Iguassu

THE  WATERFALLS  OF  IGUASSU

Aaaah, the world famous waterfalls! These falls are claimed to be more impressive than the Niagara falls, so I have heard. I am keen to find out for myself. A common feature of these two well-known places is that you can admire them from the viewpoints of two different countries, but in this case with their own distinct spelling. While Argentina writes "Iguazu", Brazil spells the name as "Iguaçu", with, as a spoiler, somebody's attempt (whose for heavens sake?) to standardize the name by making it "Iguassu". Whatever the spelling, it means "big water" in the indigenous Tupi-Guarani language. The mouth of the Iguaçu River is at the point where the official borders of Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay come together in the middle of the Paraná River.

The Iguaçu Falls themselves date from about 150 million years ago - as a brochure informs me - with about 275 waterfalls nowadays. Other numbers equally boggle my mind, like the annual average flow of 1,400 cubic meters of water per second, increasing to 2,500 in October - it is beyond my poor mind's grasp. 

I am on the Brazilian side, the best viewpoint to see the waters coming down in Argentina. It is a stroke of luck that I have been able to team up with a Brazilian friend from Vancouver, who is on holiday here with her Brazilian husband and a couple of their friends. This is definitely an experience to share with others. The five of us start on our trail in the woods and are immediately awe-struck when we see the masses of river waters hurtling down - what a spectacle to see.

But we are only at the beginning of the 1200-meter trail. As we walk along the set path in the woods we find another astonishing  viewpoint, and 100 meters further on yet another one, offering an overview of the wide area of the Iguaçu Falls. Nature with its wild, unforgiving force shows us ever more impressive sights of the dazzling river. When we follow the special "contemplation belvedere" viewing deck a bit farther down, we need to put on the flimsy plastic raincoats sold everywhere for a few Reais, to protect us from the constant  light drizzle. The closer view of the rapidly flowing river is magnificent as well as humbling. The end of the trail is right next to where the river comes down 90 meters with a roaring, thundering noise, called the Devil's Throat. The waterfalls are impressive, both breathtakingly beautiful and nerve-wreckingly scary.

After lunch, we gear up for the last stage of the trip, a ride in an open motorboat which takes us on the Iguaçu River. Yes, we are all wearing rain gear to stay dry, and yes, we have all put on bright orange life vests to stay safe. Still, our guide tells us  "Enjoy your shower!" After a few quiet minutes in the open vessel to  admire the scenery of rocks and rapids, we approach the actual waterfalls. It means that we must now officially be in Argentinian waters, my first-ever presence in this country. The guide stops taking photographs of us - unsuspecting passengers - and bundles up in his rainwear. Aha, so here we go! Heading straight for the canyon with the masses of falling water, some of the tourists start to shout and scream. This thrill is essentially no different from an adventure ride in a theme park. Right at the bottom of the falls  the streams of water immediately hit me as hailstones in a thunderstorm. The noise is deafening and it is hard to breathe normally, it is that much water all at once. The water gushes along my back and front soaking me completely. No clothing can possibly protect me if there is even one tiny opening somewhere in the plastic rain cover. I cannot see anything anymore and must close my eyes, being beaten by the water from above. I gasp for air. This experience is both fun and frightening, with panicky split seconds between shrieks of excitement.

Soon the actual adventure is over and our motorboat heads back, with one troupe of tourists, totally drenched but laughing anyway. Back in the quieter waters of the Iguaçu river we cross another boatload going in the opposite direction and I catch myself thinking, "You haven't got a clue yet about what is awaiting you, folks!"

Livre de vírus. www.avast.com.

Coconuts & Christmas

COCONUTS AND CHRISTMAS

Am I really now closest to Africa? Ponta do Seixas, a part of João Pessoa (a city established in 1585) in Paraiba state, is known to be the easternmost point of this continent, the place where the sunrise is celebrated to arrive the earliest in the Americas.  The tropical heat so close to the equator numbs me so that lying in a hammock at the charming house where I am staying becomes an almost daily routine in the afternoon. 

Here at the coast I love drinking the fresh coconut water each time yet again, and afterwards watch excitedly when the heavy fruit is cleaved by the vendor into two parts, so that I can spoon out the soft white flesh. And each time it takes me back to drinking coconut water in Indonesia during my pregnancy to give my baby a lovely smooth and soft skin. Not that pregnancy is on my menopausal agenda these days. Now I can simply savour the coconut flavours, whether in town or on the beach.

A 10-minute walk from my host`s address, the area of Penha has become famous, attracting thousands of pilgrims each November to join in a massive religious procession to honour the Virgin Mary, who is believed to have appeared here. I decide on Christmas Day that it would be interesting to check it out and walk up the hill to the allegedly holy spot of Nossa Senhora da Penha. The little square turns out to be decorated with a hideous statue of mother-carrying-baby, painted in gaudy colours and with a sad, postnatal depression look on her face.

