Tag Archives: waterfalls

You say Iguazu, I say Iguacu

The hottest rivalry between Argentinians and Brazilians doesn’t involve soccer or empenadas, it’s all about who offers the best view of Iguazu Falls. If you wanna get headbutted by an Argie, tell him the Brazilian side is better. If you want to get stabbed by a Brazilian and have your shoes stolen for drug money, tell him the Argentinian side is the best. Honestly, it makes all that trouble in the Middle East look like Friday Night Mud Wrestling at Doyalson-Wyee RSL. The two teams can’t even agree on the name – Iguazu on one side, Iguacu on the other.

After giving my verdict on the best place to view Victoria Falls, I’m here to settle the score on Iguazu. And the truth is that the Brazilian side, whilst offering far fewer viewpoints, is more spectacular. On the other hand, the Brazilian side is also busier than a $2 hooker, meaning the main lookouts are absolutely packed with chumps taking selfies. So, if you’ve only got one day to visit the falls, go to… the Argie side, but you won’t be disappointed by either.

The Brazilian side has a single track to walk along, offering unreal views straight across to the face of the falls. It gives a better idea of the immense length of Iguazu, and there are some truly awe-inspiring spots that seem too magical to be real. I wish I could’ve relaxed on a rock and just soaked in the view, but I was constantly pushed along by the selfie-obsessed mob, which kinda ruined the ambiance. It’s a bit like porking a really hot single mother and constantly having her kid butt in with, “Muuuum, can you make dinner?”

The end of the track is the definite highlight, with a boardwalk heading out towards The Devil’s Throat, as well as a series of platforms basking in the spray of some other massive fuck-off waterfall. The whole area is bloody grouse, and it’s safe to say that nobody who stands in the presence of those waterfalls will ever forget the experience. Yeah, yeah, it all sounds pretty similar to what’s on offer at the Argentinean side, and that’s because the tracks on each side never stray more than a few hundred metres from each other.

Adding a bit if personality to every visit to the Falls are the resident coatis – a breed of giant raccoon that loves chasing pricks around and trying to eat their lunch. These knobs are like that annoying bloke at the pub who keeps hanging around in the hope someone will leave half a schooner on the table while he goes for a shit.

There was a bit of excitement for the ladies when the members of Brazilian beefcake dancing troupe Power Muscle turned up, stripped off, and posed for a few photos in front of the falls. The boys were enjoying the attention until I removed my shirt and shorts, blasted Spaceman out of my phone, and started gyrating sensually. Suddenly Power Muscle were forgotten, and dozens of horny Latin American women did their best to eat me alive. I think it’s safe to say that Iguazu Falls wasn’t the wettest thing around that day!

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I Can’t Help Iguazu Falls-ing in Love With You

I’ve never met a waterfall I didn’t like – and trust me, I’ve seen a few over the years – so there was no chance I’d miss out on Iguazu Falls during my adventures through South America. Along with Africa’s Victoria Falls and North America’s Niagara Falls, Iguazu is part of the holy trinity of big, wet, splashy things, and it’s absolutely magnificent. If you don’t believe me, just have a squiz at the photos.

Iguazu is 82 metres tall, 2700 metres wide, has 275 drops and woos millions of tourists every year. And ladies, he’s single! The locals reckon the falls were created when some tart named Naipí was meant to marry a god named El Kevin, but she fucked off with some other bloke (probably a Maori) and so Kev cracked the dirts and sliced the river up. I don’t know how historically accurate that is, but it sounds good enough to me.

Half the places to view the falls are in Argentina and the other half are in Brazil, but it’s a short trip between the two sites so it’s possible to check out both. There are three main tracks through the Argie side of the falls, so it takes at least half a day to check everything out, and that’s if you don’t spend too much time stuffing around, oohing and ahhing at all there is to see. I headed out after a 26 hour bus trip from Montevideo and managed to see it all before beer o’clock, so it’s not that much effort.

