The amazing Iguacu Falls

Before we left on this trip, Kacey and I sat down and brainstormed for a list of places and sights we wanted to see.  At the top of the list was the obvious Machupicchu of Peru, the Temples of the Sun and Moon in Mexico, the granite spires of Torres del Paine in Southern Chile, and Iguaçu Falls on the northern border between Argentina and Brazil.   This last sight was something of a Holy Grail for me, long sought after but never attained.  I have been to Brazil three times before- once in college and twice for my job when I lived in Angra dos Reis, which is a bit south of Rio de Janeiro, for a total of 10 months or so.  Each time I was there, I could feel Iguaçu quietly beckoning me, subtly inserting itself into overheard conversations, or screen saver photos of co-workers- leaving little tantalizing hints to its wonders scattered across my daily path.  My desire to see the falls grew exponentially, but my demanding work schedule left little opportunity to make the trip down to Iguaçu.  One time, I even went so far as to purchase the airline tickets, but fate was against me and I had to cancel them.

Then we planned our trip- 25,000 miles driving through Central and South America, which promised us more amazing sights and experiences than anyone should feel lucky enough to see in 10 lifetimes.  Somehow though, after all our lists had been made, and our route drawn on the map, it bewilderingly avoided Iguaçu Falls! They were just too far out of the way, it wouldn’t make sense to drive all the way up to them considering the other places we wanted to see in Argentina.  I reconciled my dismay with the idea that maybe we could fly to Iguaçu from Buenos Aires, or Santiago, for a little side trip and that we could figure it out later- but inside, I had a sick feeling that they would slip through my fingers once again.

Sometime after entering Chile, I started thinking about Iguaçu again.  Looking at the calendar, and our tentative route south, we were quickly running out of possible times to make the side trip up to the falls.  A flight was monetarily out of the question considering we had just purchased tickets for a visit home in February, but it looked like we might have a 8 day gap between Kacey’s birthday celebration in Mendoza and our flight home from Buenos Aires.  It would be a lot of driving, maybe 6 solid days in total, but it just might be possible if we wanted to see the falls bad enough.  Luckily for me, it didn’t take much to convince Kacey- she wanted to see them as much as I did.

A large majority of Argentina is the never ending, flat, grass covered pampas

The morning after our birthday bike tour in Mendoza, we resigned ourselves to the idea of four long days driving the straight, flat highways that stretch across the endless pampas of central Argentina.  For days we saw only grass and cattle, but as we worked our way north the landscape gradually changed.  We passed through a long tunnel under the Rio Paraguay, and emerged to dense groves of subtropical forest.  The consistently flat asphalt gave way to a circuitous path over undulating hills, and on the last day the road side foliage became decidedly jungle-esc.

Las Cataratas Iguazu

Iguaçu Falls are located on the Rio Iguaçu, which marks the northern boundary between Brazil and Argentina, therefore dividing the falls in half between the two countries.  Each government has designated the falls and the jungle around them as national parks, though they are separate, with separate entrance fees, and inconveniently, you can’t cross from one to the other.  Argentina calls their side the Cataratas Iguazu, and in Portuguese, Brazil has named them Foz do Iguaçu.  We were told that to truly experience the falls, you needed to see them from both sides, which would take us a day for each side and leave us just enough time to drive back to Buenos Aires in time for our flight home.

We found a hotel that also catered to campers, and parked the truck under a large shady tree on their sprawling lawn.  An afternoon in the pool with about 600 screaming kids made our evening cocktails especially needed, and we made a double batch of pasta for dinner so we could take the leftovers with us for lunch at the falls- unlike the rest of South America, Argentina (and Chile) have caught on to the unfortunate habit of extreme price gouging for food and drinks at tourist attractions, sporting events, or airports- just like the good ol’ US of A.  We got up early the next morning, and caught the first bus to the entrance gates of the Parque Nacional Iguazu.  Even though it was in the middle of the week, there was already a long line at the ticket window when we arrived, and when the gates finally opened, we were pushed through by hordes of vacationing Argentines.

