Cascada Waskayacu
We’re the only ones here apart from the shack. The witch’s house from Hansel and Gretel. Concrete gingerbread. Corrugated wafer iron roof. A battered ute outside in place of a broomstick.
Paradise is never free. There’s a toll to pass this way. But no one answers our call so we push open the gate that leads into the jungle.
An earthen track through a sugar cane tunnel. Insects hum to the sound of our footsteps. Further in we’re greeted by the deep, throaty squawks of parrots.
As we come to the end of the tunnel, the jungle grows brighter. Sunlight breaks through the canopy and spotlights my sandals. Everything is green, as if someone’s put a filter over our day.
Fluorescent heart-shaped leaves brush my ankles as I breathe in the musky scent of last night’s rain. Up ahead, a giant butterfly with electric blue wings crosses our path and flickers between the trees.
We continue in a trance-like state, pausing every now and again to strain our ears. But la cascada remains elusive. The sign said ten minutes, but the sun’s already high in the sky.
A murmur ahead. But it’s just a tiny stream seeping over the trail. We tiptoe across it by way of a fallen log. When it’s my turn, the rotten wood shifts beneath my feet. Globules of sweat gather on the backs of my knees, but even as my heart beats faster, my cheeks lift into an irrepressible smile.
Back on dry land, we carry on, dodging mud and mosquitos. At the next turn — the muted sound of pounding water.
Three more corners and we nearly tumble into the water. A fallen tree makes a triangular frame across the pool. And in the centre, la cascada. A long, thin stream of water tumbling gracefully down the rockface. A symphony of rainy nights in the Amazon.
Tossing our clothes on the rocks, we slip into the glassy water. Sweat washes away, but still I keep submerging my head. My hair floats around me like water weeds. But every time I resurface this world’s still here. I float on my back, limbs splayed wide.
A moment later, I flip over, giggling explosively. Glancing downwards, a tiny fish mouth is tickling my toe. I rise to my feet and see the pool is full of them, almost as transparent as the water. We keep each other company for a while until goosebumps start to surface on my arms.
Standing barefoot on a boulder, I stare down to where the river bends tantalisingly out of sight. What’s around the next curve? It’s the same question I’d often pondered with my brother at the swimming holes of our childhood. Those long Sunday afternoons floating on tyres and building dams while Dad made a sunbed between the rocks.
Water droplets glisten on my arms as the late-morning sun throws an invisible towel across my shoulders.
We stay a little longer, watching the fish and drinking in the sun until we can’t put it off any longer. There’s a bus waiting for us back in town.
We dress slowly, our clothes somehow lighter.
Before we leave the grotto, I turn back to gaze at the river. The butterfly’s here again, flitting over the fall. Impossibly huge like the bread-and-butterflies that Alice finds in Wonderland. I reach for my camera, but even before I’ve opened my bag it’s gone — vanished with the curve in the river.
***
Notes:
This piece of auto-fiction was inspired by a trip to Ecuador with my husband in March 2020. A week after we visited Waskayacu Waterfall, the country went into lockdown.
Photos and text by Linda Alley © 2020.
