The day was hot, and our spirits were riding high as the sun when we captained St. Phoenix out of Buenos Aires and back onto the (kind of) open road, just once pausing in an impromptu street party, where eighty-three-thousand lanes of traffic moving in three-hundred and sixty-two degrees of direction all began to honk at the same time, and a truck knocked the turn signal off the passenger side of the front. We were a Josh short, and too low on time to visit Uruguay, but our insurance troubles were resolved, and we were on our way to Iguazu Falls.
Downsized to a quartet, and energized by a week of rest, we decided to drive straight through the night to Iguazu. Even after we were forced to bribe a policemen for an invented offense, we rolled on, resolute, but itching with a helpless rage.
It was still dark when we stopped to sleep beside a police checkpoint just outside Iguazu. And sleep we did. Then in the morning, much like the Assyrians of 2 Kings, we woke to find that we were all dead. Shaking ourselves, we discovered it was only mostly true. So we shook our locked joints, blinked our bleary eyes, and headed into town.
In town, Aaron and Andrew spent five minutes convincing the Tourist Information office that what we wanted to see was that unremarkable waterfall, not the eternal shining glory of their village. Finally, giving us up to see whatever we wanted, even if it was something stupid like one of the largest, most beautiful waterfalls in the world, they gave us directions, and off we went.
At first, Iguazu Falls is the sort of vista where one’s mind denies one’s eyes; one catches a glimpse of miles-wide walls of water, hears a roar, and then even begins to see detail, but comprehension and proper awe-stricken contemplation remain untouched. This was my experience until we reached the furthest point of the lower trail, a platform stretching to what feels like ten feet away from the waterfall. In reality, it’s more like fifty or a hundred but standing there, absolutely drenched by spray, deafened by the noise, and overwhelmed by the brutal power, one can’t help but get plugged in. Later, after eating lunch in a picnic area absolutely overrun with Coaties--weird, raccoon/possum rodents--we rode a (free! Of all things!) train to the trailhead of the catwalks that lead across the river to the mouth of The Devil’s Throat, a horseshoe shaped chasm the grandeur of which defies all description. Let me describe it for you: nearest the final walking platform, a tiny terrace above the cliff creates a violent torrent that vanishes into thick mist. Further away, the water rolls off the side of tall cliffs, and drops uninterrupted down. Power, serenity and rage mix, and hypnotize.
Following our day at Iguazu, we crossed into Brazil (with surprising ease), and spent the night near the border. The next morning, we drove to the city of Curitiba, through rolling farmland and forest, tinted a more vivid green than I think has e‘re been glimpsed in the US. The experience would’ve been serene, if not for Brazil’s well-paved, two-lane highway system, the traversing of which involves a great deal of passing semis with St. Phoenix’s feeble muscles rattling, as we pray fervently that the oncoming traffic isn’t as close as it looks. That morning, in particular, I had a ten-feet-from-death-before-and-behind experience that reminded me so vividly of my time in Nepal that my hands were trembling for nearly an hour.
We spent an evening in Curitiba, which is a beautiful city full of small curiosities and scenic neighborhoods. We were also told about at least one museum which was the largest of its kind in Brazil, and it might be. We didn‘t see it; one evening, one morning, and we were on the road again to Sao Paulo.
The drive to Sao Paulo was much like the drive to Curitiba: wild traffic, sudden cataclysmic rainstorms, but was also characterized by what we now know are two common elements of Brazilian traffic: endless traffic jams, and frequent slow-downs caused by accidents. More often than not, the accidents involve a single vehicle, mostly cargo trucks of various denominations, flipped, flopped, spun, smashed or otherwise knocked out of commission.
Stepping daintily around said disasters, we reached the city of Sao Paulo. I don’t know what your experience is, but all of my perceptions of Sao Paulo came mostly from popular press and literature, and depicted a grim city--20,000,000 people of lawless, brutal ghetto.
This much is true: Sao Paulo is a city. A gigantic, business-minded city that carries itself with the same self-confidence as New York. But it has quiet neighborhoods, and we stayed in one such neighborhood, in the home of Delton and Fernie Hochstedler, who--alas!--are in the north on furlough. Though morning their absence, we rejoiced to make the acquaintance of their house-sitter Gavin, a South African construction-engineer-turned-missionary.
Our first day, we went shopping, and in the afternoon stopped by the boys’ home where Delton and Gavin work, and got a brief tour of their beautiful facility, heard about their passion for the street children of Sao Paulo, and played soccer with the boys. On our second day in the city, we explored the central region of the city with Tim and Becky Anderson, cool west-coast Americans who spend their days in the streets of Sao Paulo building relationships with the children. On our way to meet Tim and Becky, we attempted an ill-advised lane-change, and a passing automobile (he to whom the lane belonged) with a deft swipe of the side panel of his car blinded us in the Other Turn Signal. That is, the one not destroyed in Buenos Aires. Fearing the worst, we followed him to a parking lot where after a good deal of apologizing, and gesticulation, he asked for $75. We gave him $75. He left. We left. And St. Phoenix bore the scars.
After Tim and Becky were obliged to leave us to attend to other duties, we took a tour up to the observation deck of one of the tallest buildings in Sao Paulo and received a fantastic panorama of the city, receding clusters of high-rises and hills, back to where clouds and smog and sunlight obscured the outline. And we considered this surly bigger-than NYC metropolis, and thought of the tireless men and women--both those we met and the thousands we didn’t, who devote their lives to its spiritual well-being.
Then, after one final evening of discovering that Brazilians make better pizza than tbe Chilean and Argentine abominations that discredit the word but still don‘t quite make actually good pizza, pop, and a movie with Gavin, and a morning of failing in the attempt to go kayaking. We rallied ourselves, packed our bags, and hastened to Rio to deposit Andrew at the airport.
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