Circuito Superior and Circuito Inferior both give a good idea of what the falls are all about, with some really pretty spots, but these walks never reach the spectacular highs found at Victoria Falls. The falls are, for the most part, a little too far away, with only the final fall of the Inferior stroll rising up above the boardwalk. Luckily, that’s not the best of it.

Garganta del Diablo, or The Devil’s Throat, is what it’s all about. After catching a fun little train through the jungle, a wooden boardwalk took me out over the gurgling Rio Iguazu, to a bottleneck where thousands of litres of water crashes down every minute. The brute power of nature is astonishing, and I just stood back in wide-eyed wonder as the spray smashed into me and the whole world sounded like it was being torn apart. If this is what the devil’s throat is like, perhaps someone should hand the poor bloke a Butter Menthol.

As has become tradition when I visit waterfalls, I befriended a couple of coloured gentlemen. Reuben and Bert, a gay couple for Suriname, are very much in love and enjoying their honeymoon together. Whilst marvelling at the spectacular views, Reuben declared that the only thing more powerful than the raging waters of Iguazu Falls is one of Bert’s kisses. I dunno about that, because my urge to chunder was pretty bloody powerful right about then.

The comparisons with Victoria Falls are obvious, but I have to say that, so far, Africa’s Smoke that Thunders reigns supreme over South America’s Big Water. Not only is it larger and more imposing (but enough about my penis!), but the tracks offer more variety and allow you to really get up close to the massive wall of water. Don’t get me wrong, Iguazu is superb and truly one of the most awesome things on the planet, but I did feel a tad let down after visiting Victoria Falls.

Going from Victoria Falls to Iguazu is like rooting a chick with big tits, but being slightly disappointed because you rooted a chick with bigger tits the night before. It doesn’t make rooting the chick with big tits a bad experience, but in a perfect world you’d have the big tits first, and the bigger tits second – or in this case, Iguazu for an entree and Victoria for the main course. Sorry, I got distracted by all those tits for a second.

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The Wetter the Better in Parque Nacional Huerquehue

After sleeping off my hangover, I woke up bright and early and ready to hike to the top of Volcan Villarrica, near Pucon in Chile. But when I skipped outside, the big bastard wasn’t there anymore. It was like he’d thrown up his massive molten hands during the night, said ‘Fuck it’ and just walked off, leaving a gaping hole where he’d once been (and no, I’m not going to mention my ex-girlfriend here). It seemed like magic, but it wasn’t – the weather was absolutely garbage, with rain pouring in and myst swirling around, meaning I could barely see the empenada in my hand. So I did what any sensible person would – I went for a six-hour hike in Parque Nacional Huerquehue.

The Parque is one of the most famous in South America, with hiking enthusiasts travelling from around the world to bask in the glory of its remote lakes and rugged cliffs. The views from the peaks are monumental when the weather is fine, but I wasn’t sure how much I’d see in a downpour. I needn’t have worried, because I was treated to a unique, ferocious, beautiful experience that was well worth almost drowning for.

Huerquehue is around an hour from Pucon, with buses available to deliver you right to the front door. It’s an interesting trip, with the ricketty old wagon climbing steep dirt tracks and descending into thick forests. Once at the park, there are two main hikes – the Los Lagos, which I took, and the more difficult San Sebastián, which was out of bounds because of the tempest. I was just about the only person stupid enough to be out there that day, so I really did feel like I was leaving civilisation behind and marching into somewhere truly isolated. I zipped up my jacked, checked my snorkel (Oi! Stop snickering!) and headed off into the unknown.

It’s a ravishing walk, first snaking through the thick Araucaria araucana, before racing along the edge of the picturesque Lago Chico. I would’ve like to sit down and soak in its glory, but I was almost getting knocked over by the wind and rain, so I bravely kept going. Of course, maybe I confused bravery with stupidity, because as the track started winding up the side of a cliff, I was slippin’ and slidin’ all over the place, and went closse to rolling all the way back down to the start.

There are a couple of majestic waterfalls during the climb that are truly spectacular. Nido de Águila and Trafulco come crashing out of the forest, with huge plumes of water spraying throughout the foliage. I felt tiny next to them – an experience similar to when I ended up between a couple of members of the West Indian cricket team at a urinal a few years back.

