In the Hothouse

For many years, folks who know me well sometimes refer to me as the reptile. While I have not encouraged this nickname, I have come to understand that it is not wholly inappropriate. I don't tend to sweat very much. I tolerate very warm temperatures without great effort. While others are swimming in body soaking perspiration, my body tends to dampen only slightly even during intense physical activity which has prompted my friends – out of jealousy I am quite certain – to liken me to a lower strata of animal life. Which is why I was curious how I might respond to a taste of Bikram Yoga. Bikram is that version of yoga that requires you to spend 90 minutes in a room heated to 105 degrees and 40 to 50% humidity while you twist and turn and bend your body in ways that make you feel like a first cousin to a pretzel. Its benefits are legend ranging anywhere from stress reduction and enhanced flexibility to a sense of well being and injury repair. This is, of course, if you can steer clear of blacking out, crumpling over from dehydration, or succumbing to fits of nausea. I'm just sayin'.

I confess to being a bit wary of this experience. Lily has done it for a long time and, while she returns from class looking like she's been for a marathon swim, she swears she feels like a million bucks afterward. Since I have all the flexibility of a telephone pole, I concluded my time had come to turn over a new leaf and get my body to do things not previously witnessed by humankind.

We arrived at the bikram yoga studio and Lily, perhaps sensing my less than robust confidence at what would follow, generously found me a spot for my mat at the rear of the room where I could do my contortions in relative anonymity. And, as a bonus, there was a slight leak at the rear door that permitted the merest suggestion of cooler air to extend to my ankles. The room filled with persons that I immediately concluded were seasoned veterans of this discipline. I announced for all to hear that my goals were limited: don't die, and try beyond all measure not to leave the room, no matter how close to fainting you might be, no matter how nauseous. That latter issue is sort of an unwritten rule.

Our instructor was Amy Lane, a petite and energetic young lady who does several of these classes daily: a pro's pro. Amy Lane speaks at a pace that would shame an auctioneer. She belts out direction and helpful guidance at an alarming clip which, at first, seems so at odds with the uber-tropical atmosphere. But, Amy Lane is monitoring everyone with an eagle eye and a finely balanced sense of humor. Sadly, for me, I am so focused on just breathing and trying to bend my body in oh so unfamiliar ways, that I find myself watching other classmates to see what it is I'm supposed to be doing. I'm just trying to keep up here.

As my body swoops and stretches, bends and creaks, I find that I only feel like blacking out every now and then. My lightheadedness comes and goes. Man, it's hot. The trick is to stay under control keeping your breathing even and slow and not give in to open-mouthed gulps of air which, let me tell you, can be very tempting. Amy Lane says it's far better to suppress this urge for open-mouthed breathing lest your body lunge into a panicked fight or flight mode. Comforting. And, I find that whatever reptilian habits I may have inadvertently developed over the years are briskly out the window. Gone. I am shvitzing as I never have in my life. Even my ankles are sweating. When I reach down to grab them in one pose, they simply slide off my already liquified hands. Sweat is flying off me. My shirt, once a light gray when I entered this place, is now almost black and drenched. I reach for my water bottles and gulp what I can without losing the rhythm of the program.

When the clock strikes twelve – the moment when the 90 minute session is reportedly over – I suppress my almost overwhelming drive to urgently advise Amy Lane that she can stop now. But, I swallow that urge and melt into shavasana or corpse pose where you can lie still on the floor giving full surrender to your exhaustion. Amy Lane passes out chilled washcloths which, when resting on one's forehead and eyes, provide a sort of outsized pleasure that, in that moment, is pretty much what you want in life above all else.

I have survived! I am not dead; I did not black out. I am not nauseous. True, I am wondering what the quickest route to the North Pole might be, but I am more than relieved; I am energized by my modest success.

I will return! Isn't that what reptiles do?

The Final Curtain

It was our last full day on what had been one of the more amazing adventures of our lives. We had returned from the Philippine wilderness to the mayhem of Manila. Our flight out would be the next day, but first we had an afternoon to wander through this city and we got to do this with Jesse and Laura. In the considerable heat and searing sun, we walked through city parks and gardens, ventured up to the old walled city, and headed back in the hopes of catching the sunset. We took in the beauty of this place and tried to make sense of it against the ever present backdrop of poverty that punctuated the scenery. With every lush promenade came the homeless sleeping wherever the shade permitted. Beautiful monuments and charming horse-drawn carriages were balanced by small, naked children wandering with no apparent connection to anyone or anything.