The sound of the crashing water was deafening

Brazil and Argentina have taken different approaches to showing off their respective sides of the falls, with Argentina choosing to build raised walkways and platforms that cling to the sides of the cliffs and bring you within feet of the rushing waters as they tumble over the edge.  You get an incredibly up close and, more often than not, extremely wet view of the hundreds of individual falls that make up Iguacu.  This is an amazing way to feel the power of the falls, but you are so close that the constant spray of water makes using the camera a tricky business.  I spent most of the time with the camera hidden under my shirt waiting for the wind to cause a break in the mist, when I would pull it out and fire off a few quick shots before hurriedly tucking it away.  This only worked for a little while though, because after a few minutes, my shirt, along with the rest of me, was sopping wet- luckily, we also brought along a small waterproof point-and-shoot, which let me put the big camera back in the pack, though that was drenched as well.  I carry with me a small nylon dry-bag for just such an occasion, but it doesn’t help much if the camera is already wet when you put it in.  No matter, this might be just what I need to justify buying a new camera when we get home.

These enormous spiders were hanging at eye level right above the trail

In addition to the falls, the national park was an incredible place to see wildlife- hiding in the trees were dozens of small agile monkeys, and in the underbrush lurked sinister lizards, some as long as a man is tall- but for me the most alarming sight was the 5 inch wide spiders which hung in the middle of their giant webs that spanned many of the walkways.  Most people didn’t even notice them, because the webs were necessarily built at a height that allowed the normal Argentine to walk under without snagging their head on the bottom of the web.  Being a good head or two taller than the average South American, it was a different story for me- Kacey only just saved me from a face full of spider web, and the inevitable death bite from the overgrown owner, by yelling out when I almost walked right into the first one we encountered.  I spent the rest of the day uneasily gazing upwards for any sign of those most vile of creatures, as we walked along from waterfall to waterfall.

The Devil's Throat

The highlight of the day, and all of Iguacu in my opinion, was the thundering Garganta del Diablo, or the Devil’s Throat.  A long set of walk ways connected several of the small islands that dot the wide river at the top of the falls, conveying us over the seemingly placid, smooth flowing water.  Even though it looked so tranquil, it was hard to not think about the consequences if you were to fall in the river at this point- it would only be a short 100 yards or so before you were helplessly carried over the edge and down into the abyss that is the Garganta del Diablo.

Looking down the canyon-the right side is Brazilian and the left side belongs to Argentina

The Devil’s Throat is an immense water fall that flows over the edges of a long cul-de-sac shaped canyon.  The water relentlessly crashes from every side 270 feet down into the deep void of the chasm, though it is impossible to see the bottom due to the enormous plumes of mist thrown up by the violent impact of the waterfall with the unseen obstacles below.  I would venture to say that the light of day has never penetrated the depths of that canyon- what a hellish maelstrom it must be.

From our vantage point on the rickety platform precariously bolted to the edge of the cliff, the waterfall was at the same time surreal in its grandeur, and terrifying in its power.  The scene left little doubt why the indigenous people had named it Iguaçu, which means “great water” in their language.  They too were afraid of its power, and would try to appease it by ritually sacrificing prisoners they had captured during tribal warfare by taking them to the edge of the Devil’s Throat and, I am sure with little forbearance, dropping them in.

Our second day at Iguacu falls was spent seeing them from the Brazilian side.  A quick and easy hop across the border left us a little bewildered.  As we approached the immigration post, the bus driver asked us if we were just going to Brazil for the day to see the falls, and when we answered ‘yes’, he calmly drove right through the checkpoint without stopping!  Apparently, they’ll let you enter the country without a visa or even a stamp in your passport if you only intend to stay for the day, which really made me regret the $180usd and week long circus I had endured in Santiago getting my Brazilian tourist visa just for this 8hr visit to Foz do Iguaçu.  None of our guide books, nor the official at the Brazilian embassy in Santiago, had mentioned this little tidbit, and know I think I know why she was snickering to her coworker behind the counter as she accepted my cash and handed me back my passport.

Kacey couldn't believe what we were seeing

The Brazilian national park seemed a little older, the trails and walkways a little more run down, but it made up for it by the spectacular panoramic views of the falls.  Whereas Argentina had gone for the up close and personal approach, Brazil’s side was a photographer’s dream.  The cascading water on the far side of the valley stretched endlessly up and down the river.  Brazil’s own set of raised walkways led out to a platform at the base of the long canyon with the Garganta del Diablo at the far end, and offered amazing views from the bottom of the falls, as opposed to the top of them like in Argentina.