Once I made it to the top of the mountain – a height of more than 1000m, and around 8km from the entrance – I was presented with a delicious platter of lakes to explore. Laga Toro is an incredible place, and the horrible conditions did nothing to detract from how wonderful it is. In fact, when the wind picked up and the rain started scooting horizontally across the surface, I stood back in amazement at how raw and savage it all was. Sure, it would’ve been nice to see it on a bright sunny day, but I think the conditions allowed me to see the true ferocity of the Chilean wilderness.

With the weather getting worse by the minute and everything getting wetter than a fish’s arsehole, I made the decision to turn around and aim for the earlier bus home. It was at that point that I realised my phone was also on the wrong side of damp, which was disappointing in itself, but also led to one of the lower points of my life. I needed to find something to dry it with, so when I passed a filthy toilet block, I popped inside in the hope of finding some toilet paper. I was in luck, because there was some toilet paper – a whole bunch of filthy, shit-smeared scraps in a bin in the corner.

As I sifted through the bin to find a few pieces that weren’t completely encrusted with the remains of last night’s completo, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d wandered down the wrong track in life. But as I tidied up my phone with a chunk of paper that had ended its life deep within the sweaty arsecrack of an overweight Chilean bloke, I was certain that I hadn’t wandered down the wrong track when it came to Huerquehue. If you get a chance to go there, do it – and please leave a few squares of shit-free bog roll in the dunny, just in case.

How do you pronounce Huerquehue? I have no fucken clue!

The Great Victoria Falls (mas)Debate: Zim or Zam, yo?

Zimbabweans hate Zambians, and Zambians hate Zimbabweans, and it’s all because both countries claim to provide the best view of Victoria Falls. Having explored the Zam side yesterday, and visited the Zim side today, I can say that the best plan of attack is to see both sides in order to get the whole picture and experience as much of these incredible waterfalls as possible. But if you’re only in town for one day, I’d suggest heading to the Zambian side, because it offers more variety and a lot more monkeys. It’s a controversial opinion and I’ll probably be run out of Zimbabwe by Robert Mugabe for saying it, but there it is. Shit, if I keep up the helpful advice, Drunk and Jobless will start looking like a proper travel blog or something.

The big plus for the Zim side is that it offers a spectacular walkway that winds its way in front of the Falls for a kilometre or so, which gives a greater appreciation for the size of the thing than the Zam side. It’s a wet and wild trip, with the spray from the Falls cascading down in a torrential downpour reminiscent of a summer day in Melbourne. Don’t saunter through there with your winning Lotto ticket poking out of your back pocket is what I’m saying.

The Zim side has fewer walking trails, and doesn’t offer a way to walk to the bottom of the Falls. I was hoping to find a spot that allowed me to look up, rather than across, at the behemoth, because I think that would be even more incredible than what I experienced. In saying that, the views I had today were absolutely spectacular, filled with rainbows, and there’s truly no bad way to see this amazing place.

Of course, if you’re rich as fuck, there are helicopter and microlight flights over the Falls, which would be awesome. But if I had $US150 to burn on 12 minutes of excitement, it would involve a 19-year-old Russian who can put her ankles behind her head, and not some middle-aged helicopter pilot with half his lunch spilled down the front of his shirt.

Speaking of shirts, it’s funny how many of the older folk around here (and most of the tourists around Vic Falls kissed their peak mating days goodbye back when the Newtown Jets were still world beaters) get around in safari outfits. Khaki cargo pants, khaki shirts with heaps of pockets, and even those funny little khaki safari hats. I’d hate to break it to them that dressing like a character from Carry On Up The Jungle doesn’t make their 12-day package tour anymore wild.

