RUN UP A VOLCANO? THANKS, PHIL

"Hey, let's run up that volcano in the distance!" said no one in their right mind, ever. The view from Phil's balcony.

The paved, "flat" part of the run.

No one remembers exactly whose idea it was, but somehow it was decided that running/walking/crawling 18 kilometers (11 miles) up a volcano in El Salvador would be a great way to spend a Sunday.

Wrong. 

Before we get too far into this, we have to take a moment to first thank Phil (we'll blame him later). 

Phil is a friend of Liz's from DC who now works in San Salvador. He also lives in a gorgeous apartment with AC, cable (oh, to see SportsCenter again), wi-fi, hot water and an extra bedroom that he lets us crash in when we're not slumming it at the beach these days. We love Phil for the hospitality. We also might blame him for looping us into this 18 km volcano run. 

From Phil's balcony you see stunning views of the city, as well as of a tree-covered volcanic cone rising up on the horizon. 

Turns out, there's an annual run that goes from the base of this volcano up to the crater's edge and then slightly back down afterward. It's an 18 km race and from what Phil said, a lot of folks do it and we maybe should do it to. Plus, we get a t-shirt for signing up, and a medal when we finish. Win-win, right?

In fact, he even had a group of insane friends he works with who were considering doing the run and maybe, no, definitely we should all do it together this 18 kilometer, uphill both ways, steep-as-hell, knee-jarring, back-breaking slog and it could be a great way to spend a Sunday in San Salvador and we would all have such an amazing time and...for a while that Sunday, we no longer called Phil our friend. 

Now that we've had a while to recover, everyone's on good terms again. Phil even continues to let us stay at his place from time to time (thanks, Phil!) 

But from here on out, we'll no longer be taking his advice what's an enjoyable way to spend a Sunday in El Salvador, at least if it involves running and a volcano.

That's us with Phil after the race. It was all his fault.

Despite the volcano's best efforts the whole crew survived the run. Thanks for letting us join you, guys!

With our medals at the finish line. 

Phil helps Kip to the finish.

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.

10 DAYS OF SILENCE AND MEDITATION

Maybe all the travel had us stressed out, maybe too many yoga-loving people in India talked us into it, or maybe because we knew Julia Roberts did it in Eat, Pray, Love (Kip denies any knowledge of this last bit), we decided to enroll in a 10-day Vipassana meditation course. 

Before you go buying us Kool-Aid or a ticket on the Hale-Bopp spaceship, understand that we knew little about the course beforehand, other than it involved a vow of complete silence and lots of sitting still in deep thought. And no, in case you're wondering, neither of us had ever meditated before.

Liz's home for 12 days.

But we were optimistic. The course would take place in the holy site of Bodh Gaya, where prince Siddhartha Gautama became "The Buddha" and found enlightenment while meditating under a Bodhi tree. We figured if a regular person could become Buddha here through meditation, maybe the two of us could at least put in a few days of deep thought and find some nugget of universal truth. Or at least get a couple peaceful night's sleep. Plus, it was free!


Our earliest moment of true enlightenment came on the very first day...after viewing the daily schedule. For the next 12 days (note to anyone interested: the "10-day" course is actually 12 days; arrange travel plans accordingly...), we would have a total of two vegetarian meals per day, we would be waking up at 4 am, and we would be sitting cross-legged in complete silence for 12 hours each day.

The beautiful pagoda that housed our "cells" for
meditation.

Those who know Liz will sympathize with the pre-sunrise wake up calls. Those who know Kip understand there's no way he's eating just two veggie meals per day.

Most of all, those who are human realize 12 hours is a LOT of sitting still quietly. Cross legged. On the floor. Not to mention, the first three days we soon found out would be spent contemplating our nostrils, literally. Man, we can say we know our nostrils REALLY well, now.

On the positive side, the grounds were vibrant, covered with flowers, trees, and an ornate, gilded pagoda. The sound of rustling leaves and birdsong filled the contemplative silence--most of the time. However, the walkways of the compound were covered with gravel, and the crunching sound of sandal on rock became excruciatingly loud after a few days of "nobal silence." The cacophony grew all the more grating once all the participants began doing what Kip nicknamed the "Dhamma Shuffle," caused by people so bored out of their minds that they drag their feet s-l-o-w-l-y on the way to and from meditation. 

Spelling is not important. Nobal silence is important.

In addition to the mind-numbing silence, lack of eye-contact (not allowed), and any kind of stimulation (no reading, exercising, etc.) we also had to deal with the natural noises of those around us. This being India, if  bodily functions marked the path to enlightenment, the subcontinent would be home to more Buddhas than beggars. 

It's difficult to explain the amount of belching, coughing, sniffing, and yes, farting, that exited so very audibly and frequently from this particular group of around 30 locals and 30 peace-seeking foreigners. Kip swears the longest unbroken span of total silence during the more than 100 hours of group meditation reached 14 seconds. Once. And he had lots of time to count.

Men and women were separated, but we could see each other hobbling around every now and again like elderly octogenarians after a game of lawn bowling.  Day two (really day three, but it's not like we were making hash marks in blood on the walls of our cells...) Kip passed Liz a note (totally illegal). She all too joyously packed her bags and was ready to get the heck out, too, as he was. 

But she didn't. Neither did Kip...at least until day eight (quitter!).

If you were wondering how we (Liz) felt after ten days of silence, this is a pretty accurate representation. All in all, we are really glad we did the course. It was certainly an experience.  Liz wavered between wanting to run out of the room screaming, and considering taking the 45-day course. Kip wavered between sleep, hunger, and scaling the razor wire-topped walls for a long run, a warm cheese burger and a cold beer.

One of the many beautiful flowers surrounding the grounds.

Despite the fact that it was probably one of the most difficult (physically, mentally, totally) things we've ever done, it was an incredibly valuable experience and we're glad we did it.  Liz isn't planning on signing up for another course for at least another week or two. Kip still can't believe he lasted as long as he did, but he is proud he realized he could sit for an entire hour without moving...while listening to other people burp, cough, and fart quite freely, which was certainly enlightening, at least for him.

Liz found it hilarious that her toilet was branded with
a completely ripped off Continental Airlines logo. It was
also one of the only things she could read for 12 days...

A view of the meditation cell. Yes, cell,
just like in prison.

Into the unknown at the Dhamma Bodhi center in Bodh Gaya...