Igazu Waterfall by Yvonne Van Dongen

Oh come now. What’s the fuss about really? It’s only water. Doing what water does when it meets 80m drops. Falling down in a furious foment. Big deal. Can it really be worth the effort of going there just to see that? Really?

The conventional wisdom is, of course, yes, but the truth is I might never have gone had it not been for the lure of a 17-hour bus trip to get there. No, that wasn’t a mistake. A 17-hour bus trip from Buenos Aires to Puerto Iguazu is something to look forward to when you know that a ‘full cama’ bus seat is the equivalent of flying business class. It always helps when the journey is as appealing as the destination.

A 17-hour bus trip also gives you the opportunity to see the landscape alter from scratchy dry countryside around Buenos Aires to lush tropicana up north. Red earth, sugar cane stalks, eucalyptus and flat-topped mountain ranges. I could be in Queensland. I could also buy peanuts, pineapple and melons if only the bus would stop.

By midday we have arrived at Puerto Iguazu where the roads are paved with mustard-coloured, chippy stone and the houses are made of same. It is not a winning combination.

Here, at the northern-most tip of Argentina in the province of Misiones, we are close to the borders of three countries – Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil. Like the Niagara falls, the Iguazu cataracts form a natural boundary between two nations – Brazil and Argentina – and can be viewed from both sides in designated national parks. Seventy per cent of the falls are on the Argentinean side which specialises in intimate views of different falls via a series of footpaths and walkways some 4km long, while the Brazilian walk is only 1.2km long but offers unequalled panoramas.

Fortunately New Zealanders do not require a visa to enter Brazil unlike their Australian cousins who are required to jump numerous immigration hoops and pay good money to get in.

Of course the Spaniards never worried about getting permission 500 years ago. They marched through the jungle uninvited ‘discovering’ the falls in 1542 even though the Guarani people had already been here 800 years and had christened the crashing cataracts, Iguazu, or big water.

Puerto Iguazu sits at the confluence of Rio Parana and Rio Iguazu and looks across to Brazil and Paraguay. The township is really little more than a touristy gateway to the national park which is home to the 275 falls making up the famous Iguazu whole as well as a veritable ark of distinctive flora and fauna.

It is possible to storm both sides in one day if you plan ahead and organise private drivers but after 17 hours we just want to do it the lazy way. One day at a time. Tomorrow.

Besides which it is steaming hot and getting there takes some effort. A public bus to the entrance where tickets are purchased after lengthy queuing, a short walk to an open air narrow gauge train which carries you to the Cataratas station from where the waterfall walks begin in earnest. Luckily it’s not long before the largest and most important of the falls on this side appears – the Garganta del Diablo or Devil’s Throat.

And it must be the unleashing of gazillions of euphoria-inducing negative ions in the thick watery mist spraying my clammy skin but already my inner cool has deserted me. I am as high on raw ‘agua’ power as anyone – snapping stupidly and grinning till it hurts.

The display near the entrance informs us that the falls are the result of crack volcanism which created layers of lava, now cooled and jungle-clad, over which the Rio Uruguay collapses after dragging itself 1300m through the jungle. Simple as that.

But not for nothing has it been a World Heritage site for over 20 years. Besides the thunderous water decorated with arcing rainbows, the park is home to more than 2000 species of trees and native plants, 80 species of mammals, 450 bird species and numerous butterflies and insects. To my surprise, given the conga lines of tourists, I actually eyeball some of these tropical darlings.

Coatis, a relative of the raccoon, are everywhere as are butterflies. It’s not hard to spot spotted lizards either and a sharp-eyed tourist sees a caiman in the reeds. A cormorant gulps down a fish. Swallows swoop in and out of curtains of water, clinging to spray-drenched cliffs. Sweating profusely in the humid heat, we look jealously at the showering birds. Later I even see capuchin monkeys nonchalantly hanging from swaying tree-tops. Not a bad count for one day.

The walk through the dense aromatic vegetation ends at a 20m cascade in the middle of the jungle and for those who haven’t booked the boat ride, a walk back in the intense heat. For those who have it’s a thorough soaking and dizzy circling at the bottom of the torrential downpour. 

Our boat seems flimsy as a leaf in these furious waters but it is nothing as dangerous as the boat which used to be rowed to the water’s edge with the guide paddling like a demon to keep from being sucked down the cliff. The obvious happened one day in 1930. Seven tourists and the guide were carried down the waterfall and killed thus ending the hairy escapade. All we risk is wrecking our cameras.

As the only English speaking tourists on the boat we really haven’t a clue what’s happening but we’re pleased we somehow signed up for a truck to take us back to the entrance and an enormous slap-up late lunch. We are amazed to see vegetables offered in the buffet but not surprised to see people smoking under the ‘no fumar’ sign.

We have also signed up for a private car to the Brazilian side the following day. Only the guide is Italian and there are other guests and they are German. For the most part it doesn’t matter. We get that the stop on the bridge which marks the Argentinean and Brazilian border. We like mooching through the huge shop featuring handicrafts from the three nations but the driver’s estimation of the time needed to see the Brazilian falls is entirely wrong. It takes much more than the two hours he has allotted.

Although the Brazilian side is a shorter walk with more distant panoramic views, there are some gob-stopping moments plus an elevator taking you to top views of the river below. Only you have to queue. With Brazilians who are louder, pushier and chubbier than their Argentinean neighbours.

We decide to take a leaf out of the Brazilian to-hell-with-it book and keep the Italian guide and the German group waiting for an hour. This qualifies as reckless in my book and is quite unlike me but that’s what the intoxicating power of 275 waterfalls can do to you. And right now the 17-hour bus journey back to Buenos Aires isn’t looking quite as tempting as simply staying here and doing it all again.