The poet Elizabeth Bishop wrote of South American waterfalls that spill over the sides of mountaintops ‘in soft slow motion’, and I was reminded of her lines on the Colombian Pacific coast where seemingly every bay has a wonderful waterfall tumbling down into it.
As there are no roads to speak of, the only way to see something of the jungle is to advance up streams from the sea until you reach one of these waterfalls – with the great advantage that there is usually a rock pool to swim in when you get there. And because of the press of vegetation on the banks, you’re walking in the water, not beside it – perfect for crocs, the only shoes I chose to bring on the basis that if Ed Stafford could get down the whole Amazon from source to sea in a pair, they were good enough for me; although pleased also that my children weren’t around to comment on what they consider a grievous fashion mistake.
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