Oh, and I met some more hilariously-named street vendors! Today I encountered Prince, Honest, Sunshine, Bart Simpson, Mr Excellent, Batman, Super Nintendo, Rainbow, Clint Eastwood, Emperor, Magic, Dude, Handsome Boy, Champagne, Happiness, The Rock, Supreme, Zimbabwe Warrior and Gary. That last bloke sure got shortchanged in the name game. They all wanted to sell me Zimbabwe bank notes (I got one with a Zoo mag years ago – and it’s the only decent thing that shithouse rag offered the whole time it existed), carved animals (the only sort of carved animal I’m interested in is a steak) or ‘the good stuff’ (drugs, apparently. Although if it’s as disappointing as when I offer girls ‘the good stuff’, I’m glad I passed).

The Smoke That Thunders

Over the years I’ve been fortunate enough to see some of the world’s most beautiful natural sites. Mount Fuji, the Great Barrier Reef, that Dutch chick I banged in Santorini last year. Nothing has come close the awe-inspiring power and majesty of Victoria Falls, a 108m-high, 1708m-wide wonder that straddles the Zimbabwean/Zambian border. This epic work of art is twice the height and nearly double the width of Niagara Falls and needs to be seen to be believed, and as I write this I’m still buzzing from how awesome it is.

I wasn’t enraptured by the town of Victoria Falls when I first got here, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, it’s crawling with hawkers and beggars, selling everything from carved elephants to hard drugs, and asking for everything from a dollar to my shoes. I don’t know if they expect me to strut out of here barefooted, but I’ve been surprised by how many dudes have tried to buy the clothes I’m wearing. Shit, after five weeks of travelling I’m surprised my clobber hasn’t swaggered off by itself.

A typical wander to the corner shop to buy a beer sounds something like this;
“Hi, I’m Cowboy! Want a wooden giraffe?”
“Hello, my name is Delicious! How about buy a billion dollar note off me?”
“Good day my friend, I am Christopher Columbus! Would you like some black tar heroin?”
“How’s it going, I’m Peanut! How about a hat?”
“Yo, brother, they call me King Reginald! I will sing you a song!”
“Spectemur Agendo, I’m Percy Pringle. You want sex?”

The other thing that surprised me is that the Falls themselves, while extremely close to the town, are nowhere to be seen. They’re big enough that I expected to be able to see them while walking down the street, but the only viewing points are locked away in surprisingly expensive national parks. I can say without a shadow of doubt, however, that it’s absolutely worth handing over $US30 to bask in the glory of that torrent of water. It’s a place that can never be forgotten.

I visited the Zambian side of the Falls first (that’s country 48, for those counting at home), and the compact national park that straddles the legendary Zambezi River offers a number of walking trails and some epic views of what the locals know as Mosi-oa-Tunya – The Smoke That Thunders. I first plunged down the cliff towards a spot known as The Boiling Pot, which is at the bottom of the waterfall and looks out over an angry whirlpool of foaming water. I climbed through beautiful rainforest before emerging into a frighteningly loud couldron where water sprays in every direction and nature takes a backseat to no one.

Baboons run rampant in the park, fighting with each other, fucking, wanking, screaming, falling over, and occasionally attacking tourists who have a spare jam sandwich in their backpack. I watched those hairy little bastards mucking around for ages, and laughed my dick off every time one of them did something stupid. Come for the Falls, stay for the monkeys as far as I’m concerned.

The most impressive walk in the park crosses right in front of the Falls, taking in a suspension bridge that leads out to an island that seems suspended in the sky. It’s a wet walk, with the spray from the Falls soaking everyone who dares to wander out there. Trundling out there is like venturing into a storm cloud, with fierce winds and unexpected downpours smashing through. The view makes braving the atrocious conditions more than worth it, though.

The final track skirts along the top of the Falls, and offers a more tranquil view of the big girl. It’s incredibly pretty up there, and the constant sound of the water churning matched with my hangover meant that I soon fell asleep by the riverbank. When I woke up the sun was hovering above the gurgling waters, and I was treated to a brilliant sunset above one of the most amazing places on the planet. Sure, Victoria Falls might be touristic and awash with the disappointments that come with that, but the Falls themselves are absolutely astonishing. Two thumbs up from me!

