The Lost Girls (32 page)

“So, hey. Hi. Remember me? I was wondering if I could talk you into coming home with me tonight?” I asked, racing through the words. “No…not like come home in
that
way, I just mean…look, I've lost my friends and I can't take a rickshaw back alone. Could you do me a huge favor and ride with me back to Vagator?”

He shrugged. His hostel was a few streets away, and he wasn't ready to take off.

“Look, I'll give you every rupee I have left in my bag if you'll just ride back with me. I promise. Everything I have after I pay the cab fare.”

He looked about as enthusiastic as a guy facing a vasectomy. It took several minutes and a visual confirmation of the cash—worth about $20—but I somehow dragged him outside and together we plunged into the hornet's nest of rickshaw drivers. With a guy at my side the transaction and ride home passed without incident.

As I slid out of my seat and onto the ground, the club guy got out behind me.

“Oh, yeah! Here's the money. Thanks for riding with me,” I said, shoving the crumpled bills in his hands. He took it but didn't make a move to leave.

“Well, I figured now that I'm here, maybe I should come in with you?” he asked.

I didn't even respond. Spinning around, I sprinted inside the front gate of Magdalena's, past the dogs sprawled out on the driveway, and straight to my room (which, thankfully, my friends hadn't figured out how to lock). Once inside, I shoved the door closed and collapsed next to Sarah in bed. Without bothering to change out of my party clothes, I slipped under the sheet and pulled the grungy top cover up around my shoulders.

It was a warm night, but I was shaking.

 

T
he hangover I had the next day couldn't quite compete with the one I'd had senior year of college (the night I learned that chugging Jägermeister and Goldschläger shots straight from the bottle is a recipe for alcohol poisoning), but it was definitely in the top five.

I was so mortified to be passed out, stinking like a distillery, that I dragged my ass to the beach with Sarah and Jen. Lying on a chair with a towel draped over my head, I felt a little better but apologized to Sarah over and over again. I'd once been her supervisor at the magazine, and now I was a quivering, nauseated mess who'd screwed up royally the night before. Had I totally let her down?

“Of
course
not,” she insisted. “First of all, let's get one thing straight. We are way, way past the intern-boss thing. We're just really good friends now, you know that—right?”

I tried to nod my agreement.

“And second of all—and this you may not realize—you
deserve
to have a good time. You really do. Just remember that everyone goes a little nuts at some point, and considering how your night went, you must have been overdue for a serious bender.”

“I can vouch for that,” added Jen.

“Thanks, Sar,” I said, grateful that she was trying to make me feel better. “I just feel bad that I'm such a wreck. I guess I'm not the same buttoned-up girl you used to know.”

“And seriously, thank God for that. You know, I always thought you were a pretty cool chick and I totally respected you as a mentor, but yesterday—it was like hanging out with a different person than I knew back in New York.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I asked, and Sarah laughed.

“No way! Now it's like you've finally given yourself permission to just let go,” she said. “Trust me—that's a good thing.”

I smiled underneath the terry cloth and felt something bump up against my chair.

“Aye, it's my America girls! How ya going today?” I recognized the voice as Rebecca's. I was suddenly mortified all over again, especially when she lifted the edge of my towel and smiled when she saw my expression.

“Ooooh…rough night?” she asked in a way that made me want to laugh and cringe at the same time. No fifteen-year-old girl should understand the meaning of that phrase.

Jen jumped in and explained that I'd eaten some bad chicken tandoori and wasn't feeling well, which Rebecca seemed to accept.

“Well, I won't be botherin' ya long, just wanted to say 'ello…and oh, I made something for you.”

I squinted upward and saw that she was holding out a little fabric bracelet, the kind with the knots that I used to make by the dozens as a kid. This one was done in a chevron pattern of scarlet red, orange, and white. One again, she waved me off when I tried to reach for my cloth bag, saying that she'd made it for me as a token for lunch the day before. I thanked her back a few times, clutching the friendship bracelet as she dashed away from our chairs, sprinting like a kid on her way to recess. I watched as she disappeared down the slope of the beach, off to sell more trinkets to tourists, now feeling more awed than anything else. My new buddy Rebecca had a harder job—and a tougher life—than any young girl should have to endure, but she still ran, laughing as though she didn't have a care in the world.

