The Lost Girls (11 page)

Their enthusiasm over receiving unwashed clothing made my throat tighten. Far away from the glitz and grit of New York City, I thought that often the people who had the least in the way of material possessions seemed the happiest. The porters, who carried giant packs of other people's belongings, didn't appear to focus on what they lacked. Instead, they acted grateful for the small stuff that came their way—even used antibiotic ointment. And their eyes, though lined with creases and slightly weathered, looked to me to have more sparkle than any guy I'd seen walking down Wall Street in an Armani suit. I wished I had more to give than a measly bag of coca leaves, but living out of a backpack didn't leave much room for miscellaneous items.

On our last morning, breakfast wasn't the bountiful affair it had been on previous days. Instead, we quickly devoured cinnamon-sprinkled porridge by starlight, gathered our belongings, and then relied on our headlamps to guide us.

The earth quivered under the hundreds of feet tracing the path. We moved at warp speed through grassy fields and then forests with fan-shaped leaves that rustled in the wind. As the stars were gradually absorbed back into a brightening sky, it was a race against the sun.

We trekked the final few kilometers along the mountainside, slipped into a cloud forest, and then climbed about fifty steps to get our first view of Machu Picchu framed by the sun gate, or Intipunku. The Incas were genius architects, lining up the stone walls in this gate to match the angle of the summer and winter solstices. On those two days of the year, the sun was perfectly aligned to flood the gate's opening with a solid beam of light. As we approached, the light beckoned us forward.

Less than three hours after we'd started, our group sat cross-legged on a stone terrace to soak up the moment we'd trekked twenty-six miles to witness: The first rays peeked out from behind the sprawling ruins of Machu Picchu. As the sky morphed from pink to gold to periwinkle, the light pushed shadows across the stones, making them appear to be living, breathing beings.

The centuries-old city changed shape before our eyes, sunlight flowing like water through the labyrinth of rectangular passages, staircases, and buildings sitting on a flat plateau framed by a cloud-covered mountain peak. The ancient Incas didn't have wheels, so the sheer manpower it must have taken to construct such a monument was as impressive as the intricate architecture itself.

Despite the fact that Amanda and I had been sick just days before and we'd all spent the last few nights sleeping on rocky ground in the Andes, my friends' eyes shone brightly and their complexions glowed. The sun suddenly shifted higher in the sky, illuminating every stone in the ancient city.

“Can you believe people built this place by
hand
?” Shannon, always filled with facts, whispered beside me.

Though the ruins seemed to me like some sort of miracle, I wasn't contemplating the Incas' brilliant engineering as I watched the sun climb higher in the sky. I was thinking about my own journey to Machu Picchu and how it wouldn't have been the same if I'd done it alone. My thoughts flitted back over
the past three days. The Quechuan woman who had returned Amanda's wallet at the start. How Reubén's voice had grown lower as he pointed out the offerings to the gods left along the trail. How Ramón's face had lit up during the porter-tipping ceremony.

I can't recall exactly how long I sat there, thinking that my teenage self never would've believed I'd have done this. It was long enough for the exhaustion from twenty-six miles of hiking to hit Jen and Amanda, who were leaning against each other and using their sunglasses to unsuccessfully hide eyes surrendering to sleep. Reubén jumped to his feet in front of them, signaling for us to gather around for another lecture. “Hey, everybuddy! I gadda question for you!”

Our pack of pilgrims dragged ourselves over as he continued, “You win a Snickers bar if you can tell me, what is the Quechua spiritual law of
ayni
?”

“It means reciprocity,” I belted out, excited to finally be able to answer a trivia question. “Kind of like, give and you shall receive.”

“Eggg-cellent!” he said, tossing me the chocolate.

My stomach grumbled, and I realized we hadn't eaten since the porridge hours before. Ready to rip open the wrapper and devour the chocolate, I suddenly stopped.

“Hey, Jen, Amanda, you hungry?” I asked, breaking the bar into three. Handing them each a piece, we ate in silence as we followed Reubén for a tour of the Sacred Plaza.

