The Lost Girls (34 page)

I'd been tempted to blow off this obviously biased advice until I hit the backpacker trail myself and witnessed the massive, multilateral orgies taking place. At Loki, Mellow Yellow, or any hostel with an in-house bar, we were basically guaranteed to find a scene that looked like spring break, Mardi Gras, and MTV's
The Real World
all rolled into one. Since I had no desire to get naked in a hostel dorm or return home with the kind of souvenir you needed antibiotics to get rid of, I had begrudgingly adopted the “no shagging backpackers” law. Still, I was a romantic at heart. I knew I'd break the rule in a white-hot second if I met a guy who truly blew me away. And secretly, I'd been counting on meeting someone who would.

But by the time our sleeper car rocked and chugged its way up the coast to Goa and no worthy candidates had materialized, I'd started to feel churlish and not a little frustrated. What had happened to the extraordinary love I was destined to find this year? Where were all the exotic men begging me to run away with them?

As the Laotian countryside rushed past, it occurred to me that it had been weeks—no, actually, months!—since I'd been properly seduced or even simply held by a man. Sure, I'd had a few false starts. Back in Brazil, my fling with a gorgeous, brawny Irish guy at Mellow Yellow had gone awkwardly awry when he'd announced, in a reluctant whisper, that he had only one testicle and couldn't move past second base (even my insistence that it
didn't matter couldn't charm the pants off him). Then later, in Diani Beach, Kenya, I'd spent a couple of seriously flirtatious nights hanging out with a hard-bodied British army lieutenant, but no sooner had things heated up than he'd had to leave with his brigade to build roads in northern Kenya. And of course, nothing at all had happened between Jason and me when I'd detoured through New York back in August. If I'd known that Carlos's invitation to have sex at his parents' place in Peru would be the closest I'd get to an on-the-road love affair, I might have considered the offer more seriously.

But now that things might be taking a more-than-friendly turn with Carter, I was actually glad that nothing else had worked out until this point. If given the opportunity, I intended to follow my heart and had no intention of listening to ex-boyfriends or Buddhist nuns. Clearly, both had ulterior motives.

 

T
he following day, I relayed my religious experience to Carter as he rode with Jen and me on the early-morning bus to Vang Vieng.

“So this woman thought you should come back to study with her at the monastery?” Carter asked as our bus climbed through the foothills just outside of Vientiane. “Would that make you, like…a nun in training?”

“I don't think that's what she meant,” I said, laughing. “Besides, something tells me that I might be disqualified for nunship at this point in my life. She did have one very specific piece of advice for me, though.”

“What's that?” he asked, his liquid blue eyes intently focused on mine.

“She said to stay away from men. Apparently, you're all bad news.”

“Well, I'm glad you didn't take her advice,” he said, not miss
ing a beat. “It was a nice surprise to see you and Jen this morning. I wasn't sure you'd show.”

I'd been thinking the same thing about him. Despite the sales job Carter had done for Vang Vieng, I wasn't sure he'd actually meet us at the Northern Bus Station at the time he'd suggested. Backpackers are notorious for making—then bailing—on the best-laid plans, but he'd been right on time. He braved the ticket kiosk on our behalf and helped us load our heavy backpacks into the belly of the bus.

Despite the unscheduled stops we made at roadside rice stands (a compulsory part of bus travel in Southeast Asia), it was still early when we rolled into Vang Vieng. It was a postage stamp of a town, just a few dusty streets crosshatched by even smaller alleys, hemmed in by the Nam Song River to the west. The entire area was nestled within a ring of emerald peaks that folded into one another like the haunches of sleeping dragons with clouds draped across their backs.

Most of the guesthouses and restaurants lining the main drag looked freshly built, the sharp metallic ping of hammers slamming against nail heads confirming that construction was still under way. This place had only recently come into its own as a backpacker destination, and the locals were doing all they could to meet the demand for cheap beds, food, and booze.

