The Lost Girls (19 page)

“How long you visit India?” he asked.

“About a month. A little less,” Jen answered. He flipped through our passports and placed our forms inside of them.

“You come back four-thirty. Other line pick up.”

The three of us walked outside and started heading in the direction of Central Park. Once inside the stone walls, we sat down on one of the unoccupied green benches. I pulled out the nearly empty box of cigarettes and started to light one.

“You're smoking?” Holly asked, staring at me. “I've never seen you smoke.”

“I started again this week,” I said, offering her the pack. “But I think I'm done.”

“No, thanks. I'm quitting, too,” she said. “They definitely don't let you smoke at the ashram, so I should probably get a head start by giving them up now.”

I digested that comment for a couple seconds before turning to face Holly.

“What are you saying?” I asked, afraid to get my hopes up. “You're coming?”

“Well, did you really mean what you said in there? About lending me the money. Is that really an option?” Holly shifted her gaze from her shoes to my face.

“Of course I meant it. I really want to do this. I mean, you've already paid for the volunteer program in Kenya, and India's just a hop skip away from there. Besides, I can't think of a better investment than you, Corbett. So do me proud and say you'll accept.”

I felt as if I were proposing, and in a way, I guess I was. If she said yes, we'd all be tied to one another, for better or worse, through the next nine months and eight countries. “Okay, sugar mama,” she said. “Let's do it. I accept.”

 

KIMININI, KENYA
SEPTEMBER

M
zungu, mzungu!
How-a are
you
…
mzungu
?” echoed across the sun-drenched farmland as barefoot kids scampered down mud-caked roads to greet us.

“Msuri sana,”
Amanda, Holly, and I replied in our best Swahili, smiling and waving as we walked along.

It was our second day in Kiminini, Kenya, and we were eager to explore the small village where we'd be spending the next four weeks. Back home in New York, I'd imagined our volunteer program location would be set in a vast, parched savanna similar to the variety shown in
Out of Africa
. But instead, we'd been plopped into a vibrant, pastoral canvas painted with immense sunflower-sprinkled fields and cotton-ball clouds.

Since a
mzungu
, or white person, was still very much a novelty in this part of the country, we knew our presence was bound to garner at least some attention. But we could hardly have expected the overwhelming welcome we received from the pint-sized ambassadors of Kiminini. Even when we replied to their greetings with the correct Swahili phrase,
“Msuri sana”
(very well), the brood trailing us burst into a fit of giggles and high-pitched squeals.

By the time we reached the edge of town—little more than a cluster of tin shacks and wooden stalls offering everything from used bicycle tires to ice cream cones–we'd acquired quite the entourage. These kids, who ranged from about three to eight years old, were dressed in a hand-me-down collection of smock dresses, pajama pants, khaki shorts, and cartoon T-shirts. At first our wide-eyed onlookers kept their distance, but eventually they grew bolder and started walking directly in our footsteps. When we'd turn around and pretend to run after them, they'd shriek and dash away, clearly thrilled at the prospect of being chased by three strange, but seemingly friendly, women. Before long, they started sneaking closer and touching us gently, egging us to play this new and exciting game over and over again. But it wasn't until we broke out our cameras that the real fun began.

We'd learned in South America that children would often get extraordinarily excited to see a photo of themselves—for many of those in rural or impoverished areas, it was for the very first time. And as I tilted my three-inch Olympus viewing screen down so the kids of Kiminini could see their own reflections, they had a similar reaction. Jumping up and down, they squealed with joy as if as I'd unlocked the doors to the world's largest candy shop. They formed a tight circle around me, leaping onto my back and pleading, “Again, mzungu, again!” At the same time, Amanda whipped out her camcorder to capture what she already knew would be a moment I'd want to relive long after leaving Kenya.

“So, Jen, does this experience fulfill all your
Flame Tree
fantasies?” she asked, mirroring the tone of a reporter interviewing a fresh-off-the-field Super Bowl champ.

“Well, I'm glad you asked that, Amanda,” I replied, striking my best interviewee pose. I then launched into a speech about how unbelievably lucky I felt to be crouched in the dirt, sur
rounded by children, in a country I'd dreamed of visiting since I was still carrying a lunch box to school. Anyone who knew me well would have heard about
The Flame Trees of Thika
, a PBS miniseries I'd fallen in love with decades ago.

Unlike my friends' parents, mine had the crazy notion that cable television was an unnecessary luxury I could live without. Despite my constant begging and pleading to be “like all my friends,” my Nickelodeon-fueled fantasies never came to fruition. Instead, I became the only kid in my neighborhood with an in-depth knowledge of the Saturday-night
Masterpiece Theatre
schedule.