AMAZON JUNGLE, PERU
JULY

F
loating down the Amazon River, Amanda, Holly, and I peered over the railing of the famous triple-decker
Amazon Queen,
eagerly scanning the depths for piranhas. It was rumored that these legendary underwater assassins were abundant in the area, but we'd yet to spot even one razor-sharp tooth beneath the surface.

“Hey, Hol, why don't you test the waters?” I cajoled, nudging her forward with my shoulder. “It's just a few fingers.”

“Hah! I laugh at killer fish,” she said, pushing me back. “I think Amanda should be the one to put her hand in…you know, since I had to sit by myself on the plane on the way here.”

With a month of traveling already under our belts, Amanda, Holly, and I had settled into a comfortable sisterly relationship, teasing and tormenting each other as effortlessly as if we'd grown up in the same house. I still marveled at the fact that not only had all three of us committed to the trip but we'd actually grown closer—rather than wanting to throttle one another—after spending so much quality time together.

We'd packed in more adventures and bonding moments in the inaugural weeks of the trip than I'd been expecting from
the entire year. So far, we'd hiked the Inca Trail, surfed down mountainous sand dunes in Huacachina, been rescued by a priest in a minivan in a Colca Canyon desert, visited the floating islands on Lake Titicaca, eaten alpaca in Cusco, very nearly been bucked off the backs of wild horses in the countryside outside Lima, and were now embarking on a five-day journey through the heart of the Amazon.

The sheer number of adrenaline-pumping activities we'd just experienced—and still had in store—had mostly overshadowed any homesickness on my part. Aside from one dramatic screaming and crying match with Brian in a very public Internet café in Arequipa (not my proudest tourist moment), we'd managed to shelve any serious relationship talks and decided to discuss the topic of “us” only after I left Brazil and returned to New York City for two weeks in August.

Until that day arrived, I intended to focus entirely on the trip and living in the moment. I pulled out my camera and started snapping pictures over the railing. Though there were no paint-smeared natives trolling the riverbanks, as we'd half expected, our leisurely cruise down the Amazon did provide a scenic overview of what was to come: emerald green rain forests, sleepy riverside villages, vast sherbet-colored sunsets, and an endless cacophony of monkey howls, parrot squawks, and cicadalike rhythms.

Upon arrival at our all-inclusive lodge (there really weren't many other sleeping options available to tourists in the Amazon), we were escorted to quaint, thatched-roof bungalows to freshen up before meeting Cliver, our local guide and 24/7 tourist-sitter during our stay. As we sipped syrupy ribbons of rum and fruit juice through curly bamboo straws, Cliver entertained us with jungle trivia, then rattled off a quick list of must-dos. Determined to pack in as many activities as we could physically handle, we crafted an itinerary that included every
excursion from the lodge-sanctioned Amazon sampler menu—taking a rain forest night hike, darting through the treetops on shaky suspension bridges, making friends with wild monkeys, and fishing for piranhas.

Personally, I was so thrilled to have someone else take charge of our schedule that I almost didn't care what we did. As long as we were surrounded by nature, far from civilization and all the pesky Internet cafés I'd grown to loathe, I was a happy jungle camper.

“Hey, Cliver, I read that there's Wi-Fi here at the lodge. Is that true?” Amanda asked.

Without thinking, I rolled my eyes but quickly turned my head, hoping Amanda hadn't caught me doing it. Though I loved the tremendous reservoir of free time we'd just tapped into, it seemed she hadn't quite adjusted to the serious downshift in the pace and structure of our days. I didn't quite get it: though she'd been the one of us most determined to leave her high-stress job, she was also the one most determined to stay in touch with the world that we'd left behind. Every single person in our lives knew that we were overseas, but she still slipped off and checked her e-mail daily.

“Oh, sure, it's a tad compulsive, but now that we have so much time to just chill on the road, what's the harm in going online every once in a while? You know I'm addicted,” she'd joke.

Blame it on the ancient IBMs or ultraslow dial-up connections, but soon the single hour she said she planned to spend in the Internet café turned into several. And once Amanda decided she wanted to pitch articles to editors back in New York, our daily itinerary was often shaped around her desire to do online research and be available between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. Between Amanda's newfound ambition to become a travel writer and the monthly column Holly had been assigned to pen from the road, I found myself left to my own devices
more often than I'd expected—or wanted. Just when I'd built up the nerve to share my frustrations with Amanda, she hit me with a piece of news that made me pause.