We headed toward Boulevard Raxos, a broad avenue teeming with life both from the crazy quilt of suffocating traffic and the ubiquitous vendors selling whatever might catch your fancy. We thought how cool it would be to watch the sunset from a rooftop bar in one of the shining towers dotting Raxos and, just steps beyond, Manila Bay. Our search was fruitless, however, and we went to Plan B: find a 7-Eleven, buy cold beer and snacks, and head to the sea wall that runs along the promenade overlooking the Bay. With our cocktail supplies in hand, we sat four abreast atop the wall, our legs dangling over the edge, and stared out over the armada of fishing boats as the sun slowly set. Cold beer, pringles, oreos, and pizza flavored chips. Perfect.

Pictures were taken, memories were rehashed: three weeks, 11 flights, 22,000 miles covered. Swimming, diving, snorkeling, hiking, adventuring. The happy hour supplies vanished, and the Bay turned from blue to orange. We would have an absolutely delightful evening that night in Chinatown with Colin and Shanti, but it seemed as if the curtain on our trip fell as the sun did over the Bay. The orange and red sky and the now orange streaked sea were not unlike our own solar fireworks display – a wonderful exclamation point on some everlasting memories.

Off the Grid: The Tao Experience

How do you know when home is far away? I mean, really far away. Distance is important, for sure. But, it's not all about distance, is it? It's also about a taste of alienation and uncertainty; it's about a culture shift and a departure from all the sensory benchmarks we have in our day-to-day lives. It's something that transports us far beyond the realm we know and take for granted.

Such was the case for us in the Philippines recently as we ventured not just out of Manila, but further and further up the west coast of Palawan, a slender reed of an island southwest of Manila in the lower region of the South China Sea. To get here, at least for some of us, required six flights, one van ride, and three boat rides. To the ends of the earth, I'm telling you. The boat rides were courtesy of the “bangkas,” essentially narrow wooden boats with bamboo outrigging and two wooden benches facing each other to carry their six or seven passengers. The sounds the bangka engines make are not unlike those of a 1994 Camaro whose muffler has long been missing – only louder. From Puerto Princessa to Sabang to Port Arthur to El Nido. And, all this was merely by way of prelude to our jumping off point to lands that, for all we knew, had been officially mapped for the first time just yesterday. There were no people along the way. No towns, no cars, no planes. Nothing. All we saw en route was the occasional flying fish rocketing across our bow earnestly in search of something. The landscape was primeval: small, heavily treed islands, some with jagged cliffs jutting out of the sea. It would not take much imagination to feel like you were back in the Mesozoic era. I would not have been shocked to see a dinosaur lurking on the shore.

Our hosts call themselves Tao Philippines, a group that takes hardy souls beyond the resorts, the restaurants, the conveniences and creature comforts that satisfy most tourists. We would climb aboard their own much larger bangka that could accommodate two dozen guests and a small staff and head generally north through virtually uninhabited islands in search of good times and memorable stories.  As the Tao literature openly suggests, this trip is not for everyone.  I mean we're talking no toilet seats here, no towels, and electricity as a novelty, not a given.  We're talking sleeping in open air bamboo huts with pads for beds and mosquito nets to crawl through.  And, hot water?  fuggedaboutit. 

 

And, our guide for all this? An irrepressible fellow named Ollie, a former fisherman from the area, now transformed into part jack rabbit and part entertainer. Relentless energy and good humor flow through Ollie's veins pretty much the way blood flows through ours. Ollie could leap around the boat in hair raising fashion whether over and around the outriggers or from lower deck to upper deck. Gravity is not his enemy.

Our shipmates were an apt assortment of just the kinds of folks you might expect to find on a venture like this one: Brits, Germans, South Africans, French, Dutch, Norwegians, and one Filipino. Everything from teachers, to business managers of various sorts, to IT systems or sales personnel, a TV producer, and one former prisoner. Eclectic. Most of us intermingled to trade personal histories and travel experiences, and share commentary on what we now all faced. Given the fairly limited space available to us on the boat, we would get to know some of these folks far better than your typical fellow hotel guest.