We weren't big fans of the pickled cow tongue

With one more “thing to see before I die” item checked off the list (my own list, not that poorly chosen list from the pompous book of the same name), we triumphantly returned to our campsite and grilled up a scrumptious asado of chicken and chorizo (our first attempt ever), along with a few liter-bottles of beer, to celebrate our accomplishment.  The next day was the start of the long 1000 mile journey south to Buenos Aires, but even with our immanent flight home, we made time to stop at an incredible amethyst mine, where we bought huge chunks of the purple crystal for mere dollars (these would turn out to be quite the burden to get home safely), we unwittingly had our first experience with pickled cows tongue, and we spent a night camping at El Palmar National park- so called because of the hundreds of thousands of Yatay palm trees that exclusively grow and are protected there

The sunset in El Palmar National Park

When we arrived to Buenos Aires, or BA as we came to call it, we found our old friends the RambleWriters, Nick and Rochelle at an apartment they were renting in the laidback neighborhood of Palermo.  They graciously let us sleep on their futon, and helped us make arrangements for storing the Golden Gringo at a nearby garage for the duration of our trip home.  With only a slight hiccup in our travel plans due to a terrible snowstorm ravaging the East Coast, we made it home to Colorado and surprised both of our grandmothers for their 80^th and 84^th birthdays.  We spent a week catching up with family and friends, a day on the slopes relishing the cold and snow that seemed so foreign to our South American sun tans, and before we knew it we were back on the plane for the 10hr flight to Argentina.

 

After saying good-bye to Kathy in Valparaiso, we loaded up the Golden Gringo and drove east.  My Birthday was in two days and I was excited to celebrate the big 27 in Mendoza, Argentina.  We edited our itinerary a bit so that we could stop in El Cajon del Maipo, a long valley stretching from the outskirts of Santiago high into the Andes Mountains.  The far end of the valley consisted of stratified rock formations that had once been the bottom of a shallow sea before the up-lift of the Andes.  During a dinner party we attended in Santiago, Dave heard from the wise old uncle that at the far end of the canyon, there were thousands of fossils strewn about just waiting to be found and taken home.  We had already missed our opportunity for fossil hunting twice in Peru, and we (i.e. Dave) was not willing to let this chance pass us up.

Our campsite – we needed a good nights rest after the long afternoon of fossil hunting

The Maipo Canyon was a few hours out of the way, but at least in the general direction of the border.  We circumvented the busy center of Santiago by using the toll highways that circle the outskirts of the city.  This was an exclusive highway to be used only by automobiles that displayed their electronic transponder in their front window.  We had been on this highway before, without realizing that it was a toll road, but when we figured it out we quickly exited.  Though we didn’t see any police patrolling these toll highways, we were afraid of getting a ticket since we didn’t have a transponder.  During our stay in Santiago, we had asked our friends about the rules, and were told not to worry: “They will send a ticket to your address if you don’t have a transponder, and since you don’t have an address, don’t worry”.  With this in mind we freely circled the city on this toll highway without a care in the world.  It was great, and saved us the hassle of fighting the traffic that clogs the thin streets of the inner-city every hour of the day.

It wasn’t until we reached the tranquil Cajon del Maipo that we were stopped at a police checkpoint.  The logical portion of my brain told me that it couldn’t be because of our blasé gallivanting on the tollway sans transponder, but there was a small part of me that knew we had been caught!  The young police sergeant asked for our documents and perused them casually, then questioned us about our license plates.  Dave in the driver seat, and me in the passenger seat, we hastily reputed his inquiry, replying that “they are foreign plates and that is why they look so unfamiliar”.  He squinted his eyes, and with an inquisitive look on his face, repeated his question.  Dave and I sat there thinking “what is this guy up to?” Eventually, after going back and forth a few more times with none of us understanding each other, he simply told us that we were missing both our front and back license plates.  “You mean we don’t have our license plates?!….they must have been stolen sometime last night while we were parked on the streets in Valparaiso.  Unbelievable!”

We had been driving all day without license plates!

