BOAT TRIP FROM HELL II

Dawn breaks on the first minutes of  what would be a 20-hr round trip crunched into this two-foot wide dugout pirogue/sailboat. No bathroom, no motor, no food, no shade. #wedodumbstuff

Traveling as we do, slowly and without a real itinerary or timeline, we sometimes hear of idyllic, off-the-map places that sound in dire need of a visit. In whispers and with hand-drawn maps, locals and like-minded travelers will describe these mythical spots, making sure others don't hear lest they ruin the sacred secrets passed over by time and place and cell phone towers.

Supposedly, this was the case with Belo Sur Mer, a coastal village south of Morondava. What little we found to read about Belo sounded incredible. Tales of locals still building large ships “the old way," using only handtools and wood, right on the beach. There were rumored to be beautiful beaches, stunning bays, sunsets (readers of this blog-hi Mom-know how we love sunsets), and best of all, a guy who would take us diving in the Mozambique Channel not too far offshore.

There was just one catch. It was rainy season, and the road was closed, so the four-hour 4x4 ride option was off the table. But an enterprising restaurant manager assured us, “no problem.” He could get us a pirogue that would sail us down the coast to this magical place...and it would only take three to four hours. It sounded so easy, we got ourselves so worked up that neither of us even thought about the original "Boat Trip from Hell" we took across the Pacific at the beginning of the trip. 

Us, hurting, eight hours into the trip.

Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. 

In the same restaurant we met Ernest, a backpacker from Charm City, Baltimore, not an hour's drive from our house in DC. We quickly convinced/conned him into joining us and splitting the costs. Over celebratory drinks we toasted our good luck. Plans were made for a 7 AM departure the next day.

We met our pirogue captain as planned, and walked to the boat, which was about half a mile down the beach. This is where things got interesting.  For starters, the boat was not exactly in ship-shape condition. Loose wooden planks floated in the bottom in standing water already inside. The skinny mast, a bark-less former tree limb, looked splinted and weak. And the boat was small. Really small.  Barely shoulder width at the widest point, and about 15 feet long. We gave each other reassuring looks, shrugged our shoulders and climbed in. We could handle anything for four hours. And we would be eating amazing seafood on the beach in Belo by lunchtime.

Over 20 hours, we were passed by lots of pirogues, like the one above, which had a full-size sail and unbroken mast. 

Earnest, with ripped sail in the
background, still manages to smile.
This guy is awesome.

More than four hours later...

We were in the hot sun, with limited shade (thankfully Liz brought her umbrella), limited water, and no food, somewhere in the Mozambique Channel. Our sail, which was an oversize bed sheet tied to a large stick, pushed us along painfully slow. Saltwater that soaked us when waves crashed over the sides constantly stung our eyes. Water in the bottom of the boat grew slowly deeper, despite our bailing efforts. We prayed we were close.

"How much longer, Captain?" Kip asked, since he was the person wedged closest to where the driver hand-steered with a paddle he probably carved himself. 

"Don't know. Maybe we arrive by 2 PM." 

Wait, what?!  Four more hours. Liz asked the same question, and we got the same answer. Gritting our teeth, we wished we’d been smart enough to bring some food with us. Not surprisingly, 2 pm came and went. We sailed on, butts numb, backs aching, sweat pouring. No one spoke for hours.

Our first mate, searching for wind and land...and probably a bathroom.

Then the mast broke during a surprise wind gust. At least we had some excitement. Which was then followed by an even slower pace. 

We finally make landfall around 4 pm, as the sun sank slowly toward the sea. Painfully, we struggled out of the boat into knee deep water. Moments later, we kissed the beach. Incredibly, our new friend Ernest was still speaking to us.

Two days later, we would repeat this process, only somewhat better rationed with water and food and sunscreen. After the previous journey, we thought we were prepared mentally and physically. But nothing could have readied us for what turned into a 12-hour marathon back up the coast. 

Mythical places? Idyllic, untouched locales? There's probably a reason they're like that. Take our advice--let them stay that way. You'll thank us later.