 

VIENTIANE, LAOS
DECEMBER

Y
ou know you're an overly seasoned globe trekker when you (a) have six outfits to choose from, but you wear the same two, (b) forget what day or even what month it is, (c) carry several currencies but have long since forgotten their dollar value, and (d) have to remind yourself what country you're in when you wake up in the morning. Considering our ambitious time zone crossings, this last item was our biggest challenge of late. In less than a week, Amanda and I had gone from Goa to Bangalore, flown from India to Thailand, and hung out in Bangkok for a couple days before voyaging eastward to Laos, an impromptu addition to our itinerary.

While the backpacker trail guaranteed certain hassles—competing for the same Lonely Planet–recommended hostels, squeezing onto overcrowded buses, and learning to tolerate frosty showers—it also bestowed a hip crowd of international vagabonds who provided an instant circle of friends and gave us the inside scoop on everything from the cheapest meals to common tourist scams to which pockets of the planet were most worth exploring.

Many fellow travelers we'd met in India had also explored Southeast Asia, so Amanda and I peppered them with questions
about must-see sites and how to best divide our time in that region. Many were quick to tout the southern Thai islands, Cambodia's Angkor Wat, and Halong Bay in northern Vietnam, but the one location that rolled most enthusiastically off everyone's tongues was Laos. And it was far from a “it's a cool place if you can fit it in” or “I had fun there, but you could skip it” reaction. Anyone who'd spent even a modicum of time in Laos professed their undying love and devotion and suggested we immediately run, not walk, to the closest border.

Despite a steady influx of tourists in recent years, Laos was still a fairly untapped travel resource and represented a chance to legitimately fall off the beaten track. As one of only five lingering Communist states—along with China, Vietnam, Cuba, and North Korea—Laos had been open to foreign visitors only since the mid-1990s. So although Amanda and I had less than two weeks before we had to meet our friend Beth in Phuket, we were determined to squeeze in a field trip to Laos, starting with the country's capital, Vientiane.

Armed with spare passport photos for our visa application, a secondhand
Lonely Planet: Southeast Asia on a Shoestring
, and a wad of Thai baht to exchange, Amanda and I hopped an overnight train bound for Nong Khai on the northern border of Thailand. Fortunately, the Thai rail system was as delightfully quiet and orderly as the Indian one had been chaotic. Exhausted from our whirlwind cross-continent jaunt, the second our heads hit the plastic bunk pillows, we were down for the count and peacefully remained that way for nearly ten hours.

 

W
ith promises of crumbling French mansions, bougainvillea-shaded sidewalks, ancient Buddhist monasteries, and steaming noodle stalls awaiting us in Vientiane, Amanda and I were as keyed up as little kids at Disney World as we stood
in line for our Thailand exit stamps. After journeying over the Friendship Bridge across the Mekong River and into Laos, we exchanged two photos and $35 U.S. for a thirty-day visa. A stoic official in a Soviet-style uniform inspected our bags, then waved us through to the other side, where we teamed up with a few other tourists and negotiated a cheap passage into the city. Forty-five bumpy minutes later, our van veered off the dusty highway and onto a sunny, tree-lined boulevard.

Rolling into downtown Vientiane, we were met by an enchanting blend of French Provincial architecture and Eastern religion. Fresh-faced vacationers sipped cappuccinos at sidewalk cafés, shopkeepers charmed new arrivals with handmade silks and intricately carved Buddha statues, and monks with freshly shaven heads and tangerine robes streamed from golden temple gates. Everything and everyone around us moved with a warm, syrupy tempo as if time had slowed. Following suit, we strapped our packs tightly to our backs and began a leisurely glide down the main road, returning the stream of resident grins and warm
“Sabaydee”
greetings.