As we walked through the center of town toward our guesthouse, I could see into ground-level cafés where groups of slick-haired backpackers were curled up on cushions underneath wooden tables, mindlessly depositing French fries and crepes and glistening forkfuls of noodles into their mouths. Their eyes glazed over as they stared up at large projection screens playing endless episodes of
Friends, Family Guy
, or
The Simpsons
. All over the tiny town, American sitcoms and bootleg first-run movies were shown on a high-pitched loop, hypnotizing anyone who passed like a strong gust from a poppy field. Linger long enough
to order a beer or pile of banana pancakes, and you'd be flat out until someone pulled the plug on the TV for the night.

We resisted the sitcom siren song in order to pursue the second, but no less addictive, reason to alight in Vang Vieng: extreme river tubing. During the previous few years, the locals had built a full-blown water park along a meandering stretch of the Nam Song, a cat's cradle of zip lines, rope swings, and makeshift bamboo bars that clung precipitously to the riverbanks.

For just 30,000 kip (about $3), you could rent a giant inner tube and waterproof bag, take a tuk-tuk or van ride a few kilometers upriver, and play bumper boats with other travelers as you floated slowly back in the direction of town. During the journey, you'd hear an endless mix of rock music pouring through invisible speakers and the constant cry of “Beer-Lao-Beer-Lao-Beer-Lao!” Just motion with your hand or bat an eyelash, and one of the men standing along the riverbank would hook you with a pole and reel you in. Whether you were buying your first fifty-cent brew or your sixth, you'd be given unlimited access to the zip line or rope swing rigged up at that particular outpost.

The only real no-no here? Lighting up a joint. As Jen, Carter, and I rented our gear along with the other newbie tubers, we passed a sign that read
TO SAVE MONEY
,
NO SMOKE MARIJUANA ON THE RIVER
.
THANKS
!

“Get it?” said Jen, as proud as if she'd unlocked the riddle of the sphinx. “The sign doesn't say ‘Stay out of jail!' or ‘Avoid arrest!' It means you'd have to bribe the police to get out of trouble, so don't smoke.”

“Gotta love the Lao,” said Carter. “Always watching out for our wallets.”

Depending upon how long we lingered at the riverside pubs, the ride ahead of us could take two hours—or five. We wasted no time in plopping our tubes into the river.

“Hey, everybody! Last one in buys the first round!” shouted
the boisterous Danish guy who'd shared our van upriver. Taking a running leap, he let loose his best Tarzan yodel before crash-landing into his tube and flipping it over, a feat that elicited cheers and wolf whistles from the other backpackers. We were on our way.

Our floating caravan hadn't made it a hundred yards down river when the first Beer Laos outpost lured us, dripping and thirsty, back out of the water again. After taking turns braving the zip line, we set off on our way again—only to get held up at yet another overwater pub with a longer, steeper zip line. The process of drink-climb-jump-dunk repeated itself at another shore bar two hundred yards down, and then another.

As we continued downriver, I felt a slight bump on my right and smiled, knowing without looking who'd brushed up, accidentally on purpose, against my inner tube.

“Hey, buddy, stay in your own lane,” I joked, turning around to playfully push Carter away. But at the last second, just as our tubes were starting to drift apart, he caught my hand and pulled me back toward him. My gut immediately started doing its own version of the somersaults I'd just been practicing on the rope swing.

Squeezing my hand, Carter lay back in the tube and gave me the kind of half wink, half grin that only a sexy, scruffy dude can pull off so well. Taking his cue, I lay back too, turning my face toward the sky to catch the sunshine that flickered in strands of amber and honey through the trees above us.

It was turning out to be a languid, practically perfect afternoon, the kind I thought only existed in Country Time Lemonade and fabric softener commercials. We drifted hand in hand, lagging behind the rest of the group in the slowest part of the river. In the near stillness, I let my eyes fall shut and allowed my other senses to filter through. The layered sounds of splashing and laughter around me. The goose bumps that cropped
up whenever the breeze picked up slightly. The points where Carter's palm pressed against mine.

