The sense of freedom and liberation was almost overwhelming. To be back on the bikes just felt…right!

The 116 swung quickly throught the mountain passes. Green long valleys up to our left and right and long sweeping bends ensured the grins that had planted itself on our faces this a.m. were still in place.

By late afternoon we were on the outskirts of Curitiba and already excitedly chatting over our Autocoms about the days ride.

With a cursory ride through town we ended up paying out more than we’d have liked for an Ibis Hotel.

Not a bad first day back on the road and best of all, to our relief my neck has held up. No painfull twitches or real issues. We’ll see tomorrow morning if I’ve spoken too soon.

With a reasonably early start today our plan was a fast but relatively short day. Hah, the best laid plans! The 376 was proving to be the fast easy riding we’d hoped, with only a few suicidal truckers doing their best to take a few innocents with them when they check out. We were heading North West to Ponta Grossa, where we’d pick up the 373. The ominously dark skyline was threatening and 10 minutes outside of Ponta Grossa the heavens opened. How can this much water fall all at the same time? We were soaked within seconds!

Minutes turned to hours and hours into half a day. The rain hadn’t stopped. The road was a wash with water and and road grease making concentration vital. Even the brakes were feeling spongy. The cold trickle of water which had somehow found an opening and was uncomfortably dripping down my back wasn't helping and to make matters all the more tesing, trying to see through a fogged up visor was proving impossible. Our boots were heavey and water laiden. We’d been officially drowned. It was no good we needed to stop, if only for a little while andhope that the rain eased off. Right now carrying on was just to big a risk.

The hot instant coffee in the petrol station went some way to taking our mind off the freezing water in our boots.

An hour later and the rain had eased and we’d dosed ourselves up with essential travelling substanance…coffee and chocolate. Aaaahhh, the wonders of comfort eating. By now we’d given up any chance of getting out to Fos Do Iguacu today, besides I needed to reign in my enthusiasm and take care of my neck. Lisa keeps reminding me I’mnot immortal.

As the afternoon dried out even the Sunput in a late showing we’d called it a day and had headed into Guarapuava a small town some 4 km off the 277. We’d parked up outside one of the small hotels and bartered a price. We’d already checked and no camping was available. Wild camping was out, there’s simply to many people about and hence we risk having stuff go missing.

With gloves, scarves and water soaked boots lined up neatly under the room’s radiator we headed out to grab some grub, fulling expecting to return to a sauna. AT least our kit will be dry for tomorrow.

Hotel at GPS: S25 23.568 W51 27.937

There was no point stopping this had set in. And so we pressed on. By 6:00pm we’d somehow managed to survive the usual mixture of manic drivers and dozing truck drivers and in spite of the rain had managed to clock up 280 miles and even managed to ride out from under the dark clouds that had kept us company for the best part of the day.

With our suits slowly drying we easily followed the signs for Foz De Iguacu Centro and out the other side towards the falls themselves. We’d already been told of the small municapl campsite to the reart of the main entrance (find it at GPS: S25 36.640 W54 28.620). With any luck we’d call it home for a night or two.

We’d made better time than we’d estimated and so with the camp site found behind the visitor centre car park we threw up the tent, and swapped our heavy, sweaty riding kit for shorts and T-shirt…ah bliss. OK, so we didn’t have time to go the the falls but the visitor centre would give us a chance to wet our appetites and allow us to plan for tomorrow. The distant roar of thousands of tumbling litres of water could be heard over the tree tops from the tent when the last of the tourist had left. Can’t wait.

Excited by the prospect ahead we eased our way through loose sections of wire that fenced in the car park and 5 minutes later and feeling pretty smug about our new found short cut we had joined the short queue to buy our tickets. More by luck than by plan we’d beaten most of the coach tour groups by an hour or so.

Stood amongst 20 or so bright and shiny new tourists we were waiting our turn to board the next bus, there was no chance of us getting on the one currenty being loaded. The stern looking lady in park warden khaki was waving frantically in our direction and was now getting impatient. 20 seconds later and we were being escorted ‘rather enthusiastically’ to the front of the line and politely but firmly beckoned onto the coach. The warden had mistaken our embroidered T-shirts as uniforms and presumed we were crew with the current group. Oh, this is going to be a good day I can feel it.

The coach weaved effortlessly through the narrow tarred road skirting the dark green foliage. The driver would repeat this route 20 times today as I’m sure he’d done for the last ‘so many’ years.

The hydraulic brakes hissed as we came to a firm stop and our Khaki clad host released the door and 40 or so eager tourists, rubbed shoulders and fought for door space until finally tumbling out, cameras unsheathed and ready.

The large arrowed sign left no doubt as to the route we were meant to take. The already deafening roar was a good clue as to the right direction. The newly concreted steps leads us down through lush green foliage and without warning the trees parted like theatre curtains and eye balls instantly strained to take in the view. 200 plus water falls that had merged to become a seemingly endless torrent of moving, cascading dropping water. My brain struggled to take in the vastness of the view in front of us. 3, maybe 4 levels of tumbling water each one slightly bigger than the one preceding it. This was impossible; it was as though someone had taken a fabled illustration from one of JR Tolkiens ‘Lord of the Rings’ trilogies and somehow made the fantasy proportions real.

We clicked our cameras lens’s effortlessly. The path continued and we followed. 500 metres later and we were ‘gawping’…again. What we’d thought were the falls were only a warm up…a tease…foreplay, for the real thing. Unreal.

The noise was somehow getting louder. With a curtain of water of monstrous proportions closing in from the distant left and right we were now staring into the heart of the falls. You know how some tourist attractions get given ‘big’ names that sound awesome but when faced with the attraction itself always leave you feeling somewhat cheated..conned? Well this isn’t one of them. The centre piece to the falls is…’The Devils Throat’. I’m sorry but…’fuck me’ it’s simply breathtaking, huge, scary…this waterfall would make Niagra feel impotent…you get the idea. Even for the most waterfall jaded tourist this is incredible.

A few minutes later and we were getting soaked by the heavily water laiden air, as we followed the other mesmerised giggling tourists out onto the gang-plank of a bridge that led to the edge of the ‘throat’. C’mon say Agghhh! How the hell did they build this bridge???

It didn’t matter a jot, the nationality or age of the people around us, everyone was wearing the same face…delighted bemusement. Fuji’s, Cannon’s and state of the art JVC and Panasonic’s were all getting a ‘drowning’. Dozens of people did their best to capture a single moment or a piece of video without soaking their prized electronic toy.

With photos taken we headed back up the track and out of the mist. We were buzzing. With the relentless Sun we’d be dry in minutes. Our little brains had been over-whelmed. Have a look at some of the photos…not one of them comes even close to doing these falls justice. It’s like trying to capture the Grand Canyon on camera: You’ll get some great photos but you’ll never truly be able to convey the size or majesty.