Iguazu Falls (Puerto Iguazu Fails)

Kelly and I decided to get out of the city last weekend and visit Iguazu Falls. The most common method of transportation for expats with more time on their hands than money in their wallets is by bus. It’s an 18-hour bus ride from Buenos Aires to Puerto Iguazu, so naturally we passed the time by drinking wine and trying to sleep. I say “trying” because the seats weren’t comfortable, it was freezing cold, the man behind me snored and my iPod died somewhere around hour 10.

Iguazu Falls has been described as “Niagra on Viagra,” and we immediately understood why when we heard the rumble of the falls shortly after entering the park (after some wandering to find a working ATM since the park only accepts cash and, as the Americans we are, we only brought Visa).

I cannot find the words to describe the sheer magnitude of water thundering down the cliffs bordering Argentina and Brazil. No words, or even pictures, could do this beast of nature justice. We spent hours walking along the river with fellow visitors enamored by the beauty of each small waterfall, rainbow and glimpse at the massive natural wonder. As if it weren’t enough that we were soaked from the mist that filled the air like rain, we then took a 12-minute boat ride up to the falls on both the Argentine and Brazilian side.

“The waterfall system consists of 275 falls along 2.7 kilometers (1.67 miles) of the Iguazu River,” according to Wikipedia.

The violent energy of water hitting water made me feel small and insignificant as it pushed our boat away. Cold water splashed us from all angles as we looked up at The Throat of the Devil…literally. “La Garganta del Diablo” is the section of waterfall marking the border between Argentina and Brazil. Argentina claims 2/3 of Iguazu Falls, though both countries attempt to claim the best view. Almost mockingly, a small Argentine flag waves from a pole stuck whimsically in the rocky foot of San Martin Island.

I tried to enjoy every humbling moment next to the powerful waterfall, but a few of those moments were stolen from me by my own cynical humor. I couldn’t help but mock our Asian boat mates snapping photos and screaming frantically with each turn or wave. After the boat ride, we felt like children who had exhausted a theme park. Each view became less impressive, every picture resembled the last and the monotonous rumbling of the falls made our eyelids feel heavy.


Kelly and I spent Sunday night at the hostel bar discussing future travel plans over two-for-one liters of Quilmes. Our hearts raced as we talked about wine tours in Mendoza, Carnival in Brazil, hiking Patagonia, Peru, Chile, Columbia…Thailand? But let’s not get ahead of ourselves; let’s explore Puerto Iguazu while we’re here.

On Monday, we realized there isn’t much to do in Puerto Iguazu outside of Iguazu Falls. On our way to an Indian reservation (Fortín M’Bororé), our bus driver dropped us off on the side of the highway and told us to walk back because he had accidently passed our stop. Starting at a sign that said “Fin Zona Urbanizada,” we followed the long highway back to the city center with a couple detours along the way. We never did find the Indian reservation, but we did find unhelpful Argentines, sketchy dirt roads and new insight into how fast we can run!

I had a feeling of comfort as I boarded the bus back to Buenos Aires. That feeling was soon interrupted by stillness. We weren’t at another bus station, so why weren’t we moving? I looked out the window to see our bus driver kissing a young woman while holding a newborn baby. I found myself annoyed when I realized he had stopped to see his family. My typical American response was irritation at his lack of respect for my schedule. Then I remembered that I have nowhere to be! I laughed at how lax the work culture is here and decided to practice patience.

But my patience was tested each time our drivers stopped to pick up random cargo in the night. I tried to sleep but was regularly awoken by Argentine police officers searching our bus, checking IDs and confiscating packages. Our 18-hour bus ride became a 21-hour bus ride including our mechanical issues. I was tired, annoyed and confused. I had suffered through a full day of unhelpful Argentines, and I missed America where people are kind, companies are efficient and conversations are in English.

Desperate for something familiar, I searched my iPod. And right there, during hour 14 on the dark country roads of Argentina, I found a piece of home…Casey Stidham. I wiped tears of exhaustion from my face as Casey Stidham, from Plant City, Fla., sang me to sleep with comforting cover songs. “Everybody’s just a stranger, but that’s the danger of going my own way. It’s the price I have to pay.”