It had been 30 minutes since we started the journey to Kawil Falls, but it felt like forever. The road, if you could even call it that, was little more than a collection of jagged rocks and uneven dirt patches, each bump and shake sending a jolt through my spine. My body gripped the seat as though it might fly off at any moment, and every turn seemed to throw me further into the wilderness. The tires screamed against the rugged path, and I could swear the tuk-tuk groaned in protest with each shudder.
To our left, the land dropped sharply, revealing a river that twisted along its jagged path beneath the dense foliage. The water was a relentless force, crashing violently against rocks, sending up splashes like bursts of white foam. Its roar was deafening, filling the air with a constant, rumbling sound that drowned out everything else as if the world around us had been reduced to nothing but the power of that rushing water.
I glanced over at Pani, his hands tight on the tuk-tuk’s handlebars, his face set in a concentration that betrayed his calm exterior. The engine hummed steadily beneath us, but I could see the strain in the way his shoulders tensed with every bump. He wasn’t saying anything, but I knew him well enough by now to sense when he was agitated.
A knot tightened in my stomach. This feels oh too familiar.
Mlangen Falls… I remembered how I had convinced him to take a barely-there path, one that was just as treacherous, just as unpredictable. The bumps, the dust, the fear of the unknown—we’d barely made it out of that one. And I’d heard his frustration then, the way his voice had dripped with annoyance, blaming me for taking us somewhere no one should have gone. 😈
“Why do we always end up in the middle of nowhere?” He hadn’t yelled, but the bite in his tone had stung all the same.
I could feel it now—the subtle way Pani’s grip on the tuk-tuk tightened with every jolt. He hated this. Hated these roads. Not just because they made the ride uncomfortable, but because they took a toll on the tuk-tuk. It wasn’t built for this kind of punishment, and Pani knew it. The constant shaking, the sudden jolts, the tires trying to grip against terrain they weren’t made for—it wore the tuk-tuk down. And each bump, each rough patch of dirt was a silent reminder to him that he was forcing it to endure something it wasn’t designed to do.
It wasn’t just the tuk-tuk that suffered; he did too. Every time we veered off the smoother paths, Pani had to wrestle with the tuk-tuk’s unsteady movements. His hands strained to maintain control as the vehicle jolted forward. It was not an easy ride for him. The effort required to keep the tuk-tuk steady and prevent it from veering too far off course was evident in the way his arms tensed and his jaw tightened. He wasn’t a passenger—he was the one steering us through this chaos, and the strain was written on his face.
And then there was Google Maps. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks at the thought. Pani had expressed his frustration a thousand times before—how I always relied on Google Maps as if it were a lifeline. I thought it was easier and quicker than stopping to ask anyone for directions. But Pani hated it. “Why not just ask the locals?” he would say, frustration creeping into his voice. The truth was, asking the locals almost always led us to dead ends. Whenever we stopped to ask for directions, the responses were a mix of confusion and vague hand gestures. Most of the time, the locals had never even heard of Kawil Falls, let alone knew how to get there.
He’d warned me more than once. Google Maps is useless out here, he’d said. You should trust people more. They know these places better. But I never listened. Instead, I relied on my phone, my faith in its blue dots and turning arrows, and left Pani to navigate this endless mess, watching his frustration grow as the tuk-tuk rattled deeper into the unknown. It may seem unreasonable, but Google Maps has taken me to places I never thought I could see. Sometimes this app may seem like a joke as it often leads us through difficult routes, yet it always gets us to our destination.
Finally, as the road seemed to narrow even further, we reached a village. A group of locals was sitting in the shade, and we pulled over to ask for directions, hoping we were finally on the right track. The village was small, peaceful, almost serene, and after a short conversation with an older woman, we confirmed what we had suspected—Yes, Kawil Falls was close, but it was a walk from here.
“A kilometer or so,” she said, gesturing toward a faint trail that disappeared into the trees. “But you’ll need permission to enter. It’s private land.” I glanced over at Pani. He said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking—another walk. The disappointment was written all over his face. It wasn’t that we hadn’t walked to destinations before, but the thought of leaving the tuk-tuk behind after such a rugged ride was probably the last thing he wanted to do. But there was no turning back now.
We set off along the narrow path, our feet crunching softly against the dirt. The day had grown warmer, and the sun beat down on us as we walked, the occasional gust of wind offering some relief. Along the way, we passed a group of local boys, wet and laughing, dripping from head to toe as they walked back from Kawil Falls. They confirmed they had just gone to bathe, nodding in the direction we were heading.
The walk wasn’t difficult, though it felt longer than a kilometer, and more than once, we found ourselves straying from the path, only to retrace our steps. We wandered into dense brush and overgrown areas, backtracking twice before finding the right trail. There was something both frustrating and amusing about it—getting lost right before the finish line, only to find the way again. In the end, we finally arrived, breathless but eager, and there it was. Kawil Falls.
Kawil Falls crashed down from a 15-foot height, the water tumbling gracefully into an emerald basin below. The air was thick with mist, catching the sunlight in brilliant flashes. The roar of Kawil Falls filled my senses, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was the kind of sound that made you feel small, yet at peace, as if the entire world had paused just for this moment. The water shimmered in the light, and the basin below was impossibly clear, a brilliant emerald that reflected the trees above and the sky beyond. It was untouched, pure.
Pani stood beside me, his shoulders finally relaxing, and I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that all the trouble, all the bumps in the road, were worth this one perfect view. The cool, refreshing water of Kawil Falls washed away the fatigue and the stress of the journey. We swam for a while, letting the falls work their magic. When we finally dried off and headed back to the village, a local pointed us to a route that would cut down the rugged ride by about 50%. It was such a relief to know we weren’t going to have to endure another bone-jarring ride.
Back at the tuk-tuk, Pani looked at me with annoyance, his hands still gripping the handlebars a little too tightly. “See, I told you to ask the locals,” he said, his tone light but with a hint of frustration. “Next time, just throw the app out the window.” I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face. “Hey, at least we found a better way back,” I said. He shot me a look, but before he could say anything more, I gave him a quick, exaggerated shrug and a small, playful smile.
He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Nagpapacute ka na naman,” he muttered, but the tension between us seemed to melt away. He started the tuk-tuk and drove back to the highway. Although he faced the road with his back to me, I knew he was smiling, and that made me smile too. It reminded me once again how our friendship had always been like this. We bicker a lot, but we never stay mad at each other for long.