I'd fallen into such a deep state of relaxation that when we reached our final stop—a granddaddy, multistory bamboo bar with blaring rock music, several barbecue grills, and a ginormous five-story rope swing—I almost didn't get out of my tube. But Carter and Jen insisted, so we all climbed ashore to grab paper cups filled with French fries and took a spot on the viewing log. We watched as other tubers ascended a ladder into the upper branches of a vertiginous tree. One bikini-clad girl leaned way out to grab a wooden crossbar and flung herself over the side of the platform.

Just imagining myself in her shoes (or rather, bare feet) made my heart pummel in my chest and my palms start to sweat. What if you slipped off the ladder or the platform and hit the roots at the base of the tree? Or landed badly in the river? I'd read that some travelers had perforated their eardrums by falling the wrong way, and the nearest modern hospital was a plane flight away in Bangkok.

There's no way in hell I'm going up there.

When I shared this thought with Carter, he interpreted my statement as a thrown gauntlet and pulled out all the stops—flattery, bargaining, and even bribery—to get me to change my mind. Finally, just to shut him up (or maybe to impress him), I begrudgingly agreed to make the leap.

My limbs were shaking as I ascended but had turned into gelatinous goo by the time I reached the platform at the top and looked down.
Holy shit
. Why had I agreed to do this? A man to my right used a hook to grab the crossbar and pulled it in toward me. I held on to a beam behind me as I reached, chest vibrating, for the wooden dowel in front of me. As my left hand jerked up to meet it, my weight dragged forward and I found myself moving toward the edge and flying over the water in a
huge arc, my fingers desperately gripping the lifeline that suspended me above it.

Ahhhhhhhhh!

“Drop! Amanda, drop! Let go!” Carter called from the shore while Jen screamed her encouragement. Looking down past my feet to find the water, I did as instructed and landed with a forceful splash.

Yes…I made it!
Popping up to the surface, I swam to the riverbank and climbed out, a goofy grin plastered to my face.

“That. Was. Awesome!” Jen high-fived me she walked by and toward the ladder.

“Killer jump!” Carter said, grinning as I approached. “Ready to do it again?”

I stopped in my tracks, water cascading down my ponytail and down my spine. “What? Are you nuts? There's no way I'd even think about—”

I didn't get the chance to finish my thought. Carter reached out to put his hand on the back of my wet head and pulled me in for an unexpected kiss.

“Sorry…I just couldn't wait any longer,” he said before kissing me all over again.

I'd all but forgotten that we weren't alone when I heard clapping and whistling coming from the river. I opened my eyes and turned to see the remaining members of our floating wagon train drifting past us, offering their appreciation for our little show. Carter flashed them a thumbs-up and a smile before turning around to give me one last kiss—and this one, he definitely didn't act sorry about.

 

L
ater that night, after our group had gone to dinner at one of the Friends' cafés and attended a themed “astronaut space party” thrown by one of the bars (complete with tinfoil cone
hats, plastic capes, and other impromptu costumes), I pulled Jen aside and asked her if she cared that I might go back to the guesthouse early with Carter.

“Don't be silly! Of course it's fine,” she said. “Actually, I'm pretty sure I saw this coming before you did.”

“But are you sure you'll be okay? I just don't want you to feel stranded if I leave.”

“Amanda, the guesthouse is, like, a block and a half from here. But if it makes you feel better, I'll walk back with one of the girls from the group. And remember,” she added, “I want all the details in the morning.”

Carter was waiting for me near the entrance to the party. As he and I walked together, stopping every few feet to sneak another kiss, my brain rewound to my meeting with the nun a few days earlier. Her words, so startling at the time, seemed downright silly to me now. Stay away from men? How could I have taken that seriously, even for a second?

I looked up at Carter, the first guy I'd felt really drawn to in a long time, and allowed myself to be pulled into his arms. He wanted me to be here, and I wanted to be with him. As we walked back to the guesthouse hand in hand, I could feel my pulse racing. Carter let me into the darkened room before him, and I instantly tripped on the backpack he'd left at the foot of the bed. I vaulted through the air and came down, in a less-than-alluring fashion, on a brick-hard mattress. Carter, who noticed only that I'd assumed a somewhat horizontal position, rained down after me, swallowing me up in his athletic bulk and immediately pressing fast-forward on the seduction he'd started on the river earlier that day.