Our days were awash in leisurely amblings about the Palawans, stopping for snorkeling or strolls around empty beaches, as we meandered through our 150 mile course to our end point, Coron. Snorkeling was without fanfare or ceremony. When we stopped for snorkeling, you would just find some fins, mask and snorkel and jump overboard. And, what you might find was amazing. Take Secret Beach, for example. Aptly named. From the sea all one could see was what appeared to be a very small island ringed with tree-covered towering limestone walls. What you did was swim to it from the boat and find a small tunnel to squeeze through and then swim your way to the bright sunlight beyond. Emerging from this darkness revealed a place that many could justifiably mistake for the Garden of Eden: a rounded interior surrounded by the same towering walls we saw from the outside, but with a level of quiet inside at odds at with what we had left behind moments before. Raising your head, you could hear the echos of your voice and others'. There was no breeze, no sound, just a pristine beach and placid water with a wild assortment of coral formations underneath.

Other times, we would find ourselves snorkeling in distractingly shallow water seemingly barely escaping the beautifully colored, but razor sharp coral beneath us dotted with the gorgeous but deadly black spiny sea urchin with their sharp needles unmistakably aimed at our bellies. We would slide by holding our breath, afraid to breathe lest we invite painful scrapes and stings.

Back on the boat, the time would pass with reading, dozing, or chatting, with everyone finding their own comfortable niche on the boat. Lily would find endless inspiration for painting. Chef Toto and his staff, working out of a cramped walk-through kitchen in the rear of the boat, would ply us with three meals a day and mid-day snacks. And, Toto did not disappoint. We're talking squid adobo, fried calamari, curries, beans, rice, watermelon, suckling pig (with its incredibly crispy skin), all washed down with a spicy ginger tea or a cold San Miguel. Other times it might be carved out coconut with papaya, mango and porridge or an amazing assortment of vegetables and fruits. The succulent and sweet mango alone was worth the trip. Whatever we might not have in the way of creature comforts was quickly forgotten when Toto's dishes were wheeled out for us.

Civilization did make an appearance every now and then, mostly in the guise of tiny fishing villages that would appear sporadically. When we would stop at these villages, the boat would get close to shore, and we would either swim or get ferried ashore. At one such place, we were greeted by groups of young, impossibly cute children who would flock to Ollie as kids might to the Pied Piper. When their attention turned to us, they would giggle and swarm to see their images shared with them from all the photos our group would take of them. For the younger ones, these photos were like magic. They don't see too many of these. At another site, we were invited to play in a volleyball game in which the young ladies of the village were on one side and us on the other. Alex, sensing damsels in distress, gallantly took their side. When his spikes won points for the girls, the girls would start chanting, “handsome, handsome” at their new hero with equal parts squealing and laughter. Later, in a basketball game on a rough hewn court, every time Alex scored a basket, the same chorus would break out from the sidelines. I have a feeling Alex won't let us forget this any time soon.

On our last night, in a fitting burst of craziness for this adventure, we were treated to a homespun disco complete with karaoke. They had a book so weathered you'd swear it had been through wars and countless typhoons that listed thousands of songs you could choose to cause you maximum embarrassment. And, select we did: No Woman No Cry, Don't Stop Believin', Viva La Vida, I Want It That Way, Wonderwall, and, of course, Sledgehammer. The ensuing cacophony – and, really, there's no other term that better describes it – roared through the night in a manner worthy of frightening all but the most intrepid children and cats. All of this was nicely fueled through a heady mix of rum and pineapple juice. Nothing was held back. It was great fun and only embarrassing the next morning.

Karaoke aside, what Tao Philippines offered us was special. What we lacked in creature comforts was made up in full measure by some astounding sights, tastes, and, best of all, memories. We were far from home, for sure. As Dorothy once so indelibly remarked, “Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.” I thought of that line more than once on this adventure.

We were off the grid, alright. But, there was no place we'd rather be.

Swimming With The Jellies

I don't know who created the notion of the “bucket list,” but I love the idea. It says so much about us – our dreams, our idiosyncrasies. For many, it's the pursuit of an experience that is so at odds with our daily lifestyle that we think of certain goals as almost unattainable. Maybe it's a trip to an exotic location or an epic meal at a world-class five star restaurant. Maybe it's getting onstage and starring in a community theater production. Maybe it's learning to play the piano or, for others, skydiving. At the risk of over dramatizing it, a bucket list provides, in its own way, a tiny window into the soul.