“Since girlfriend getaways are becoming a hot travel topic, I proposed a ‘Girls' Guide to Cusco' to a former coworker of mine who is now working at a guidebook company. It'd be a kind of photo flip book of female-friendly places they could put online,” she explained, her words tumbling out in a rush.

“Wow, that's an awesome idea,” Holly said.

“Thanks. The editor really liked it too, and”—she paused, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin—“this is where you guys come in. She wants you to write it with me.”

“Wait, you mean you and Holly, right?” I said. “I've only ever written marketing proposals for work, which I doubt qualifies me to do this sort of piece.”

“No, she wants you to do it, too. I told her all about our trip, and she thinks it would be more interesting coming from all three of us. If we do a good job, it could even turn into a regular online series. And of course we'd be getting paid for it,” Amanda added hastily. “Not much, but enough to pay for a few nights' sleep a month.”

I could tell Amanda expected me to be thrilled about the opportunity, but I was still on the fence about whether a group writing assignment was a good idea. After taking a few days to mull it over, I'd hesitantly agreed. I knew it was important to Amanda, so I didn't want to hold her back. Plus, as the keeper of our trip budget, I knew the extra cash would come in handy.

But when Cliver responded, “Yes, we do have the wireless Internet throughout all of the lodge,” my heart sank a little.

While the group project was still hanging over our heads, the last thing I wanted to think about in the Amazon was working. This portion of our trip was exactly the type of wild, off-the-beaten-track experience that had prompted me to leave
New York in the first place. Maybe once we were installed in the jungle, Amanda would forget the Internet—at least for a little while.

 

F
or the first time in weeks, we awoke not to the sound of sledgehammers smashing concrete, car horns blaring, wild dogs barking, or roosters screeching, but rather to something we'd forgotten existed: silence.

Tugging at the cloth window panel, I took in the exotic spread of vine-wrapped trees, tropical flowers, and rainbow-painted macaws perched on a poolside gazebo. Well rested at last (and uncharacteristically cheery at such an early hour), I bounced out of bed to join the girls in getting dressed for our first great adventure. The morning hike would lead us to the Canopy Walkway, which Cliver dutifully pointed out was one of the longest treetop pathways in the world.

Pumped full of malaria meds, our water bottles topped to the brim and a tube of SPF 30 sunblock shoved into a side pocket of Holly's day pack, we felt amply prepared to plunge into the jungle and explore the steamy surroundings. After a winding trek down a palm-fringed trail, we arrived at the base of the first (of fourteen) narrow suspension bridges lashed together with steel cables and thick twine, and began the long ascent up the staircase. Our guidebook wasn't kidding when it said this experience wasn't for the faint of heart.

The narrow wooden boards were suspended more than a hundred feet in the air. They creaked and shuddered with every step, and we felt more like characters in an Indiana Jones film than a trio of wide-eyed tourists. Even though I could see the mesh netting installed underneath the bridges to keep crossers from plummeting to the jungle floor, traversing the planks with no harness required some seriously steely nerves—and all
my concentration. On the first bridge, the girls and I moved at a snail's pace, literally learning the ropes as we went. But with each new crossing challenge, I got braver and faster until I was eventually navigating bridges without using my hands to steady me. Between our Cirque du Soleil–worthy stunts, Amanda, Holly, and I loitered on the treetop platforms, attempting to digitally capture the aerial view that only we—and an extended family of spider monkeys—were privy to.

When we finally stepped back onto terra firma, I slowly came down from the high of our “near-death” experience. Fortunately, Cliver had another adventure in store for us. He was taking us to see a local medicine man named Luis, a healing shaman who lived deep within the jungle.

An expert in rain forest remedies, Luis was the go-to guy when anything from a toothache to a cold to a deadly snakebite struck one of the local villagers. We arrived at his makeshift clinic—an open-air, dirt-floored pavilion—and settled down on wobbly wood stools, waiting for Luis to give what Cliver described as a “beeerrry special lecture on the plants that calm sickness and disease.”

