In Iguazú, water writes the first line of every story – you breathe rain, feel the mist on your skin, hear their thunder of the falls in your chest.Between the roar and the birdsongs, the jungle unfolds: butterflies the size of your hand, orchids hidden in green shadows, toucans calling from ceibo trees painted red. You walk trails where the Guaraní still live, tend their yerba mate and weave their cestas. Their language sounds like the forest itself.You taste surubí fresh from the river, bite into papayas and maracuyás so ripe they split open in your hands.You return to your house tucked deep in the selva – wood and stone and windows that frame nothing but green – where the only sound is rain on leaves that never quite stops reminding you: Here, nature doesn't wait for permission.