One evening, my parents called me into the TV room to watch a new miniseries called
The Flame Trees of Thika.
Naturally I was skeptical. I could barely pronounce the title, let alone get excited about some nature program about a burning forest. That all changed after the first scene when I realized that the show was actually about a little girl my age—score one for Mom and Dad!

Based on the true story of Elspeth Huxley, whose parents left England in 1913 to start a coffee farm in Kenya,
The Flame Trees of Thika
was my first introduction to life in East Africa. By the end of the first episode, I was already intrigued by the mysterious culture of Kenya's indigenous people, the exotic animals that roamed freely across the plains, and the country's breathtaking natural beauty. I longed to be just like Elspeth: to mingle with the native Kikuyu tribe, to explore the vast expanses of wheat-colored savanna, and to have my very own white pony. Aside from slumber parties and soccer practice, each new episode was the highlight of my week. That was, until the sad day when the series ended.

Sobbing uncontrollably to the rolling of the credits, I was consoled only by my mom's insistence that she was certain PBS would rerun the series and I'd be reunited with
The Flame Trees
of Thika
again in the near future. But no matter how many hours I logged rewatching my coveted VHS copy in the years to come, the viewing experience never replaced my desire to see Africa for myself. And now, after almost two decades of planning the pilgrimage in my head, I'd finally made it.

 

B
y the time we'd arrived in Kenya, my expectations couldn't have been higher. A wave of nervousness had washed over me as our plane approached the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi just a few short days earlier. I could only hope the experience would be all that I'd imagined.

After a brief two-night stint in the country's capital (which, fortunately for us, didn't live up to its “Nairobbery” nickname), Amanda, Holly, and I were escorted to the bus station by our on-ground volunteer coordinators.

After extensive online research and personal inquiries, we'd committed to a one-month program with Village Volunteers, a Seattle-based nonprofit that partnered with rural towns across Kenya. Since all three of us were interested in youth education, the company's founder, Shana Greene, recommended that we work with the Common Ground Program, a grassroots NGO (nongovernmental organization) that housed a primary school serving hundreds of children, many of whom were orphans or had lost at least one parent to illness or disease.

We'd been warned that the eight-hour journey toward Mount Elgon in the western part of the country would be a tad bumpy. In reality, our vehicle bounced and crashed over the rain-gutted roads like a mechanical bull on warp speed, forcing its riders to hold on for dear life—and us to change into sports bras at the first opportunity. The ride may have been jarring, but no amount of head-to-ceiling bumps and bruises could knock me off my cloud. Hoping Amanda and Holly wouldn't notice, I set
my iPod to play Toto's “Africa” on repeat and gazed dreamily out the window.

While almost a century had passed since Elspeth Huxley had lived here, Kenya's most distinctive features had stood the test of time. Delicate acacia trees, masquerading as wispy umbrellas, rose majestically from silky cornfields. Ginger red roads streaked the landscape, winding in endless pursuit of the horizon. And a family of zebras held court around a crystal watering hole that reflected the sapphire sky.

Eventually, sporadic signs of civilization punctuated the vast wilderness. Men emerged from ditches carrying hammers and machetes, while women balancing large bundles on their heads returned from the market. As we crashed and banged through one of the isolated roadside towns, my attention was diverted to a grassy ledge jutting out from the hillside. On it was a tiny boy, maybe three or four years old, sitting alone swinging his legs and singing to himself. When he caught sight of our bus, his face lit up like a jack-o'-lantern, and it seemed as if his doe eyes locked directly onto mine. In an instant, he leapt to his bare feet, jumping up and down and waving furiously.

I sat frozen in place, blinking rapidly to ensure the boy wasn't a product of my
Flame Trees
fantasy. But he kept staring and smiling and fluttering his arms in the air. I grinned from ear to ear and waved back, which propelled him to run along the ridge, giggling and chasing the bus from above until it drove too fast for him to keep up.

I turned to tell Amanda and Holly what had happened, but they were sprawled across the brittle plastic seats, trying to catch a catnap between jostles. I smiled, recalling one of my favorite scenes from
Stand by Me
, in which the main character has a sentimental encounter with a deer by the train tracks that he doesn't share with anyone until he writes his novel. In that
moment, a tear slipped down my dusty cheek, and I decided to keep my encounter with the boy to myself.

As our bus continued down the lonely dirt road, the image of the boy stayed with me and I couldn't help but interpret his presence as a sign. Starting that day, I would be living out a dream I'd been harboring for twenty years, and I knew without a doubt that I was finally on the right track.

