PHOTO FRIDAY: WRECK AT SOUTHERNMOST POINT

Most of us mistakenly believe the Cape of Good Hope to be the southernmost tip of Africa. Yet as any well-traveled sea captain would've been able to tell you back in the days of square sails and scurvy , that honor goes to Cape Agulhas, known as one of the most dangerous spots on the oceans. 

The area is famous for fierce winter gales and towering rogue waves, either of which may have forced the ship above onto the rocks where we got a good look at her at sunset. Menacing clouds blocked out most of the light, but the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks made for an impressive soundtrack to end our day. 

BEAUTIFUL BELO SUR MER

So, eight hour boat trip aside, this place really is beautiful. We can admit that now.

When we arrived, however, hot, thirsty, and sunburned with still a 1 kilometer walk through a sandy marsh to anything reminiscent of a hotel, we can't say it made the best first impression.

But, we were glad to be on land. And, Liz was particularly excited about the diving. We'd heard stories about the reefs offshore in the deep, clear waters of the Mozambique Channel, which was one of our main reasons for heading to this very out of the way place.

Alas, the universe had other plans. After struggling along in the mud and sand, we stopped at every guesthouse (there are four in total, even counting the uninhabitable one barely standing after cyclone damage). Each one we passed was either closed for the season or full (though we saw no other foreigners for miles). Sounds like a typically planned Liz and Kip trip so far...

As we went to what we thought was the final hotel (they were closing down for the season and wouldn't let us stay), we were lucky to meet one of the owners of Ecolodge de Menabe, who told us he had rooms. The owner ran the only dive shop within 100 miles. Despite his perfect English, he only wanted to speak French, so Liz decided to wow him with her skills, asking, "Plongee?" For those without such an amazing command of the language, this is the French word for diving.  And he replied, "No plongee." To which Liz said, "Oh no!" and he replied in his heavy French accent "Oh, yes!"  She was not amused.

But, his place was marvelous and he gave the three of us (thank you Ernest for not smothering us in our sleep) the best bungalow in the entire place. We felt special. We were the only guests in the entire village, and the local kids showed off for us a bit  by having a contest with their spinning tops.

We were also served some tasty samosas by these adorable and precocious kiddos. We can honestly say, nothing tastes better than a fresh fish samosa. Especially when it's delivered right to your doorstep, with a smile.


And then, there were the sunsets.

All of this ALMOST made up for the fact that we had an eight-hour boat ride back...which, in true Madagascar style, was really 12 hours. 

Market stuff in Belo: Clockwise, starting with dried sardines, weird hush puppies, two bowls of salty fish patties, and six fuzzy round fruits from the baobabs, which Liz took a liking to.

Liz with a sunblock-covered friend we met after picking up trash along the town's main road (a sandy path). 

The kids could work wonders with their homemade tops.
Winding the rope around the spindle, they would hurl
the balls into the air  and at just the right moment,
pull back so the top dropped, spinning madly,
into their palm or on their chest or even
on one guy's head. Good show.

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.

TOP THREE DUMBEST THINGS WE'VE DONE (SO FAR)

No, that's not us on the scooter. But it sure feels like it could be sometimes.  Photo credit: The Internets

For being the experienced, all-knowing world travelers that we should be by now, we sure do a lot of dumb stuff. Below are three of the biggest idiot moves we've made since leaving home months ago.

Perhaps our New Year’s resolutions should be not to repeat any of the following:

• Sailing with Strangers: Many of the details we've already written about back when it happened, but let’s just say we will never, ever, get on a sailboat with strangers again. What was supposed to be an eight-day leisure sail sunning and fishing our way across the Pacific Ocean turned into nearly two weeks of hell with no wind, no electricity, no fish, no booze, little fresh water, limited food...