We filed a police report with the two very cordial officers, and they even called the US embassy to see if they could provide any help with the situation.  With no license plates, we would look extremely sketchy and most certainly be stopped by every policeman in Chile.  Not being able to get around the local roads would be bad enough, but we wanted to cross the border into Argentina the next day, and we were sure that that would be impossible without plates.  Unfortunately, the embassy couldn’t help, but the officers gave us a small piece of paper as evidence of the report we had filed, told us to show it to any police that might stop us in Chile, and graciously let us continue on.  Later, using a sharpie and the inside of a wine box, Dave skillfully crafted up look-alike plates and duck taped one to both the front and back bumpers.  Hopefully these, along with our “get out of jail” piece of paper from the police, would keep us out of trouble until we got to the border.

We were relieved when we finally reached our fossil hunting destination considering the events of the day.  I had my doubts that we would really find anything worth keeping, but went along as a good partner should.  My hope was lifted when we saw another group digging in the rocks in search of fossils.  We hiked a bit higher than them and began our search.  To be honest I really didn’t even know what I was supposed to be looking for, but just kind of pretended to closely watch the ground I was walking over.  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a faint spiral shape in a flat piece of stone.  The spiral had a ribbed texture, and was slightly darker gray than the rock that it was in.  I picked it up and called to Dave to have a look. “Incredible! You found one!” It was a miracle, and within the hour we had both discovered dozens of ammonite fossils.  We put the heavy rocks containing the imprints into Dave’s pockets, his pants nearly falling to his ankles from their weight, and clambered back down the steep hill in search of a safe place to park the truck for the night.  We made camp at the foot of an immense waterfall and were lulled to sleep by the sound of the gushing water spilling over the cliff.

Whoohoo! we made it into Argentina without license plates

We awoke to the bright sun beaming into the tent and were ready to try our luck at crossing the border into Argentina.  A steep mountain highway zigzagged up the face of the Andes before passing through the very long, unlit Cristo Redentor tunnel into Argentina.  On the other side, we soon came to the border post, where we filed in the long line of cars ready to make the tedious border crossing. Because it was still considered to be “summer vacation” there were hundreds of both Chileans beginning their vacation, and Argentines itching to get back into their home country. Due to this, the lines were long and we waited nearly 4 hours for our turn– 4 hours of uncertainty of whether or not our home-made license plates would get us turned away, or would actually get us successfully across the border.  We were happily flabbergasted when the border official stamped our import papers for the truck and then our passports for ourselves without any mention of the flimsy cardboard tapped to our bumpers.  “No way… we were in, we made it across even without real license plates!!!”   We stopped at the Gendarmaria office, the national police, at the border in hopes of obtaining an official document from the Argentina police stating why we were driving our vehicle with such obviously fake license plates.  But no such luck- they told us since the plates were stolen in Chile, there was nothing they could do on the Argentina side, and assured us that the tiny piece of paper that the Chilean officials gave us would suffice at the countless Gendarmaria check points we were sure to encounter on the highways of Argentina.  We reluctantly took their word and drove on, following the circuitous road through the canyon leading to Mendoza.  From then on, we were very nervous at every police check point.  But the little magic slip of paper carried us safely all the way to Buenos Aires two weeks later, where we planned to fly home and retrieve new license plates from Colorado.  After a long day on the road we tiredly set up the tent at a camp-site right outside of Mendoza’s city center, and hit the sack.  The following day was filled with big plans for celebrating my 27^th birthday!

Mendoza is charming town, crisscrossed by wide, tree lined avenues, every corner featuring a boutique shop or trendy café, and feels much smaller than it actually is.  But this quaint environment is not why people come here- they come for the wine.  Mendoza is on par with Bordeaux in France, or Napa Valley in California, and is famous for the unique variety of Malbec grapes that thrive in this climate.  I love wine, and Malbec was a new favorite of mine, so the opportunity to tour the Mendoza vineyards sounded like a perfect way to celebrate my birthday.