“And there is a special drink to, how do you say, uh, make you be in the sexy mood,” Cliver added with a mischievous grin. “It does not taste good, but you are very happy afterward.”

Before any of us could respond to that comment, a shrunken man with deeply carved wrinkles and a shock of wild gray hair appeared before us in the clinic. He set up camp behind a rickety workbench topped with empty glass vials, baskets filled with leaves, roots and herbs, and unmarked jars brimming with crimson-and toffee-colored liquids.

With Cliver translating Luis's native Quechua into understandable (though slightly suspect) English phrases, the girls and I learned how mimosa root could be used as a contraceptive, a tea made from
paico
plants killed intestinal parasites, and
the scarlet sap from a dragon's-blood tree had the power to heal cuts and quell the itch of mosquito bites. But by far the most impressive information that Cliver shared was the fact that nearly a quarter of today's Western pharmaceuticals, including some cancer treatments, are derived from tropical rain forest plants. This discovery gave us a whole new level of respect for our surroundings and the importance of environmental preservation.

After the presentation wrapped up, Cliver introduced us to Luis, and we finally discovered the meaning of his cryptic statement about rain forest remedies that could put us in the mood. Taking a generous swig from a bottle of what looked like dirty lake water, Cliver explained that by soaking the bark of the
chuchuhuasi
tree in local sugarcane rum (
aguardiente
or “firewater”), the medicine man had created a powerful aphrodisiac. And since Cliver was going to visit his girlfriend later, he wanted to be prepared.

“Waaaay too much information, Cliver!” I remarked as he crossed his arms over his chest and gave us a slow, sly nod. “The effects are probably in your head anyway.”

“What, you do not believe me?” he replied, not even attempting to suppress a wide grin. “Maybe you try it for yourself and prove me wrong?”

“Oh, yeah, Jen. Take a sip and see what happens,” Holly baited, a clear retaliation for my unsportsmanlike conduct around her and the piranhas. “C'mon, I dare you!”

“I quadruple dog dare you,” added Amanda, extracting the bottle from Cliver's hands and forcing it into mine. “If it works, it'll be a great story to tell your grandkids…or, well, maybe your future husband.”

“If I drink this shit, I may not live long enough to get married and have kids, let alone grandkids,” I said, taking a whiff of the pungent formula, then recoiling in pain as the fumes singed my sinuses.

“C'mon, Baggy, this is totally one of those daredevil stunts you
say
you're not afraid to do,” Amanda said, not allowing me to back down.

“Throwing myself out of a plane is one thing. Drinking a potentially poisonous substance is quite another,” I rebutted, but I was already raising the bottle to my lips. “Fine. I'll do it.”

Before I could change my mind, I downed a huge gulp. After staring for a second in disbelief, Cliver, Amanda, and Holly responded with enthusiastic howls, drowning out my theatrical hisses and yelps. I'd never exactly sampled battery acid, but it couldn't taste much worse or burn more than this stuff.

As we bid the shaman farewell and left the medicine hut, Holly and Amanda pummeled me with obnoxious questions.

“Are you oddly attracted to that tree? Or maybe that spider?” Amanda asked the second we were out of Cliver's earshot.

“How 'bout that monkey up there…looking pretty sexy right about now, huh?” goaded Holly, poking me in the side.

I didn't admit it, but about twenty minutes later, a peculiar, tingly warmth began to spread throughout my body. Blame it on the swill's alcoholic potency or the voodoo power of suggestion, but whatever it was, by the time we returned to the lodge I was eager to hit the freezing cold showers.

 

A
lthough Amanda, Holly, and I reveled in the athletic opportunities the Amazon provided, it was one of the cultural excursions that most piqued our interest. On our third day, Cliver took us to meet a group of Yagua Indians, an indigenous tribe best known for its expertise in blowgun hunting. Not only were we going to watch them shoot tiny darts thirty feet and hit an impossibly small target, but, according to Cliver, they were going to teach us how to do the exact same thing.