I walk on to see if the Catholic church has opened the doors to its pious fan club, but to my surprise, the spacious, modern building is locked with nobody in sight. But it is Christmas morning! And 3 out of 4 people here are Roman Catholics, statistics tell me! I press my nose to the chained glass doors and spot, far away at the altar, a beautifully stained glass depiction of... is that a crucified Christ perhaps? Anyway, the blue panes are wonderful, worth coming back for later to take photographs.

But the most striking, the most stunning is the view from the churchyard: under a wide, Twitter-blue sky the Atlantic stretches out in splendid turquoise behind a sandy beach with palm trees swaying gently in the ocean breeze. I can spot the red rooftops of the fishermen’s houses where some days ago my host and I bought a freshly caught red snapper after we had relaxed on the sand sipping our coconut water. I had even had a dip in the water then, surprised that the Atlantic Ocean can actually be warm at some places on Earth. Mesmerized I now stand looking at the breathtakingly pretty view, but soon the scorching heat pushes me back to the shade of the church building.

Opposite the church, I find a small chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary. When I step inside, I find a single woman on one of the eight benches. She is playing the guitar and singing with a soothing. sweet voice. I have no idea if she is singing for her divine source of inspiration, rehearsing for a later performance during a church service or simply practising in relatively quiet place. 

Although... perhaps not so quiet after all. Ironically, at the nearby square some ugly, loud music is blasted into the air from cheap, low quality speakers, and my private concert is in clear competition against modern electronics, which does not have any touch of pious, beautiful or solemn devotion. But my private concert just continues, undisturbed even when a dozen or so worshippers saunter in and out. They all seem to have grey hair, I notice.

After my private performer stops and leaves, I linger a bit. I am curious to find out which image inside the chapel I find the ugliest, the most pathetic, the most laughable, but lots of items compete for the Worst Kitsch Prize. Even the flowers cannot appeal to me - mere plastic.

Outside the sanctuary I watch more and more people come to the churchyard, taking uncountable selfies with the ocean as the backdrop. Even at Christmas, it appears to be vital to be concerned with your self-image first and foremost. And in any case, the church door is still bolted and locked to the congregation. OK, all this does mean that I need to suspend my voyeurism and give up on the idea of watching a devout crowd in a hot, steamy climate sing about an uneasy birth on the cold, wintry hills of Bethlehem several centuries ago. I retrace my steps and walk away from Penha - back to the hammock.

Olinda

OF CHURCHES AND COLOURS

Olinda had been recommended to me so often that I decided to visit the place. The cheap hostel that I had booked on the internet was hard to find by taxi and  proved to be a house with half a dozen rooms for rent. Since it was simple and quaint, plus located on a steep, unpaved road, it fit in perfectly with the historical town of Olinda. The view from my room  offered a small baroque church on a hill behind, and tree tops, red roofs of tiny houses and a lighthouse at the front, with a special bonus at night of a full moon over a glittering, shimmering sea further away. My balcony also had a hammock, which I used a lot to escape the noon heat; after all, "only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun".

The owner of the hostel turned out to be a well-known interpreter of the traditional, regional music, called "forro", and told me of his performances in Germany, France and Switzerland, apart from his frequent appearances in his own state Pernambuco. For a link to him singing and playing the accordion, see YouTube Homenagem ao Gonzagão.

https://youtu.be/okqINne7lpE

The beach of Olinda looked beautiful but it was not the main attraction of this town. Instead it was the historical centre with old churches.

Olinda had so many 16th and 17th century churches that I did not manage to see them all, though I walked enough up and down the cobbled streets to give me stiff muscles at the end of my first day. Sitting in a local, modest restaurant at the foot of a couple of sloping streets I could see two of those holy places on their separate hill tops, depending on where I turned my gaze.

Most of those churches were closed anyway, and looked neglected and dirty from the  outside, which was surprising, since the historical town of Olinda was declared cultural heritage by UNESCO.

The São Bento monastery, however, was open and displayed its splendid, ornate altar and decorated ceiling to  a busload of sight-seeing tourists.

Also the Igreja de  Misericordia was accessible because of an evening service for a score of white-clad nuns living in the convent nearby. Their church had an impressive, baroque ceiling. Convent and church were located at the end of the most beautiful spot of Olinda, a square on a big hill with several places of worship at its edges and a lively market place in the middle, where the stall merchants sold handicraft or prepared food items for the hungry passers-by.

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I loved the view from the edge of the square, overlooking the historical town centre with here and there a centuries-old church and in the distance the big city of Recife, which I decided to skip, partly because of its notorious criminal reputation. Olinda, at least, had its "tourist police" in order not to scare away potential visitors bringing money into the local economy.

What I liked best, though, were not the numerous baroque churches but the colourful houses, a typically Brazilian image that I already had many years before I set foot in this country. The range of different paints was large, but also the combination of colours for one single dwelling could be most unusual - I loved it.

What made the outside walls of many houses even more interesting, sometimes downright funny, were the murals. Sauntering through the narrow streets offered the visitor some frequent artistic surprises. Olinda - a worthwhile visit.