Honduras: A Most Dangerous Day by Amelia Billingsley
The rocks did not seem to be rocks. The volcanic formations were indeed like brain coral but not burned black. They were rather colorless, having centuries of falling water wash away their very souls. Brown algae covered them while pools of water filled the holes of their surface. Everything lay flattened by the cascade of hundreds of gallons of water constantly battering their surface. We walked gingerly, kneeling to touch their surfaces, placing our feet with our eyes.
The mist from the falls was more than expected. With turned heads, the four of us followed Rafael and tried to look into his smiling face between what had now become rain drops. Down into crevices and back up to pinnacles of slick rock just large enough for one foot to land solid leaving a partial purchase for the other. A fifth one came through the mist. We did not know the Belgian girl, dressed totally wrong ... long jeans, full foot coverings, struggling with a plastic headband to keep it from the drenching water.
It had been described as a “walk behind the falls”. It was a reality a walk in the powerful cascade. In single file, we held hands ... except for the stranger who did not seem to comprehend the need to find safety in unity. “You must hold the one behind you.” It was not the language barrier but the experience barrier that broke the chain.
Rafael led us forward, over the rocky slippery terrain, into the water chest high, pointing us to underwater rocks that would lift us to the next soaking downpour. At last a spot behind the draperies of water. We crowded into the tiny space and followed his directions to “breath through the mouth”, rest a minute here. And we mistakenly questioned the $5 we were paying him to lead us.
“Sit down, slide into the water, put your foot here, come to the rock and climb here.” Thought was lost and it became a matter of following his direction. “Watch your head.” “Look up and see the wall of water falling on you.” A second opening appears, smaller than the last and we gasp a little more to fill our lungs and let some calm re-enter our bodies. Huddled in a tiny crevice, we watch hundreds of gallons of water rush before us. Flattened against the moss covered rocks behind us, we can see nothing in front but a vertical river. Rafael's price was not so bad after all.
But, of course, there is a farther place if we want to go on but we must go there in twos. Dumbly we nod “yes” with sparkling eyes. We have reached the temporary insanity of adrenalin junkies, drunk with excitement. Two of us are again plunged into the river up to our chests while the others huddle behind the cascade, wondering if we will really return.
We rise again onto a tiny rock ledge, gasping for breath. Never have I been so clean, scrubbed by a downpour of water that stings and pushed the flesh against ones bones. We laugh as Rafael yells into the mass of water in glee ... or is he signaling to those below the falls that we are safe. There is a cave, a tiny one. Behind the thousands of gallons of water, there is a tiny dry cave. It is enough to stick our heads in to see dark nothingness, not enough room for our entire bodies. At this far end of our journey, I ask “Do we return the same path we came?” He assures me it is so and then asks his burning question, “How old are you?” He responds to my reply with delight. “You are very strong, a very brave woman.” I have a feeling I may be his record antiquity for this adventure.
We step back into the river of water and lose all sense of direction or power of decision in the quest for survival. The water beats on us and our heads search for openings to draw breath into open mouths. It occurs to me that Rafael carries no “throw bag” or rope. We have no helmets. If our hands lose grip, we will be swept into a rocky chasm and carried crashing through the water flow to God knows where. Or, perhaps we will simply be plunged into one of a multitude of powerful hydraulics that surround us where our bodies will be beaten continuously against the submerged boulders that partially block the sun. At last the hand we have trusted pulls us upward to stand on a rock dome and reach for the waiting hand of a fellow idiot. We have passed into semi-dryness again and scream words of delight and awe at one another against the roar of the beating water. We wait for Rafael to take the others to the far place and eventually reunite us.
Danger is so relative. The same rocks we climbed over in terror to get into the water fall seem as nothing as we return. We have been to the place of extreme danger. This is almost safety. Rafael unlocks the gate that keeps the casual tourist away from our path of danger and delivers us to the misty pathway that will take us away from the falls. We have no regret at paying the $5 fee. He had taken us to the brink of death and brought us back safe.
