How to Drown a Waterfall in 14 Days
Plus what is even happening in St. Barth’s and the origins of the capsule hotel
We drove from São Paulo and they put us on a boat. The boat was a squat, metal catamaran built for comfortable if unglamorous sightseeing. We boarded late in the afternoon, a group of about six of us – a scattershot handful of journalists and our guides.
I did not know where, precisely, I was. I did not know why the trip organizers had brought us to this particular place, despite the guides. Fifteen years ago, I was in the early years of my travel life and career and didn’t yet understand that having a guide is one thing, and knowing which questions to ask the guide is quite another.
We set out and the lake’s incredible vastness revealed itself. In places, the opposite shores lay invisible over the horizon. It felt more like a waveless, silent ocean than a lake. We glided by a few small islands, but the view was mostly water and more water, and finally, a sunset.
The sunset was the goal, understandably – a winking orb sinking over the horizon while the sky burned orange. The views were up-close and unobstructed. The ship’s captain played Boléro over the PA system while we watched.
I knew I wasn’t fully understanding what I was seeing when I noticed the trees – just the tops of them – which were long dead and bare, their scraggly branches poking through the lake’s quiet surface. In the fading light they looked like ghostly hands reaching from the grave.
I learned about it later, long after the trip ended. Lake Itaipu, which creates a swollen border between the southern Brazilian state of Paraná and Paraguay, is the result of the construction of the Itaipu Hydroelectric Dam. It is the second largest in the world by output, after the Three Gorges Dam in China, which famously shifted so much water that it slowed the earth’s rotation. Electricity generated from the Itaipu Dam lights nearly the entire nation of Paraguay, plus 10% of Brazil, including its biggest urban centers in Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo. It is considered an engineering wonder of the world. Philip Glass wrote a four-movement cantata about it.
The trees are the long-dessicated evidence of the flooded Paraná River and the displaced communities that once lived and fished on its shores. But the inundation had another astonishing casualty – the Guaíra Falls, a massive series of waterfalls that were among the largest in the world. They were twice the height of Niagara falls and had nearly five times their flow rate. The sound of the falls could be heard from 20 miles away. When dam construction was completed in 1982, they were fully submerged by the reservoir in 14 days. Local indigenous tribes held a ceremony, a remembrance of the dead.
I would have wanted to know this, standing on the deck of the catamaran, staring out across that lake at a comet-orange sky. I am sure, or at least I hope, a guide would have told me this story if I’d asked. But I did not ask. I did not know enough to ask, despite the obvious clues. The long ladders of power lines in the distance. Those leafless trees.
Today, I would ask. But also, I’m a decade-and-a-half more experienced at reading the world’s signals, and I’ve had so much time to look back. To read the articles and find the maps. To ponder the questions at a languorous distance, away from the awe of the actual moment. Of course, this means that I no longer fully trust a pleasure cruise. But it also means that I am getting better at knowing – or at least sensing – what I don’t know. Understanding is nonlinear and uncooperative. It does not automatically show up when you book a flight.
This is the bittersweet paradox of the once-in-a-lifetime trip. Would I ever float on this lake, set out on this boat, stand in that spot, again with wiser eyes? Maybe not.
Sometimes, you learn only after you leave, in fits and starts and entirely out of order. You can’t know all there is to know about a place, gather all the strands of its people and politics and history. You can prepare. You can pore over your guidebook. But you will never quite see the whole picture at once. The questions will arise, unbidden and unplanned, only when you’re standing there, staring out at the horizon. You’ll never know what is drowned, fathoms under your feet, while all you see before your eyes is a slowly sinking sun.
Travel, But Not Exactly
So is St. Barth’s canceled? I’ve always wanted to visit. This Caribbean island possesses that powerful allure that some places have – a kind of nostalgic glamour. A place to go if you know things. But it sounds like I’ve missed my chance, if New Year reports from the island are to be believed. Overcrowded. Full of influencer brats and oligarchs. Stressful brunches that require head-to-toe designer looks. This is according to rumor and Bethenny Frankel, who showed the internet a face rash that she reportedly picked up from the bedding at a luxury hotel. Ew. Maybe this will pass, as it often does for places. But for now, I say to St. Barth’s what I said to Tulum a few years back – see you someday.
Meanwhile back in New York, I saw an appropriately compact exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art that scratched the travel itch. The Many Lives of the Nakagin Capsule Tower, which runs through July 12, follows the history of a now-demolished Tokyo skyscraper (1972-2022) that was constructed of 140 modular “capsules.” Each was meant to house a business man in stylish, if austere, comfort. The capsules each had a bed, a TV, and a bathroom unit, and were advertised featuring office-friendly items like Sharp calculators and Olivetti typewriters. “Tower girls” could be paid to cook and clean, as the capsules had no kitchen units. (This is, of course, a whole essay unto itself.)
Architect Kisho Kurokawa envisioned that the modular construction would allow the structure to adapt over time, but it never did. Instead, the interior uses shifted over the years. Single businessmen gave way to DJs, art gallerists, and small business owners who set up shop. MoMA was able to secure one of the tower’s capsules, and it’s featured here, restored to its 1972 condition.
If this building concept sounds familiar, it’s because Kurokawa is also the architect and inventor of the pod hotel. The first, The Capsule Inn Osaka Umeda, opened in 1979 and is still in operation. You will also see echoes of Kurokawa in brands like Citizen M and Yotel, both of which employ room layout techniques that look almost identical to his original vision.
And More, Briefly
Check my Instagram for more pics from my MoMA visit, including snaps of the astonishing Ruth Asawa retrospective, which runs through February 7.
Given the political situation in Venezuela, I invite you to have a look at my essay about Puerto Rico and the other southern border of the United States.