There’s a scene in the movie Kill Bill: Vol. 2, where the Bride (played by Uma Thurman) wakes up in a coffin, buried alive by her evil nemesis, Bill.  Luckily, she has trained for situations like this, able to break through wooden containers via the sharp, focused, rap of her knuckles.

 

I have no such ninja tricks up my sleeve as I find myself lying down in a shallow trough, an attendant shoveling hot sand onto my arms, legs, and torso – literally burying me alive.

 

Kill Bill: Vol. 3, you ask?

 

Nope. Just a typical visit to the Saraku Sand Bath Hall in Ibusuki, Japan.

 

Called “Sunamushi” in Japanese, sand baths have a long tradition in the country — and Saraku, on the far-southwest tip of Kyushu, is Japan’s most famous public “sand steam onsen.”  Visitors have been coming here fromas far back as the 16^th century, recognizing the unique healing and detoxification properties of the naturally warm coastal sand, made extra toasty by the local, geothermally-heated ground water.

 

Like everything in Japan, there’s a correct process for getting yourself buried alive.

 

Stowing my clothes in a locker, I grab a small hand towel, wrap it around my neck, and don a cotton yukata robe.  As I make my way out to the beach, an attendant hands me an umbrella because, on this rainy morning in May, I wouldn’t want to get my head and body wet before my hot sand burial.

 

At last I arrive at the “bathing” area, a series of clearly-delineated sand pits, numbered 1-10 and covered with a tarp.  There, an attendant in a light-blue jersey, a towel wrapped around his head, points to my trough.

 

“Lie down in #4!”

 

No problemo.

 

But that’s when things gets kind of weird.  It’s not the sensation of having warm sand piled on me –akin to being covered in weighted blankets – that’s upsetting.  It’s the sound!

 

You see, sound travels very efficiently in the medium of sand.  So not only do I hear my own bath attendant driving his shovel into the ground.  I hear ALL the shovels biting into the sand pit.  “Ka chuuk, Ka chuuk, Ka chuuk.”  It’s like taking part in a mass burial in a mass grave, accompanied by a shovel symphony.

 

Even stranger, everyone around me appears to be laughing and chatting, like this is the most normal thing in the world – being communally buried in a very HOT SAND PIT!

 

“Oh, the breakfast at our hotel was so delicious this morning, wasn’t it?”

“It sure was!”

“I’d love to have that miso soup again.”

 

And all the while, I’m getting hotter and hotter in my burial trough, sweating more and more profusely.

 

“Keep an eye on that clock and get out after ten minutes!” my attendant warns me.

 

“Or what?” I wonder.  Loss of consciousness?  Over-detoxification?  Brain hemorrhage?

 

After my ten minutes have elapsed, there’s the final question of how to un-bury myself.   You see, the sand is very heavy!

 

In the end, I summon up the requisite energy, push upward and burst through the earth like a zombie from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video.  Grabbing my umbrella (which I’ve become quite attached to at this point), I lumber, zombie-like, back to the main building, where I shower off all the sand, throw my towel and yukata in a chute, and plunge into a final, communal hot spring.   Ahhhhh!

 

Is it all worth it?  The heat, the sweating, the sound assault?  Medical research certainly supports the practice.  Apparently the combination of the weight of the sand and the geothermal heat increases cardiac output and core body temperature. It’s said to be 3-4 times more effective than a traditional hot spring at improving blood circulation, delivering oxygen to tissues, and flushing waste materials from the body.

 

And for a mere $15, who am I to complain.  Why not “take the plunge”?

 

After all, friends who are buried together must surely stay together!

 

(In case you’re wondering why I did the “sunamushi” alone, my traveling partner, Cenzo, declined the experience, citing tiredness.  And to be honest, I almost joined him.  At 8:30am on a rainy morning, it would have been sooo easy to just stay in my comfy, climate-controlled hotel room, enjoying a cup of coffee and reading through my guidebook.   Arriving at the sand bath facility at that hour required an effort:  getting dressed, sprinting to our car, setting the GPS, driving ten minutes in the pouring rain, finding a parking spot, sprinting to the building and then figuring out the bathing process (in Japanese).   In other words, it required what my Mom would’ve called “a production.”   And yet, isn’t it also true that we enjoy what is easy but we remember what is hard?

 

The difficulty is part of what made the experience memorable.

 

What “production” are you putting off today because of inertia?  What potential stories are you missing by taking the comfortable rout    What kind of life do you want to live – one of forgettable luxury or memorable challenges?)