|Spookily quiet road to Saltos de Mocona|
Throughout all these atmospherically theatrics, the gregarious weaver birds: yaka-torries, carry on their noisy discussions, building their pendulous nests in a single date palm tree.
Then it goes quiet, the rain stops, the thunder stops, the wind stops, to leave only the slow drip of water from the gutterless roof onto the red wet pitted soil. That and the incessant squabling of the nest builders.
It’s now Friday afternoon and we’re still the only people on the campground, on the only campground in the park. The only road in or out is within audio distance, we haven’t heard a vehicle in the last three hours. I’m starting to question if it really is a Friday, if this waterfall really exists or is all this beauty the
figment of somebody else’s imagination. The truth lies somewhere in the latter. These saltos are suffering from big brother syndrome. The iconic touristic honey pot of Cataratas de Iguazu are not far up the road.
It’s now Friday evening, the generator is puttering somewhere of in the dark, the lights have come on. Three jungle fowl are fighting over a mate, still the nesters are squabbling, parades of moths start to congregate around the light bulbs, settling on our bags, shoulders, hands. Still we’re the only people around.