Outside Banos sits the Devil´s Cauldron.
We hired bikes and cycled through the square and onto the road out of town. Closer inspection would have been wise as the buckled wheels wobbled and the brakes squeaked but did little to slow us down on the hill that Banos sits on.
We passed roadside barbeques roasting the local favourite - Guinea Pig - and sped through clouds of smoke that the fatty skin produces.
Dogs barked at us as we entered their territory and a few tried to bite the tires as we raced away from them. A heel to the head soon saw them off and they retired to bark some more as we disappeared around the next bend.
The road was not pretty and the highway out of Banos winds through a series of ribbon developments made up of a few swanky villas set back from the road but mostly breeze-block single storey construction with bars on windows and reinforced steel rods protruding from the roof - to fend of the taxman who can only collect on completed buildings.
The purpose of the ride was not to see the local man made architecture but rather the nature's work.
Banos sits at the top of a hill and a ravine snakes away from it, collecting the tributaries that flow down from the surrounding mountains. The small river that flowed passed La Casa Verde, the beautiful Kiwi run hostel that we stayed in, had grown to a raging torrent a few short miles down the incline.
We stopped at the first waterfall after thirty minutes of cruising down the hills, with intermittent foot dragging to scrub off the excess speed that we were accumulating.
A brightly painted block built shed sat on the cliff edge and from it emanated a deep roar from an old, unloved deisel engine. From the shed strung wire cables that stretched across the valley to the waterfall that was a thousand metres away. A small yellow cable car inched across the ravine in the distance and the cries of excited tourists echoed across the valley.
We watched as they disappeared into the distance and again as they returned to the shed, smiles beaming from their faces as they approached.
The waterfall continued impassively in the distance, spilling its water 70m down the distant rock face, pooling at the bottom and continuing on its way, now part of the larger river.
A few minutes further down the track, zip-liners launched from a raised platform and screamed down the valley until their voices were lost in the sound of the surging water below us.
Further still we passed through road tunnels and flattened ourselves to the wall as the happy-pick up trucks took whooping day trippers down the ravine, accompanied by hooting horns, pumping reggae and flashing lights. In the tunnel the sensation was over whelming as the sound and light refelected in every direction but away from us.
Finally we reached the Cauldron, so called because the Devil´s face is visible in the rock from several angles.
We parked the bikes at the cliff top cafe and locked them to the post conveniently marked 'Bike Lock'. What the sign unhelpfully failed to mention was the 'Live Wire' that was also attached to the post.
Mains current surged through me as I fed the chain around the back wheels and after I instinctively pulled my tingling hand away, my jellied legs gave way and I sat in a heap of adrenalin and jangling nerves.
Remonstrating at the till with the cafe owner produced the typical South American shrug and rather than bang my head against a brick wall we got on with the business of the Cauldron.
A truck had been cemented to the top of the cliff, minus the wheels, cab and wagon. The engine and chassis sat, attached by a large winding wheel, to the cannibalised vehicle's drive shaft which lifted and lowered a ricketty cable car to the valley floor, 750m away.
We paid a dollar each and climbed into the ramshackle contraption before a twelve year old fired up the truck engine, slipped the engine into first gear and pumped the throttle as he lifted the clutch, all the while sitting in the seat that used to have a cab around it. We held our breath as the car surged away from the concrete docking station while the owner's Alsation craned its neck around the parapit to watch us recede into the distance.
A two thousand stomach churning feet later, the car - made of periodic peices of tubular steel welded into the shape of an elongated shopping cart - crashed into the restraining ropes at the far end, and after releasing ourselves from our impromptu restraints, we hopped over the gate that was stuck, paid another dollar to cross the rope bridge over the river and edged closer to the Cauldron.
Indiana Jones would have been satisfied with the wild oscillations of the bridge as we crossed and, mightily relieved we stepped onto solid ground at the other side to pay a further dollar to enter the grounds into which the waterfall crashes to river level.
Ignoring the kitsch efforts of the owners to spoil the natural wonder of the scene, we by passed the plastic signs, avoided the rough stone built pond fed by white drain pipes, nipped through the superfluous arch and hiked 80m to the falls.
Above us, perhaps 100m, the river is split before the drop by a giant rock protrusion. As a result, two falls crash to earth in an explosion of water vapour that alone would justify the image of a boiling cauldron. At 30m distant we were wet and grinning. At 10m the rocks were fiendishly slippery and it was all we could do to stay upright.
Between the falls was literally a breath taking experience.
The water crashed down with the force of falling rocks. The plunge pool seethed and boiled as a hundred fire hydrants were discharged into it at the same time. The spume roared into my face and the wind generated by the falling water made me lean to keep my balance.
The noise was incredible.
I was grinning so much that I swallowed mouthfuls of sweet tasting water and it was only later that it occurred to me that a dead sheep a few miles upstream could see me laid up for a week.
Suddenly the prevailling wind relented and the direction of the falls moved two metres to the right. Instead of crashing into the plunge pool, the water hammered into a large flat stone just to my left. It dawned on me in an instant that from a safe distance, the waterfall looked exciting, but fundamentally benign.
The water now sounded like an angry Fury hurling boulders down the ravine and the prospect of wading into the plunge pool under the falling water seemed absurd.
I retreated in a hurry, slipping and sliding on the algae covered rocks, and at a safe distance, turned to marvel at the only waterfall I have seen that I could get beneath and still be frightened by.
We crossed the bridge again but it no longer thrilled us.
We rode the cable car to the top but it seemed a pedestrian experience.
We we picked up by a lorry that was passing and ferried 20km back to Banos, for another dollar.
Every night since, I have fallen asleep to the memory of those moments in the Devil's Cauldron.