The Kingdom in the Sky

The day starts early in Semonkong, with doneys and goats and sheep and people bubbling out into what passes for streets as soon as the sun peeks over the mountains. I was up at sparrow’s to catch the sunrise, then made the most of my early start by heading out into the wilderness to explore the fascinating country of Lesotho. The main attraction around here is the Maletsunyane Falls, so with a spring in my step I headed out in that vague direction, dodging animals as I went.

The villages in Lesotho are truly fascinating, incredibly poor, and from a different world. They have no electricity, running water, or roads, and are little more than a random sprinkling of huts amongst the hills. I didn’t see too many kids running around with the fancy new Nintendo Switch in their hands, that’s for sure. Everyone’s very pleasant here, and people waved and did their best to say hello as I went past. The walking is tough at such an altitude, though, and I was huffing and puffing like a donut-muncher before long.

I eventually made it to the Falls, and they proved to be as spectacular as I’d hoped. The viewing area (an open cliff, really – there are no fences or signs to be found) is a long way from the waterfall, but the size of the big, wet thing is still immensely impressive. It’s not a wide, open waterfall like Niagra or the aftermath of a huge night on the VBs, but the height of it is frightening. I’ve seen a lot of awesome natural spectacles, and Maletsunyane Falls is up with the best of ’em.

With all day to walk, I crossed wide, open plains and climbed rocky outcrops. I jumped rivers and pushed through thick thatches of grass that sound like rain falling whenever the wind blows. This land is almost untouched by modern society, and that’s part of the beauty. I’ve never been anywhere so remote.

I was strutting along, minding my own business and looking cool, when a couple of young lasses came running over and struck up a convo. They didn’t speak much English, and surprisingly enough I’m not fluent in Lesothonese, so we didn’t delve into an in-depth discussion of Russian politics or anything like that, instead sticking with basic pleasantries.
“I like your face,” one of them struggled to say.
“I like your muscles,” the other almost said. Things went on like this for a while, and I was feeling on top of the world (and being in Lesotho, I guess I was) until the conversation took a disturbing turn.

“I like your penis,” yelled one of the girls, and a balaclava-clad dude on a horse turned around to give me a filthy look. I hoped it was a mistake, but then her mate threw her arms in the air and yelled, “I like your penis, too!”
Now the bar at my lodge tossed me out at 8pm last night, so I was pretty sure I didn’t get smashed and start chucking it around at the locals, but the situation still worried me. If the locals thought I’d been porking their sheilas they might come after me with spears or, even worse, make me marry the girls. I don’t thrive in the cold, so I was reasonably concerned.

I could see a few horsemen sharpening sticks and glaring at me, so I waited until the girls were distracted by something shiny and dived into a bush. I thought it was the perfect place to hide until I realised it was a rare Condom Tree. In a country where half the people are rancid with AIDS, I was a little concerned that I’d end my trip to Africa looking like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia, but I tested the tree’s fruit and it tasted fine. Thumbs up!

I ended the day by almost agreeing to write the autobiography of some nutter named Rudy who I met in the bar. Richard Branson will be signing my cheques personally, apparently. It’s a great story that ended with me falling into a drain, but I think Rudy deserves his own entry!

Hog Wild! Hogsback is the best place you’ve never heard of!

I’ve been told that Hogsback draws people to it, that the mountain has a soul and personality of its own, and that certainly seems to be the case. A South African girl I met told me to come to this tiny village in the Eastern Cape hills, and I’m so glad I followed her advice. This place is as unique as its name suggests, incredibly strange, and spectacularly beautiful. It’s odd in the best way possible.

Hogsback is well off the tourist trail and is home to a weird assortment of artists, hippies and burnouts. A lot of people who live here never intended to stay, and can’t really explain why they can’t leave. It doesn’t feel or look like the rest of South Africa, or anywhere else in the world. People here believe in fairies and drink hallucinogenic cactuses. Cows wander the streets. Homemade statues decorate the town. Restaurants and bars are hidden away between the trees.

There are some incredible walking trails around here, winding through the surreal landscape and racing past delightful waterfalls. The trees are full of monkeys, everything is green and lush, and there’s a special peacefulness that is impossible to resist. I’ve spent the past few days exploring this wonderful place, and there are still so many trails to scramble along and mountains to climb.