Our first order of chillness: sampling traditional cuisine at Makphet (“chili pepper”), a snug eatery with ivory floor tiles, lime green walls, and open glass doors. Settling at a hardwood cherry table, we were immediately greeted by not one but three friendly servers in pinstripe aprons who presented us with tall glasses of ice water with fresh mint leaves and an extensive menu of popular local dishes, all prepared fresh daily.

“Hey, look at this, all of the salads come with a bacteria-free guarantee. And they have rice pudding. I love this place,” Amanda said.

Amanda knew as well as I did that after months of brushing our teeth with tap water and sampling endless street cart cuisine, our stomachs were coated with cast iron. But the dessert part was a definite plus.

“I know. It's adorable. I'm so excited we decided to come. And I can't wait to explore this town,” I said, taking a much-needed sip of the cool drink.

“This is your first time in our country?” the most smiley of the waiters (if that was possible) inquired. “We very much welcome you to Vientiane. I am Sommai,” he added, asking us our names before taking our order.

We soon learned from Sommai that there was more to Makphet than met the eye. Run by Friends International, the restaurant trained homeless youths to cook and wait tables as well as afforded them an education and other necessary skill sets. Having learned that Laos was one of the poorest countries in Asia, we were happy to splurge on a multicourse meal and leave an extra-large tip. A tiny gesture, sure, but rather than give money to beggars—something guidebooks and travelers generally warned against doing—we much preferred putting our tourist dollars to good work through reputable nonprofits. In many developing nations we'd visited, it was fast becoming a trend for guesthouses, retailers, and cafés to double as charitable organizations, so any time the girls and I could sleep, shop, and eat for a good cause, we did.

After an unhurried feast of noodles with bean sprouts and bell peppers, pork-stuffed cabbage with chili sauce, sweet mangoes, and flavored
kah-feh nyen
(iced coffee) drinks, Amanda and I hit the warm and welcoming streets in search of lodging. We strolled past stands of dangling bananas, flower garlands, and vibrant watercolor elephant prints until we found a charming cottage with teal clapboards that advertised doubles for 50,000 kip. We'd yet to procure local currency from the one ATM in the entire country (which was fortunately in Vientiane), but the owner was happy to give us a room key explaining that to “rest now, pay later” would be fine. For the bargain price of about $5 U.S., we were given a surprisingly tidy and
spacious abode with floral curtains, matching bedspreads, and a sidewalk view.

Sprawling across one of the twin mattresses, I closed my eyes for a few seconds. When I opened them, Amanda was gone. Fumbling through my bag to find my watch, I stared at the dial for almost five minutes before my brain finally churned out the correct time zone. Wow, I'd been asleep for an hour. I sprang to my feet, in a panic until I remembered there was nowhere I had to go and nothing I had to do. Man, I seriously love my life, I thought, walking over to the window to pull up the shade. Soft rays of light streamed in, illuminating a note next to my pillow that I'd missed: “Jenny B, Didn't want to wake you. Went to get money and check out the town. Be back in an hour or so!
AP”

Content to wait in the cozy room, I piled a few pillows against the headboard and pulled out my latest obsession from a secondhand book exchange,
But Inside I'm Screaming
, about a broadcast journalist who has a nervous breakdown on camera and checks herself into a four-star psychiatric center. Lost in a world of delusional outbursts, bed checks, and pill cocktails in paper cups, I didn't notice the lock turn.

“Dude, wait till you see the wad of cash I have,” Amanda said, bursting through the door.

“Jesus! You scared the hell out of me.”

“Oh, sorry. But you've gotta look at this,” Amanda replied, pulling a stack of blue-and-white bills out of her purse and splaying them across her bed.

“I seriously feel like a drug dealer,” she added before dramatically pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes, falling on her back, and rolling around in the money.

Though she'd probably withdrawn max $200, kip notes were dispensed only in small denominations, which created quite a conspicuous cash flow scenario for Westerners.