Our first time on a tandem bike

We rented a bicycle built-for-two, that we affectionately called our ‘wine-cycle’, from a rental shop run by the gregarious Mr. Hugo, and set out in search of tours and tastings at various vineyards within biking distance.  The tandem bike took a little getting used to- we were a bit wobbly at first, and with Dave steering I had to trust that he wouldn’t lead us into danger.  This was much easier to do after having a couple glasses of Mendoza’s famous Malbec, though in reality, I probably should have become more worried about a collision caused by my equally inebriated chauffeur.  We brought the tour to a halt when we found the peaceful patio of one vineyard that served gourmet appetizers and wine tastings.  Thinking responsibly we thought it best to put some food into our stomachs before continuing on.  We ordered a delectable assortment of cheeses and spreads accompanied by toasted home-made breads, and a wine flight sampling three of the vineyards finest varieties.  It was sheer perfection; the company, the atmosphere, the food and drink, and the service.  I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday celebration.  Thanks Dave!

Cheese anyone…

To top it all off, when the vineyards eventually closed and we rolled back to Mr. Hugo, he prolonged our wine drinking by serving free bottomless glasses of wine in his garden, seated with the other gringo tourists who were lucky enough to chose him to rent bikes from.  After drinking for more than 8 continuous hours we were forced to tell Mr. Hugo good-bye and thank you, and we returned back to our camp-site to make a special birthday dinner.  That night we dined on fresh salad, caprese gnocchi pasta, and I’m a little embarrassed to admit, another bottle of Mendoza’s famous Malbec.  We went to bed full and happy and I another year older.

 

We bid farewell to the big city of Santiago and drove west to the neighboring coastal towns of Viña del Mar and Valparaiso.  The scenery was stunning, filled with rolling green hills, crops, and vineyards- the long rows of grapevines teased our taste buds with the thought of the delicious wine we knew they would produce.  Even though Viña del Mar sits only a few miles north from Valparaiso they are distinctly different.  Viña is a beach-resort getaway, with a ritzy casino/hotel, high rise apartment buildings lining the promenade, expensive restaurants, and well dressed summer vacationers eating it all up.  Conversely, the residents of Valparaiso have worked hard to maintain its historic reputation and are proud of its bohemian vibe that pulses through the steep streets. Valparaiso was built upon sharp near vertical inclines, and in 1883 the first funiculare- a box like elevator- was constructed to mechanically climb the ridiculously steep hills, giving their passengers a much needed lift to the top.  At their peak, more than 33 funiculares were trundling up and down the hills of Valparaiso every day, but today, only 14 are in operation.

One of the many the funiculares that are strategically located throughout the city – I'd rather a lift than have to climb the stairs daily!

The city’s heyday has long since passed and is now in a bit of a re-vamping stage. Old houses and buildings are being renovated into brightly painted hostels and spendy boutique hotels, while bars, restaurants, & shops selling locally made crafts, jewelry, and clothes, are nudging in wherever possible.

The narrow steep road leading down to the water

We spent our days in Valpo, as the locals affectionately call their city, strolling the streets, popping into many of the inviting shops, and stopping for a drink and a snack whenever we felt the urge.  With our time left in Chile running short we felt it necessary to try the national drink, Pisco Sour.  It is made with the strong brandy-like liquor, pisco, and is shaken with lemon juice, the whites of one egg, and powdered sugar, then topped with a drop of angostura bitters.  It is a drink that takes some getting used to, and is defiantly not something to drink more than one of, as it is quite sweet and when made well, the taste doesn’t hint to how potent it is.  We had encountered the Pisco Sour earlier on our trip in Peru, where they also proudly call it their national drink, and boast that they were actually the one’s to invent pisco.  Chile scoffs at this absurdity, and the bitter rivalry between these two countries over this issue is palpable.  If in any bar, in Peru or Chile, you mention out loud a statement to the contrary of that country’s claim to pisco’s origin, you are very likely to start a bar fight, especially if the patrons have already had a few stiff Pisco Sours.