We hired bikes and cycled through the square and onto the road out of town. Closer inspection would have been wise as the buckled wheels wobbled and the brakes squeaked but did little to slow us down on the hill that Banos sits on.
We passed roadside barbeques roasting the local favourite - Guinea Pig - and sped through clouds of smoke that the fatty skin produces.
Dogs barked at us as we entered their territory and a few tried to bite the tires as we raced away from them. A heel to the head soon saw them off and they retired to bark some more as we disappeared around the next bend.
The road was not pretty and the highway out of Banos winds through a series of ribbon developments made up of a few swanky villas set back from the road but mostly breeze-block single storey construction with bars on windows and reinforced steel rods protruding from the roof - to fend of the taxman who can only collect on completed buildings.
The purpose of the ride was not to see the local man made architecture but rather the nature's work.
Banos sits at the top of a hill and a ravine snakes away from it, collecting the tributaries that flow down from the surrounding mountains. The small river that flowed passed La Casa Verde, the beautiful Kiwi run hostel that we stayed in, had grown to a raging torrent a few short miles down the incline.
We stopped at the first waterfall after thirty minutes of cruising down the hills, with intermittent foot dragging to scrub off the excess speed that we were accumulating.
A brightly painted block built shed sat on the cliff edge and from it emanated a deep roar from an old, unloved deisel engine. From the shed strung wire cables that stretched across the valley to the waterfall that was a thousand metres away. A small yellow cable car inched across the ravine in the distance and the cries of excited tourists echoed across the valley.
We watched as they disappeared into the distance and again as they returned to the shed, smiles beaming from their faces as they approached.
The waterfall continued impassively in the distance, spilling its water 70m down the distant rock face, pooling at the bottom and continuing on its way, now part of the larger river.
A few minutes further down the track, zip-liners launched from a raised platform and screamed down the valley until their voices were lost in the sound of the surging water below us.
Further still we passed through road tunnels and flattened ourselves to the wall as the happy-pick up trucks took whooping day trippers down the ravine, accompanied by hooting horns, pumping reggae and flashing lights. In the tunnel the sensation was over whelming as the sound and light refelected in every direction but away from us.
Finally we reached the Cauldron, so called because the Devil´s face is visible in the rock from several angles.
We parked the bikes at the cliff top cafe and locked them to the post conveniently marked 'Bike Lock'. What the sign unhelpfully failed to mention was the 'Live Wire' that was also attached to the post.
Mains current surged through me as I fed the chain around the back wheels and after I instinctively pulled my tingling hand away, my jellied legs gave way and I sat in a heap of adrenalin and jangling nerves.
Remonstrating at the till with the cafe owner produced the typical South American shrug and rather than bang my head against a brick wall we got on with the business of the Cauldron.
A truck had been cemented to the top of the cliff, minus the wheels, cab and wagon. The engine and chassis sat, attached by a large winding wheel, to the cannibalised vehicle's drive shaft which lifted and lowered a ricketty cable car to the valley floor, 750m away.
We paid a dollar each and climbed into the ramshackle contraption before a twelve year old fired up the truck engine, slipped the engine into first gear and pumped the throttle as he lifted the clutch, all the while sitting in the seat that used to have a cab around it. We held our breath as the car surged away from the concrete docking station while the owner's Alsation craned its neck around the parapit to watch us recede into the distance.
A two thousand stomach churning feet later, the car - made of periodic peices of tubular steel welded into the shape of an elongated shopping cart - crashed into the restraining ropes at the far end, and after releasing ourselves from our impromptu restraints, we hopped over the gate that was stuck, paid another dollar to cross the rope bridge over the river and edged closer to the Cauldron.
Indiana Jones would have been satisfied with the wild oscillations of the bridge as we crossed and, mightily relieved we stepped onto solid ground at the other side to pay a further dollar to enter the grounds into which the waterfall crashes to river level.
Ignoring the kitsch efforts of the owners to spoil the natural wonder of the scene, we by passed the plastic signs, avoided the rough stone built pond fed by white drain pipes, nipped through the superfluous arch and hiked 80m to the falls.
Above us, perhaps 100m, the river is split before the drop by a giant rock protrusion. As a result, two falls crash to earth in an explosion of water vapour that alone would justify the image of a boiling cauldron. At 30m distant we were wet and grinning. At 10m the rocks were fiendishly slippery and it was all we could do to stay upright.
Between the falls was literally a breath taking experience.
The water crashed down with the force of falling rocks. The plunge pool seethed and boiled as a hundred fire hydrants were discharged into it at the same time. The spume roared into my face and the wind generated by the falling water made me lean to keep my balance.
The noise was incredible.
I was grinning so much that I swallowed mouthfuls of sweet tasting water and it was only later that it occurred to me that a dead sheep a few miles upstream could see me laid up for a week.
Suddenly the prevailling wind relented and the direction of the falls moved two metres to the right. Instead of crashing into the plunge pool, the water hammered into a large flat stone just to my left. It dawned on me in an instant that from a safe distance, the waterfall looked exciting, but fundamentally benign.
The water now sounded like an angry Fury hurling boulders down the ravine and the prospect of wading into the plunge pool under the falling water seemed absurd.
I retreated in a hurry, slipping and sliding on the algae covered rocks, and at a safe distance, turned to marvel at the only waterfall I have seen that I could get beneath and still be frightened by.
We crossed the bridge again but it no longer thrilled us.
We rode the cable car to the top but it seemed a pedestrian experience.
We we picked up by a lorry that was passing and ferried 20km back to Banos, for another dollar.
Every night since, I have fallen asleep to the memory of those moments in the Devil's Cauldron.
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