• What Day is Our Flight?: In a remote spot in the Philippines, the land of 7,000 islands, we were lucky to get the last two seats on a puddle jumper to Manila leaving the following week. It was the start of Holy Week (a huge Filipino holiday) and everything was already booking up, so we decided we better plan ahead for a change. Big mistake. The next seven days we spent on a live-aboard dive boat, exploring the depths of the famous TubbatahaReef. When we returned waterlogged to dry land we celebrated with a few rum drinks before prepping to catch our flight we were sure left the next day. Three cocktails in, something clicked, and we realized neither of us were sure exactly what day our plane was leaving. Turns out, it had already left…an hour before, and there were no seats for the next four days. Those were some expensive drinks.

• Leaving “Life” in Burmese Taxi: We both travel with two backpacks—one holds clothes, shoes, toiletries, etc, and a smaller one that fits inside the larger pack holds our “life,” our irreplaceables—passports, ATM cards, laptop, camera, memory cards, journal, etc. The larger packs we can toss on the tops of buses without hesitation, but the small packs rarely leave our sides. So when Kip realized 10 minutes too late that he left his small bag in a pickup truck we had hitched from Yangon’s bus station at midnight, we freaked out. Kip immediately jumped a motorcycle to the capital’s chaotic transport hub while Liz stayed at the guest house on the orders of the owner, who told us not to worry, that the bag would show up. Turns out, he was right. Within half an hour, the driver returned our backpack, apologizing for his mistake. Liz hugged him, thanked him profusely, and slipped him $10. Kip meanwhile, remained at the bus station, bag-less and freaking out. After 30 minutes, a benevolent driver loaned him a phone to call the hotel where the proud owner told him the good news. Thank you Burma for letting us get away with being so dumb, just this once.

Although we wish there were only three really dumb things we’ve done on this trip, those who have seen us in action know better. Maybe we'll add a few more from the full list in coming weeks. Here's to a smarter, smoother 2013! 

Happy New Year, everybody!

Liz and Kip

PS  If you want to see a few of our previous travel mistakes, click here.

SAILNG (AND DRIFTING) THE PACIFIC

It was our ninth day at sea. We were adrift, floating without wind in the unrelenting sun somewhere on the deep blue Pacific. A merciful current pushed us along, painfully slowly, the 40-foot sailboat carrying us inched toward the Philippines. At least we were moving in the right direction, for a change.

We were supposed to have made port in Cebu at least two days ago, according to our captain, a friendly, well-meaning German in his late twenties. Yet, four more agonizing days would pass before we actually were allowed to touch our bare feet on dry land. And it would not be Cebu.

On day nine, though, something wonderful happened.

Kip was on  “dawn patrol,” as he liked to call his early morning watch shift from 5-8 a.m.—amazing sunrises, plus it’s the best time to fish (or so he thought). After an hour at the helm, he saw a dark spot on the horizon. A boat, perhaps?

The spot gradually grew larger. Through binoculars, the outline of a small island came into focus.

Wow. Liz had to see this.

Still groggy from her midnight watch, Liz bolted upright when she heard the news. Squealing like school girls, we fist bumped, high fived and simultaneously screamed, “Land Ho!”

We were Columbus discovering America. We were Magellan circumnavigating the globe. We were finally getting off this godforsaken boat.

Or so we thought.

To be honest, the trip couldn’t have been that bad. We were sailing on a boat in the Pacific Ocean, after all. And we were only gone for 12 days. It was that the trip seemed something more akin to the first lines of Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.”

The trip started out quite beautifully, as we left the dock and set the main sail in a light breeze. The scenery was stunning. We were content, fulfilling a lifelong dream of international sailing. 

The boat weaved leisurely between Palau’s famous Rock Islands, mushroom-shaped, jungle-clad hills of limestone, some as small as a VW Bug and others larger than the Superdome. We reached a narrow, turquoise-colored passage in the outer reef and slipped smoothly through, cruising into the deep blue of the Pacific. Dolphins played nearby. 

Feeling celebratory, we broke out a bottle we’d brought along and mixed drinks for the four of us, including the Germans Martin and Corrina, who as we mentioned previously, were a twenty-something couple sailing around the world on a mission to educate people about trash in the seas. We cheers’d, we poured out a tribute for Neptune, and we drank until the bottle was gone.

