{WP #942 The City Behind the Waterfall}

My backpack weighed only eight pounds, but it may as well have been eighty. The mosquitoes were literally eating me alive, and I wondered how effective my malaria shots were if the swarm sucked all my blood and I had to have a transfusion from a native who had NOT had the recommended rounds of anti-malarial antibodies? Something else to worry about. Writing for National Geographic had been a dream of mine since I was old enough to look at the pictures, and I knew I was beyond fortunate to have this experience, but the tribesman scout that I had been assigned to was a brutal hiker and I was dog tired.

I missed my dog, speaking of dogs. I missed chili dogs from street vendors in Chicago. I missed going to the movies to see a chick flick. I missed my beautiful canary yellow Volkswagon Beetle. I missed getting all the electricity I needed from a wall socket. I missed makeup and uncomfortably high heels, and most especially, I missed my books.

I collapsed on a rock covered with vines. I didn’t have the energy to look for snakes. All I’d seen were lizards lately, anyway. They liked lounging on my tent. My Bushman stopped his whacking and faced me with the universal quizzical “How can she be tired already? Wimpy girl” look. I feel sure that if he knew how to roll his eyes, he would have. Or if he’d had a watch to tap, maybe that. As it was he looked up, maybe to check the weather, but giving me another view of the porcupine quill through his nose.

He snorted and vaguely gestured with his arm. In response, I chugged water and slowly brought my legs under me to stand. I was dirty and itchy and exhausted. We’d hiked ten hours to our campsite from the village the day before, and were on our sixth hour today into the jungle. I had been assured there was a waterfall of enormous beauty nestled in this region, and this particular tribe guarded its secret.

So we trudged on, wet leaves smacking me in the face, going ankle deep in soggy moss every 100 yards or so. My wool socks were most definitely causing blisters but I knew Patoi Pete here wasn’t about to let me stop long enough to change them. I was panting and thinking how this looked like Jurassic World when I thought I heard rushing water. I paused and I could feel the vibration from the pounding of millions of gallons of water plummeting off a rock ledge. I smiled with relief and charged after my guide. You never know, following these guys into the jungle. I’m sure Nat Geo doesn’t share everything they know…or don’t know. The key is to develop a rapport, and you just have to trust your gut. These secluded tribes have no concept of mind games or blackmail, so what you see is what you get. Sometimes it’s endearing; sometimes it’s terrifying.

This time it paid off and I wanted to throw my arms around his beaded neck. If I had carried a bottle of Scotch and a cigar, we would have shared the moment. But all I could do was stare in bewilderment and wonder. My guide lunged into the pool and started to cross the glassy water. He slapped it at me, indicating I should follow. I was busy taking shots and was trying to capture the moment in my mind. The smell of ions in the air, like after a thunderstorm. The mist at the base of the falls. The roar, almost deafening at this range. Everything was quivering, including my stomach. I unlaced my boots and peeled off my socks and left my camera next to them as I stepped in. The water was deceptively cold, and I tried to stop my teeth from chattering as I followed my fearless leader over to the veil. He swam under and I followed, soaking every last inch of my camo tank top.

We emerged at a glass wall.

I blinked, and blinked again. This couldn’t be. I was in a third world country. They barely had pottery, let alone glass. He motioned me up some granite stairs. This couldn’t be right. When we got to the top, I looked back and the waterfall was still there, but it looked like a river of diamonds. The sparkle hurt my eyes.

We passed through a curtain of sapphire beads and the smell of cotton candy enveloped me.

Was it a circus? Was it Las Vegas? It was too clean to be New Orleans and I had never been to Dubai but it felt so ritzy it had to be somewhere. It wasn’t just I had crossed behind a waterfall, I felt that I had changed dimensions, centuries, and location.

A champagne fountain bubbled to my right. Elegant people wearing elegant clothes holding elegant drinks gazed at art adorning the glittering walls. It was too much. The last thing I remember seeing was a Bengal tiger being fed white mice from a gilt cage by a small girl with golden hair. The music swirled around me. Beethoven? Chopin? I was never what you would call cultured.

I woke up in a straight jacket in New York City. The paperwork in front of me read “Hospital for the Insane of NatGeo”. I had the impression of being well above the city, even though there were no windows.

I took one each of the assortment of pills lined in front of me and laid back on a pale pink pillow. I dreamt of climbing a tree.