My walk brings me to the top of a cataract. I wonder at the feat of engineering that allows me to stand on a metal bridge that extends out over the falls, just a short distance from a 30-metre drop. This feels like Niagara Falls on steroids.
The national park’s province, Missiones, was named after the 17th- and 18th-century Jesuit missions to the Guarani Indians. These missions once housed dozens of Jesuits and over 150,000 Guaranis in 30 mission cities in Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay. UNESCO has recognized these ruins as world heritage sites.
Today they are just ruins. I spend a day visiting the remains at San Ignacio Mini, Nuestra Señora de Loreto and Santa Ana, having flashbacks of The Mission, the 1986 film with Robert De Niro and Jeremy Irons.
Although San Ignacio Mini is the biggest and best preserved of the ruins, my favourite is the much less visited Santa Ana. Here, the jungle has reclaimed most of the site. Trees grow on top of red stone walls, their roots thrusting through cracks in the stones before reaching the ground. This is space that calls for profound thoughts. If I were Shelley, I’m sure I would compose another Ozymandias.
In the Santa Ana cemetery, my guide warns me to watch out for both snakes and cow dung in the carpet of grass underneath my feet. In addition to being a historical site, this is a favourite pasture for some of the local cows.
I am in Argentina, after all, where cattle are king.
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