Things pretty much went downhill from there.

Naturally, after a few rum drinks, Liz usually has to pee. This is when we learned that our “cabin with a bathroom” does not actually have a working toilet. Or sink (in the U.S., we’d call that a closet).

No problem, though. For the next week and a half, night and day, we would just use the one in our hosts' cabin. Which is fine, except boats are tiny and the toilet is next to their bed. As in 14 inches from it. It took some getting used to, particularly at night. Have you ever tried to “relax” in a bathroom, knowing that the heads of two sleeping strangers are a foot from your rear end? Us either. 

Then there was the heat and lack of fresh water. We sweat constantly and in buckets. Sheets, clothes, towels, everything was damp. The saltwater showers on deck did not help the situation, though we weren’t allowed to use fresh water since the water pump broke on day three and our supply was extremely limited. Deodorant was useless. The choice was between sweating in the sun at 90 degrees on deck with a view of the ocean, or sweating in the shade at 100 degrees and no breeze in the musty cabin.

Since Liz hadn't exactly "adapted" to the skin tone of the natives yet, she wisely opted for the cabin most days. Kip was up on deck fishing. He never caught a fish. Most days he reeled in seaweed or plastic, which was exciting, but didn’t go well with wasabi. 

Turns out, to catch tuna in the deep, the boat actually needs to be moving, which we frequently were not. It’s the same if you want to catch some land. Like the Philippines.  

Which brings us to the topic of wind. There wasn’t any. For days. 

“Why didn’t you use the motor?” you ask. Because it was broken. Well, not totally broken, but only half of it worked, and it’s electric. The electric part is awesome and eco-friendly, when it’s charged. It wasn’t. 

Knowing our captain was in a hurry to meet his sister who was waiting for him in the Philippines (he wouldn’t make it in time), we assumed he was doing all he could to get there fast. Plus, we’re unemployed and homeless, why should we be in a rush? 

So we settled in to wait for wind. Did we mention the rum was gone on the first night?

With no electricity to power things like computers or iPods or lights, we made ourselves busy. 

We played guitar... we slept... we stared at clouds.... 

We read, a lot. At night we used headlamps we brought. Both of us made it through eight books each, including two well over 1000 pages. 

Jump to night 10 (of our seven day trip, based on the captain’s initial calculations). We were still drifting off the coast of the Philippines, at least two days from port. A wahle surfaced and another pod of dolphins swam by in the distance.

Yet again, there was no wind. The current was pushing us toward the shore. Liz heard a strange noise. “What’s that?” she asked our captain.

“The motor,” he replied. “We’re drifting toward the shore. I’ll have to get out the generator to charge the batteries.”

Liz was wide-eyed and silent, but internally thinking, “OMG. Are you freaking kidding? We’ve been drifting off the coast for almost three days with dead batteries and no motor, you’re supposedly in a hurry to meet your sister, and now, days later, you pull out a gas generator to charge the motor? What were you waiting on, a team of mermaids to come pull us along?”

Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “Sounds like a great idea.”

Day 12, we finally made port in Maasain, the provincial capital of Leyte, which was not Cebu, our original destination. That would have been another 3 days (or 8 hours, if you’re our overly-optimistic captain).

Seeing as we were back in the Philippines, we immediately hi-fived as the locals do and ran to the first place we could find that would sell us some deep-fried hardboiled eggs, fresh water, and rum.

Over iced cuba libres, we promised to never, ever sail again...at least for a week or two. And only on boats with functioning engines.

SAILING WITH STRANGERS

The customs man tells us it's time to leave Palau. Heading out with a nice German couple, Martin and Corinna, on their sailboat the Ivalu. They were looking for crew, we were looking for passage out of Palau. For additional photos, check out their blog.

Their mission on what has now been an almost two-year voyage...to educate people about garbage in the ocean and what all of us, but especially locals in the places they visit, can do to alleviate some of the mess. 

More when we reach dry land, which should be in 10-12 days, depending on the winds and weather.