 

I
t was approaching nightfall by the time we reached the grounds of Pathfinder Academy. Even in the dim light, there was no denying that we'd landed squarely in farm country. The school, built of cinder blocks and tin, sat to the left of the main gate. Down on the right, I spotted a traditional mud house and two round huts with thatched roofs. A menagerie of cows, chickens, and stray dogs wandered the sludgy lawn, replacing the giraffes, elephants, and gazelles we'd romantically envisioned.

Joshua Machinga, our volunteer leader, waited proudly outside, greeting us with an enthusiastic
karibu
(welcome). He introduced us to his five children, Sandra, Tracy, John, Cindy, and Shana, who ranged from two to thirteen years old, and his wife, Mama Sandra, a bright-eyed, full-figured woman with a youthful complexion and a high, ringing belly laugh that echoed across the entire farm. Joshua ushered us into his family's modest two-room house for a meet-and-greet tea party, only here the china saucers had been replaced by small tin cups and lightbulbs swapped out for old-fashioned kerosene lanterns. Once we were seated on a long bumpy sofa covered with crocheted lace, I noticed that the walls and floor were made of some kind of hardened earth. It wasn't until days later that I learned they were actually made from cow dung and a fresh layer was spread on every few weeks to keep things, uh, well…fresh.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder, Amanda, Holly and I made small talk with three naturopathic medical students from Bastyr University near Seattle who'd been working at various Village Volunteer sites across Kenya. According to them, Common Ground was one of the most modern and prosperous programs, and Joshua's family was considered to be fairly well off by local standards—a sobering thought given that there was no running water and very limited electricity. Before I could ask the volunteers more about the poverty that lay beyond the barbed-wire fence surrounding the property, a petite brunette burst into the room. She wore a T-shirt that read
THIS IS WHAT AN ENVIRONMENTALIST LOOKS LIKE
, and her green paisley wrap skirt was streaked with flour.

“Oh! You must be the New Yorkers. I'm Irene, one of the other volunteers. I've really been looking forward to meeting you guys!” she exclaimed with a grin, placing a covered dish on the table. She dusted her palms on her skirt before reaching over to offer each of us a handshake. “I've been helping the cooks make chapati bread, so I hope it tastes all right.”

Within a matter of minutes, we learned that Irene was an undergrad at Yale but was taking a semester off to travel and pursue philanthropic endeavors. Already she'd constructed a solar dehydrator so that Joshua's family could dry fruit for longer storage and was spearheading a tree-planting project the following day.

“I'll introduce you to Emmanuel, who organizes the sustainable farming projects, so maybe you can help too,” she offered.

Still slightly disoriented, I breathed a sigh of relief at having so many friendly faces to greet us. Hopefully Irene could show us the ropes and help make Amanda and Holly feel more comfortable. Because although they'd fully supported my dream to volunteer in Kenya, I couldn't help but feel responsible for their happiness here. This was a pretty huge leap from even the grit
tiest of conditions we'd faced in South America, so I could only cross my fingers and hope I hadn't gotten us in over our heads.

Just then, one of Joshua's eldest daughters came in to set the table, followed by three men carrying bubbling cast-iron cauldrons. Joshua and Mama Sandra settled in nearby chairs, cranked up the kerosene lamps, and shared what was on that evening's menu: stewed chicken with tomatoes, lentils, potatoes, two kinds of beans, flatbread, and an overflowing bowl of mangoes.

As children of the “We Are the World” generation, the girls and I had envisioned the food in Africa as being rationed out by the spoonful, so we'd strategically stuffed energy bars in every crevice of our backpacks for this part of the trip. But what lay before us was a veritable feast. We could only hope that everyone on the farm enjoyed the same generous portions and that this meal wasn't being served just for our benefit.

Once everything had been laid out, Joshua cleared his throat and turned in our direction. “So, to our new volunteers, Jenni-fa, A-men-da, and Howly, we welcome you to Common Ground and to Pathfinder Academy. After the meal, the fourteen girls who are boarders here will arrive to provide you with entertainment. They have won many district awards for their performances in the areas of singing, dance, for poems, and also for scholastics,” he said, his shoulders set back with obvious pride. “So I hope that you will enjoy it.”

Shortly after we finished eating, I heard light footsteps and giggles from outside. The calico fabric curtain covering the doorway was pushed open slowly, allowing excitable whispers and “
Shh
s” to float across the threshold. Peeking shyly at us, fourteen little women filed in two at a time and formed a circle around the room. Suddenly the boarders erupted into song, clapping and swaying their hips in a choreographed rhythm. Most of the lyrics were in Swahili until they pointed to Irene,
who shouted her own name. After that, every tenth word or so was “Irene,” like the Kenyan version of the “name game” (“Irene, Bean, Mo Mean, Banana Fanna, Fo Fean”).