Boats waiting to take tourists like us out for a ride

A leisurely boat ride out in the harbor sounded like the perfect medicine for tired and sore legs from all of the hill climbing.  There were two options for a boat ride: a private boat costing 30,000 pesos, the equivalent of $60 USD, or a public boat costing 3,000 pesos, or $6 USD per person.  Naturally we opted for the public boat thinking we’d have more money for pisco sours afterwards.  We boarded the dilapidated wooden fishing boat amongst the 40 other tourists, anxiously hoping that they were going to pass out life-vests- with each additional passenger the boat creaked and groaned as it sank lower in the water.  Our prayers were answered and before we motored out, we were all outfitted with the standard bright orange over the neck life-jacket, though they were almost as old looking as the boat, and in my opinion would have probably just weighed you down if you found yourself swimming for your life when the boat sank.  Throughout the 30 minute voyage the captain had to turn off the motor at least three times to tinker with the malfunctioning bilge pump (a bilge pump is designed to pump out the inevitable water that slowly leaks in through small cracks in the hull of a boat).  Even so, less than halfway through the trip the water in the bilge began overflowing the floorboards, consequently soaking our feet.  At the rate the water was rising, our wet shoes became less of a worry, and we turned our concerns to the definite possibility that we may be on a sinking ship.  I don’t think the tinkering ever really resolved the issue, just delayed the rising water long enough for us to make it safely back to shore.

A hellicopter was practicing landing on the back of the navy gunship

Even with the mayhem on board we were still able to take in the wonderful views of Valpo’s crowded buildings, a jumble of colors and shapes spilling over the hillsides down to the water’s edge.  In hindsight, we should have pulled seven other people out of the line for the public boat and pooled our money for the private tour.  It would have cost the same for all of us and the chances of sinking the ship would have been a lot less due to the absence of the other 30 passengers weighing us down.

The adrenaline from the boat trip worked up our appetites for a local dish that is called chorillana- which is typically a plate of french-fries and sausage.  It is served in many establishments in central Chile, but ask any Chileno where it is the best, and they will tell you J-Cruz, in Valparaiso.  We had to try it!  This small hole-in-the-wall restaurant was located at the end of a long dark alley.  Because of its clandestine location we had a little trouble finding it, and when we asked a local woman for directions she ended up walking us seven blocks right to the front doors.  There was a line outside, so we took up the rear and waited our turn for a table inside the eclectic restaurant.   When we finally got sat, we were placed at the end of a large table shared by a Chilean family.  There was no menu, and apparently all they served was chorillana.  They made the size of the dish according to the number of people in your party, so we ordered a liter of beer and a chorillana for three.  We were pleased to see what the waitress brought- a massive plate of piping hot french-fries topped with strips of steak, grilled onions and fried eggs.

The huge Chorillana – french fries, grilled onions, and strips of steak – it looks impossible to finish

Being on the coast, of course we were all looking forward to a good beach day, so we hopped on the local bus and rode 15 minutes north to Viña del Mar.  We got off the bus right at the grand sea-side casino and thought it must be fate that we try our luck.  After a fruitless search for the dollar tables we settled for the cheapest one we could find- $5 peso minimum ($10USD)- and started with just enough for one hand each.  Luck was on our side and before we knew it we had quadrupled our money. We set aside what we had started with and continued to play with the houses chips.  We had a good go of it, but eventually cashed out an hour later- even steven.  As we walked out the other side of the fancy casino and onto the beach, we were faced with hordes of sunbathing vacationers.  There wasn’t an inch of sand left for the three of us!

Masses of people covered the beach

So, instead of elbowing our way through one family or another to find an open spot, we opted to drive to a quieter beach just down the road.  We perused the map trying to decide on which of the many beaches on the central coast of Chile we would spend the afternoon at, and all agreed upon Playa Algarrobo.  We pulled into the parking lot a bit apprehensive- we were one of only four other cars and where I had envisioned a beach looked more like a dense forest of pine trees.  We were encouraged though when we saw another family, carrying rafts and umbrellas, enter the thick grove of tall trees.  We picked up our bags and started off after them.  It felt like a fairy tale walking over the carpet of pine needles that covered the sun dappled forest floor, and as we walked through the trees the elusive beach slowly began to reveal its beauty little by little, until we abruptly emerged from the tree line and were standing upon its hot white sand rejoicing in the fact that this was just what we were looking for.  We tanned, pic-nicked, watched the people, and only dreamt about frolicking in the waves- in reality the ocean was bitter cold and after one quick dip I could not be persuaded to get back in the icy waters.  We stayed long enough to watch the scorching sun settle over the horizon lighting up the sky with brilliant shades of pinks, oranges, and blues.