Of course, a man can’t exist on hiking alone, so it’s a good thing that Hogsback provides some of the finest drinking I’ve ever encountered. My hostel is home to a really great bar with cheap beer, awesome company,  and seemingly endless free gin shots. I’ve been drunk or hungover since I got here, which has made my journeys into the bush even stranger.

Hogsback is also one of those places where lots of 19-year-old sheilas come to ‘find themselves’, meaning females massively outnumber males here. The first night I shared my dorm with seven pretty, blonde American teenagers exploring the big, wide world for the first time. And so, after drinking heavily at the bar for six hours, I did what any redblooded male would – I went in there, tripped over a hair straightener, banged my head on the floor, failed spectacularly to climb into my bunk, fell out of bed, then passed out in the corner. It’s safe to say that’s not the sort of spiritual awakening those girls came to Hogsback for.

The triumphant return of The Naked Luchador

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I’ve been as sick as the proverbial dog since getting back from Sri Lanka (who’d think that three months of drinking and making sexies with women of ill repute would have such a negative impact on my health?), so I decided to celebrate my first healthy day in three weeks by going bush. I packed my tent and a box of goon and rolled out to Watagans National Park, between Gosford and Newcastle, pitching my tent at the beautiful Gap Creek camp ground.

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It’s a lovely little place to spend a night, and only 15 minutes from the Pacific Highway, so it’s the perfect place to stop if you’re heading north and don’t want to pay for a night’s accommodation. Its location means that you might have to share the place with other visitors… or maybe just a wallaby! This fella bounded over to say g’day and pose for a photo. Champion.

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There’s a waterfall pretty close to the camp ground, and I love running water, so I trotted over to see it. The walk is about a kilometre, and climbs through beautiful rainforest. I’ve been around the world, but nothing is as awe-inspiring as the Australian wilderness (alright, there have been a few sheilas who have come close). With giant palms and swinging vines, it’s like travelling millions of years into the past, and is far removed from the noise and hassle of the city. I expected a triceratops to wander over, but it didn’t happen.

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The waterfall itself was as dry as a lesbo at a Manpower show and not nearly as impressive as the falls I saw in Croatia, but the shadowy canyon was really pretty. I enjoyed just hanging out by the water, listening to my favourite Vanilla Ice CD and dancing. With steep cliffs on three sides, it felt like I was sinking to the centre of the earth, which was really cool.

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With the sun setting I headed back to camp and whipped out my cock wine cask and got stuck in. As the light dwindled the bush truly came to life, with all sorts of bird and animal calls tearing through the night. I made myself some delicious burgers, and when I was finished those I went for a much needed slash. Unfortunately, I tripped and fell into the fire, where I was burnt to death.

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After a remarkable recovery I woke up the next morning to the sound of something eating noisily outside my tent, and assumed it was a possum or a turkey munching on my leftovers. I crawled out of bed and was surprised and amazed to find my old mate The Naked Luchador hanging out under a tree, casually eating a tin of baked beans. When he saw me he gave me a thumbs-up and went back to munching his delicious breakfast.

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While I didn’t get much out of The Naked Luchador the last time I met him, he was more talkative this time. As he shovelled the beans into the mouth-hole of his mask, he opened up about his life and loves, hopes and dreams.
“I was forced to leave Tijuana by a dangerous dug cartel,” the deranged pervert wept, wiping bean juice from his chest. “In Mexico, I was hero to millions. They chant my name in the street, women throw theyself at me, but I have only one love; a beautiful woman name Charlene.

