Super Bowl Sunday in Argentina

Puerto Iguazu, Argentina

We wake up early to go take in the falls. My head is a bit groggy and even though this is my last chance to take in the falls I decide that after we drop off the kids at the falls, I’ll go back and go to sleep. Coming along with us is the “tour guide” that we are now required to bring to the park. He costs 100 pesos, about 30 dollars, but does sweet fuck all. My last time through was the first time that we were required to use him and I thought that on the way he would be regaling the group with interesting little tidbits about the falls and the park. It turned out that he doesn’t even speak English and the whole thing is just a ruse for the government to make money. I wouldn’t use him, but apparently some guides have been hit with hefty fines when they didn’t use him. This time he doesn’t even come with us on the truck. He drives his own car out there behind us. When we get there I pay for the tickets and remind everybody what the tours are. Then as the truck drives off he comes up, collects his 100 pesos from my reluctant fist and helpfully reminds us to wear a hat as the sun is strong here…in Spanish.

Sons of Bitches

My anger perks me up as we enter the park, however, and I change my mind and decide to go see the falls after all. I join a couple of the pax on one of the optional excursions, the 4X4 and speed boat trip.

The first time I came through here I had sold it the way they explain it on their brochure and was like “It’s a crazy 4X4 trip through the mud down to the river and then we get on the speed boat and fly up through the rapids to the falls.” The problem was when it was time to get on the “4X4” it pulls up and it’s really just a large truck with an open back and seats in it. And it goes really slow through the “rainforest”, as a tour guide mumbles through a garbled microphone about the flora and fauna. Luckily, the boat trip makes it worth it. The river is high, so there aren’t really any rapids to shoot up through, but we do get a spectacular look at the falls. Once we’ve all taken all the photos that we need, the guides give us water tight bags to put our cameras, t-shirts and other valuables in. Then the real fun begins. The boat captain takes us right up and actually under the falls and tons and tons of mainly Brazilian rain water falls on our head, much to the squealing delight of the passengers. After a few more jaunts under more of the various falls we get dropped off at one of the numerous boardwalks, feeling momentarily refreshed in the stifling humidity.

After having a bite to eat, we walk around on the boardwalks that let us walk right over the calm, almost lazy river before it plummets over the edge into violent collision. Later we decide to take the train out to where a long boardwalk will give us a close up look of what is ominously called the Devil’s Mouth. The small cramped train is made worse by the humidity and mosquitoes, but the only other time I had been in the park it had been closed, so I was determined to take it to see what the fuss was all about. After the uncomfortable train, we are treated to a kilometer walk along the crowded boardwalk, which is made worse by my growing hangover and ensuing grumpiness. As we get closer, however, my grumpiness recedes and my wonder grows. At this point the river is about a kilometer and a half wide and in the middle of all this is V shaped crack that much of the river just disappears into. As I get closer and I able to see where it’s all going my wonder grows. The boardwalk brings us right up to the edge and I’m able to look down into the dizzying fury and my face becomes damp.

On the train back, my wonder turns black as I end up sitting next to an older American couple and another American kid who happened to be born in Argentina. Listening to them prattle on and on about how the problem with the people in South America is just their general laziness and if they would just work a little bit harder like Americans they would be all right. Just a little bit of elbow grease is all they need. Then the kid comes the startling revelation that China is going to be the next world power. I decide then and there that if they ask my opinion I’m just going to say, “No hablo ingles.” Eventually, I hope that Americans will learn that we aren’t the center of the universe. I think most know that intellectually, but it would probably take some apocalyptic event for them to actually know it in their hearts.

That night I watch the Super Bowl with a bunch of English and Aussies. By the fourth quarter I’m watching by myself. Maybe there is something to be said for Americans.