Angels Fall, Venezuela 2005

Still fresh in our minds is the memory of the
horrifying journey to get here. For most of the
journey the speedometer nudged 160k and the driver
slowed down only once to point out a dead body on the
roadside, lying beside the mangled wreckage of a car.
So less than 24 hours later, contemplating the worlds
smallest plane (with just 5 seats) and a pilot with
alcohol on his breath, I start to wonder if we are not
being just a little irresponsible.

The engine splutters into life and we racket along the
runway, finally ascending the open sky. I have never
experienced flying in a plane with the windows open,
boxes of coke cans under my seat and the controls just
in front.

The scenery is stunning and we feel every whisper of
breeze and shudder of the planes wings. Mystic and
brooding tepuis (flat table mountains) and roaring
waterfalls fill the windows. It is exhilarating.

Canaima (the town closest to the falls) could possibly
be one of the most striking places on earth, with
waterfalls pounding into a lagoon with a reddish tinge
to the water, caused by an agent in the soil. The first
day of the trip we will not see the falls, but
progress up the river in a wooden boat and visit
lagoons and smaller falls along the way.

Our party comprises the two of us, a late-middle aged
couple from Aruba - Baba and his wife - and three
elderly Venezuelan ladies. We have not chanced upon
the party trip. The camp is basic in the extreme and
when we arrive after dark, soaked through to the skin
after a long journey upstream in driving rain, there
is no electricity.

There is also no alcohol and our cigarettes have been
sacrificed to the elements and are limp, wet and
broken. There seems little to do after we have eaten
and we crawl into our hammocks at about 8.30. The
deafening throb of crickets and other cries from the
surrounding wilderness feed my over-imagination and
the most sleep I can snatch is in periods of minutes
and marked by curious lucid dreams.

The camp´s dog decides to plant itself directly
beneath my hammock and begins to lick its bottom and
scratch its fleas into my ear. Not wishing to disturb
my fellow hammock dwellers, my feeble whispers of
"shew, shew" go unnoticed. The dog stays put. I am
forced to resort to some loud expletives and slapping
movements with my hands, which provoke a gnashing of
teeth and a hurt whimper as the mangy creature limps
off.

Ciara is now awake and we both dissolve into a shushed
giggling fit as I explain the dilema. The rest of the
night passes more or less like this. There´s nothing
like a good night´s sleep. And that was nothing like a
good night´s sleep.

Stiff and weary at about 6.30am, we cannot bring
ourselves to get under an icy cold shower and we pull
on the still-damp clothes from the day before. I
ponder what effects of sleeping in a banana shape are
having upon the elderly amongst us. They are beginning
to look a little worse for wear and bleary-eyed.

We pack ourselves onto the boat and make our way
upstream to the falls. We have to cross several
rushing rapids on the way up, which pound the boat and
scratch the motor. I´d always wanted to try white
water rafting, but I´d supposed it would be in a raft.
Not in a beaten-out, over-sized canoe. The trip up the
river is a test on our aching bottom and back muscles,
as the wooden bench offers not one once of comfort.
The life vests now double up as seat cushions and the
lesser-abled begin to look progressively more peaky
and grey.

But the thick, green vegetation and rushing red river,
peppered with frothy white rapids, keep our minds
occupied. At last we catch a glimpse of the falls,
obscured by the dense jungle, tall, proud and
imposing. It is now that our group splits into two -
those who will tackle the hike to the falls, and those
who will wait at the bottom. It is not particularly
strenuous, but littered with thick tree roots and
low-hanging branches. The path becomes increasingly
steeper as we advance to the falls and the insects
more bountiful, as we slap and shreik and swish our
way up.

Suddenly they are reveiled, staggeringly high and
pouring into the lagoon at their feet. The beauty and
impressiveness of the Angel falls is not in the volume
of water, thundering angrily, like Niagra, but more in
the sheer size and staggering steep height.

Bathing in the icy-cold pool at the bottom and staring
up at the cascading water is a phenomenal, almost
sobering experience. We sigh contentedly before hiking
back down to a hearty lunch of chicken and mashed
potatoes.

On the return to the camp, the rain sets in and
doesn´t stop for the next 15 hours. Volumes of water
dumping from the sky, relentlessly bashing us in the
little boat. Our party are looking fairly grim. As
darkness falls, the thunder and lightning become
increasingly aggressive. We spend several hours playing
cards to pass the time until we can sleep. Both of us
are now bored and more than ready to leave the jungle
and see some civilisation. Its getting desperate. We
are now scraping for ways to entertain ourselves,
inventing new games, such as - how many life vests can
you put on in under a minute - and - how many games of
shithead can we play before losing the will to live.

Staring out at the ceaseless rain and unbroken
darkness, it does feel as if even God himself has
forsaken this land. Even the dog has jumped ship. It
literally flung itself into the river and swam for
freedom. That night I sleep even less, as images of
flash floods causing land slides fill my brain and I
am convinced the camp will be washed away.

As we load our aching bones onto the little plane
once more, it is with enthusiasm. This time to satisfy
our overwhelming desire for a decent shower, massage,
and general de-jungling session. I ache to see a car.
Hear the sounds of a city. Drink a beer. Neither of us
are jungle girls. We both have a pair of high-heel
shoes in our backpacks. It is time to hit the
dancefloors of Brasil. The southward journey
continues...