I laughed. “Umm, looks like the pusher got into the goods again. Damn it, Pressner, didn't we discuss that it's bad for business when you do that? What
have
you been up to for the past hour, anyway?”

“Nothing,” she said in a mysterious tone before leaping to her feet and jumping up and down on the bed, a signature Amanda move (along with dramatic poses in front of fruit stands and Michael Jackson's
Thriller
vs.
Ace Ventura: Pet Detective
dance-offs). While I'd seen her perform this ritual dozens of times—from our freshman-year college dorm to our first night in Peru—this particular encore symbolized so much more to me: my quirky friend was back and better than ever. It was such a relief to see her having fun and not rushing off to an Internet café to work.

In theory, Amanda, Holly, and I should've been able to pursue our own trip goals
and
peacefully coexist. But considering we ate, slept, breathed, brushed our teeth, and peed all within ten yards of one another, the reality of our on-the-road lives was that everything one of us did affected the other two. All in all, we'd done a remarkable job at balancing our individual needs with those of the group's, and 95 percent of the time we got along flawlessly. But my old habits of intermittent eye rolling and underhanded comments could not have died a slower, more painful death. It wasn't until our fight in Kenya that I had finally nipped my attitude problem in the bud. After all, it had been Amanda who'd orchestrated the trip and started our blog, so who was I to give her a hard time about working?

The irony was that somewhere between my ashram mini-awakening, the blissful Goa vacation, and my current love affair with Laos, I'd let go of my desire to control our trip priority list. I mean, who was I to tell Amanda and Holly how to live their lives? It wasn't as if I didn't have plenty of unresolved issues of my own. Maybe it was time I learned to stand on my own two feet a little. Use my year abroad as a chance to get over my fears
of being alone, maybe even travel solo for a few days (or at least a few hours). Just because Amanda was my best friend didn't mean we had to do everything together, right?

Sitting there in our sunny Vientiane guesthouse without a care in the world, I considered sharing my new outlook with Amanda. But then again, why ruin a classic bed-hopping moment with an intense conversation? So I did the next best thing: leapt up on my own mattress and jumped alongside her until we were both out of breath.

 

B
efore long, Amanda and I had melted into Laos's tranquil culture like marshmallows in hot chocolate, whiling away our first Vientiane days exploring sidewalk stalls for rattan and coconut shell jewelry and delicate camisoles, reading under the shade of sprawling bodhi trees, chatting with the owners of trendy boutiques, and snapping gleaming shots of the gilded stupa of Pha That Luang at dusk. Just when we thought life couldn't get any better, we discovered an unexpected path to paradise: massages.

Despite the abundance of cheap parlors on every corner, most expats and fellow travelers we'd met in town swore by an herbal sauna and outdoor massage center in the woods, where you could get a luxurious steam and sixty-minute rubdown for $4. Intrigued by their tales, Amanda and I flagged down a tuk-tuk (auto rickshaw) driver and asked him to take us to Wat Sok Pa Luang, the mystical forest temple (
wat paa
) that marked the “spa” entrance.

After a dusty thirty-minute journey past fields of flower and rice paddies, our “little motor vehicle that could” finally chugged to a stop at a gilded archway flanked by banana trees, and Amanda and I were on our own in the secluded countryside.

Following a convoluted series of hand-scribbled posters and several ambiguous gestures from resident monks, we wound our way down the long gravel road past modest huts, frayed hammocks, and the occasional barnyard animal. We'd just about given up when we heard a voice from above directing us where to go. “You want steam and massage? Come this way!”

Nestled thirty feet above us in the treetops was a makeshift wooden platform on stilts, packed to the brim with tourists in bathing suits and silk robes. Climbing slowly up a rickety staircase, Amanda and I fell into line behind fellow hedonists waiting to sign up for their treatments. A rosy-cheeked woman with a clipboard sat perched on a wooden bench near the rail doling out silk wraps. After ducking behind a curtain to change out of our clothes, we entered an attached outhouse structure that served as the sauna.