In our case, a shared bucket list item for Lily and me has been a visit to Palau, an emerald green bejeweled set of islands that sits millions of miles from everywhere in the western Pacific Ocean. Why Palau? Because it is the home of Jellyfish Lake, a volcanic lake up in the hills that is home to millions of jellyfish – the non-stinging variety. The idea is that you jump off a pier with your snorkeling gear and find yourself surrounded by teeming, pulsating jellyfish which create a tickling-like massage experience that may be unique on planet earth. That's what we had read anyway.

For the life of me, I don't know how I came to become so enamored with this idea. As a kid, my family would travel to south Florida from time to time. It was here that I was introduced to the Portuguese Man O' War, a beautifully translucent blue jellyfish with, what I led myself to believe, was an excruciating and mortal sting. My father and I would walk along the beach, he with a piece of sharp driftwood in his hand and me with a look of abject horror, as we went out on a mission to kill these outwardly beautiful creatures – to literally pop them like a balloon – before they got us. Later in life, both Lily and I would experience the painful, red striations that are the universal tattoo of the jellyfish that just added to their legend as things to be avoided at all costs. Kind of like the plague. And yet, despite this uninterrupted history of freakish fear and terror at the thought of all things jellyfish, I not only begrudgingly tolerated Lily's idea, but I embraced it with a passion. Life is so strange sometimes.

When we told folks of our plans to swim with the jellies, the reactions were both amusing and predictable. Most folks would instinctively curl their lips and wrinkle their noses and let out an extended “eeuww!” Others would hurl epithets like “weird” or “creepy” or some colorful combination of both. Our neighbor, Jan, said (with just the slightest hint of exasperation), “Why don't you just fill your bathtub with jello and jump in? Why go halfway around the world to do this?” Okay, okay, I get it. It's not for everyone!

Our visit to Jellyfish Lake was part of an all-day excursion to the southern region of Palau. It would be our boat with a guide and just the two of us. We would visit three or four snorkeling sites, apply soothing (and comical) ocean-bottom mud at what they call the “Milky Way,” and wander secluded beaches. But, in our minds, this was just prelude to the unchallenged star attraction of all this, Jellyfish Lake. To get to the lake, we needed to hike up steep steps, climb over some volcanic rock, and then do the same down the steep path to this mysterious and secluded lake sitting in a totally uninhabited primeval jungle environment. When we arrived, we were the only persons there. We got our snorkeling gear straightened out, and we jumped in.

I expected, of course, to be immediately engulfed in a blizzard of jellyfish. But, we weren't. The water on this day was bathtub warm, but seemingly without any visibility beyond our noses. And, no jellyfish! Joe, our guide, had told us that the jellies move around and are mysteriously affected by changes in the lunar cycle. He urged us to press on and swim to the center of the lake. As we neared the center, everything changed. At first, it was just the spotting of a jellyfish and then two or three. The water cleared. And then, it was as if the curtain rose and we were permitted to enter a region of planet earth reserved for a select few. The handful of jellyfish we had seen now turned to hundreds and then thousands. They were everywhere. And, they were so beautiful. With the sun's rays reaching down well below the lake's surface, it was as if some of these jellyfish were in a celestial spotlight eager to perform. There were different sizes, none much bigger than the spread of the fingers on one's hand. They were domed on one end with their thick tendrils laying underneath. Imagine a large mushroom cap with stunted multiple stems reaching down below it. But, instead of the mundane earthiness of the mushroom, see instead a translucent figure that lets the sun shine through and which gives it a most definite feeling of lightness, delicacy and grace.

I was giddy and I was awestruck. I felt stoned. I would reach out and gently touch these marine life wonders or cup them in my hands. They were soft, softer than a baby's cheek. They were tinged in a brownish orange, but you could see right through them. And, when we found ourselves surrounded by thousands of these lightly pulsating life forms, I felt like we were in the midst of an incredibly choreographed ballet that, in that moment, was just begging for a soundtrack.

Did we ever get so invaded that we felt the massage-like experience we had read about? Sadly, no. But, what we saw and what we felt was nothing short of magical – even spiritual -- that will forever be hard to replicate.

We'll have to dig deeper into our bucket list for that.