We had been told that the water fall was about 20 minutes from Trujillo. It was nearing
the heat of the day as we filled the vehicles with our gear. We wound through the rutted streets of the city and moved away
from the worn decay that is Trujillo. But twenty minutes became thirty and thirty, forty, and soon one of the vehicles
was marooned in mud up to the floor board. The cement slab that passed for a bridge under the stream had long since eroded away.
Other than a couple of old vehicles, there was no indication of human occupation. We followed a space in the tall grass
until the grass became a dirt path. In the distance smoke rose. There were a couple of hovels that passed for homes.
With an aire of distrust, they watched us. Closely. Equally distrustful, we smiled and moved forward quickly until we
reached the span of steel, wood and rope that tied the edges of the river together. On the other side, there were more hovels.
Strangely, next to a cinder block house that would have been more common in the States, a small church painted blue and emmaculate.
We are first nnd foremost photo-journalists. Like all those before us, we observe without interfering. Or so we are
supposed to. Their world would soon end - there were plans to develop their land - a tourist destination. There was
nothing we could do despite the sense that they were being violated. For all their poverty, there was a sense of calm
and peace throughout the village. Life was simple. Life was good........