“Charlene was most famous donkey prostitute in Mexico. Big, brown eyes, fat bottom, lips made for sucking on penis. We were in love, and planned to leave Mexico forever as soon as I win major wrestling championship belt. I was preparing for match against the champion, man named Ultimo Doodle, when drug lord come to me and say they he has kidnapped Charlene. I only can have her back if I lose match to Ultimo Doodle. It very hard decision but…”

At that point The Naked Luchador was startled by a butterfly, and catwheeled off into the bush without finishing his incredible story. Oh well, maybe I’ll run into him next time I go camping…

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I went chasing waterfalls

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Another day, another amazing place to visit. Well, I guess I’ve gotta even out all those days I’ve spent in cesspits like Huddersfield and Jakarta. Today I went for a stroll around the Plitvice Lakes in Croatia, and they put on a bloody good show for me, and pretty much made yesterday’s epic 10-hour, three-bus journey from Bled worthwhile.

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Plitvice is in the midle of nowhere, and the only reason anyone would ever come here is to visit the National Park. And what a park it is! As soon as I swaggered through the front gate, flashing smiles at pretty girls and flexing my muscles, I was greeted by a series of gigantic waterfalls, emptying out into a bright blue lake. It made the 110 Croatian Carona (that’s something like 15 Euro Spacebux) asking price feel like less of a rip off.

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Owning it

I was a bit pissed off I bought a ticket to get into the place, actually, because I didn’t need one to get into the park and nobody checked if I had one. So there’s a travel tip – just walk into the bloody place and spend the money you saved on good Croatian beer and bad Croatian prostitutes!

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More trees than a… uh, tree farm?

The Pensioner Patrol was out in force again, with hundreds of the wrinkly-faced codgers shambling about, complaining that it was too cold and trying to take photos with their television remote controls. Fortunately, most visiotrs to the park check out the first few waterfalls and then catch a ferry to the southern end to see the rest. That means that the delightful walk along the lake between them is completely deserted – and provides half an hour or so of peace and quiet from the crowds.

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“Have you heard they have the internet on computers these days?”

While the waterfalls at the top of the park are pretty cool, it’s the wet bastards at the bottom who are the real stars of the show. While not as big as the first ones I saw (and who says size matters? Well, most of my ex-girlfriends, but that’s a story for another day), the way the track winds between dozens of waterfalls makes it an awe-inspiring sight.

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Splish splash, I was kissing your ash

Wooden walkways weedle through the gorge, while the clearest water you’ve ever seen cascades from the heavens. The sound of the torrents is all-empassing, with water tumbling down from every direction. It might sound weird, but it  doesn’t really look natural – the whole things is so perfectly set out that it looks like a movie set, or a theme park attraction.

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Everyone on this boat is gay

One bloke who was really enjoying himself was Nagasaki, a Japanese fella who is over here while taking a break from producing microchips for Toshiba. Actually, I dunno if any of that’s true, but let’s run with it. Anyway, Nagasaki was really enjoying taking photos, filling up 32gb cards by the minute, capturing every waterfall from every angle. He didn’t want anyone getting in the way of his shots, though, and kept yelling at people to get out of the way so he could take another photo.

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Nagasaki causing trouble

Nagasaki was trying to take his 45th shot of the same waterfall when a group of pensioners in brightly-coloured shirts got in the way. He started yelling at them to move, when one of the fogies took off his hate and stormed up to him.
“You’re asking me to move?” he yelled in an American accent.
“I take photo, you in way,” replied Nagasaki.
“I thought I killed you in ‘Nam!” spat the codger, before sticking out his tongue and waving his hands around in front of Nagasaki’s camera.

Oh, and I saw this stupid fucking lizard thing, which kept trying to climb up a small hill before tumbling down! It was like me trying to do anything after having 18 beers and a pizza.

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Dumbarse!

The whole place was so beaut that I shot about a thousand photos, and then promptly kicked my camera off a cliff while trying to take a photo of myself in front of a waterfall. But don’t worry, I won’t be illustrating furture blog posts with doodles I made on napkins, because I’ve got a back-up camera (and travel insurance – fuck yeah!).

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Wetter than Rebel Wilson on a treadmill

Tomorrow I’m heading to the dream tourist destination of Sarajevo. Fucked if I know why I’m going there, I booked it when I was drunk. Honestly, I could be lying on a beach somewhere, and choosing to go to some place where I’ll probably be shot and eaten. If you don’t hear from me again, I hope I at least don’t taste nice.

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Big Papi know where it is!