The Lost Girls (38 page)

 

T
he woman knew she was going to die soon, but still she smiled. Her puffy eyes pierced mine from behind the glass-protected photograph at the Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocide, one of hundreds of black-and-white faces staring out from the display case.

We'd arrived in Cambodia's capital of Phnom Penh earlier that morning after a few days spent biking around the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat. I'd never before heard of Tuol Sleng but knew about the nearby Killing Fields from the famous movie of the same name. The city of Phnom Penh, which grew up around a Buddhist monastery, had been transformed into a gruesome site for mass murder in 1975 by the Communist Khmer Rouge party. The Khmer Rogue had ordered the city evacuated and used one of its high schools—renamed Tuol Sleng—as a prison/torture chamber for thousands of people. Today the city is very much alive, although a place of extremes. Thriving drug and prostitution rings can be found on one end and quaint riverside cafés on the other.

After checking into a hostel, we'd immediately hired a tuk-tuk to take us to the killing fields. Our driver, a soft-spoken, gentle man named Sok, expertly dodged the mayhem of pedestrians, cyclos, and cars zigzagging through the streets and handed us masks to help block the clouds of pollution threatening to choke us. Once we were outside the city limits, the world
whizzed by in clips of green rice paddies, onyx-haired children splashing in puddles, and simple wooden shacks.

As we watched kids chasing one another near the roadside, it was almost possible to forget that war rather than peace had so recently prevailed across Cambodia. My high school world geography class covered little about the country, but I'd gotten a kind of CliffsNotes version of its history by reading through our guidebook. But visiting the area was teaching me more than any book or class ever could.

A weak country sandwiched between more powerful ones such as Thailand and Vietnam, Cambodia had been repeatedly invaded for decades by other nations hoping to strengthen their influence over the Indochinese peninsula, including Thailand, France, Japan, and Vietnam. Americans had ravaged the land with bombs during the Vietnam War. But all the conflicts and wars that Cambodia experienced paled in comparison to the bloodshed of 1975. The Khmer Rouge party had taken over, and its leader, Pol Pot, had ordered the murder of more than two million Cambodians.

When we arrived at the Killing Fields, an outdoor museum that had once been an orchard and an old Chinese cemetery, Sok waited patiently outside. After the Khmer Rouge had taken control of the country, the land had been converted into a mass execution center to exterminate “traitors” thought to be opposed to the Khmer Rouge's Communist agenda. Among those the Khmer Rouge had seen as a threat were doctors, professors, diplomats, and other educated people, as well as anyone who wore glasses.

After I waited my turn in line to light incense at a shrine in front of the memorial—a glass-enclosed stupa filled with about eight thousand human skulls—our guide recommended we head to the Tuol Sleng Museum of Genocide as soon as we got back to the city. That was the first I'd heard of the high school turned
prison where Cambodians had been interrogated and tortured before being shipped off for execution. We knew it would be a lot for one day, but when we left the Killing Fields, we asked Sok to take us Tuol Sleng.

The museum was eerily silent as we wandered through classrooms converted into prison cells where captives had been locked to single beds with shackles. Bullet holes and bloodstains speckled the walls in ghoulish patterns.

After an hour, Amanda and Jen waited outside on a bench in the courtyard enclosed by a barbed-wire fence, but I couldn't stop myself from staying longer to look at every single one of the victims' photos on display in an act of remembrance. The Khmer Rouge had used the pictures, along with recorded biographies, to prove they'd captured their “enemies.” Now these documents serve as a reminder of the atrocities inflicted by man. As I walked past the pictures, I examined each and every face. Every so often, I would come across a captive who stared boldly into the lens and smiled ever so slightly at the camera.

If these people realized they were about to be tortured, raped, or murdered, how and why did they smile? I can never presume to know what they were thinking or feeling, of course, but staring into their rebellious eyes, I imagined them saying “You can take my clothes, take my home, take my life. But there is nothing you can do that will ever break my spirit.” Their smiles struck me as a final act of defiance, a legacy to those still living, proving that we all have a part of ourselves that no one can ever steal.

I walked outside to join Amanda and Jen on the bench. We sat in silence for a few minutes, kicking at the dirt beneath our flip-flops.

“You ready to go, Hol?” Jen asked. I just nodded and we crossed through those barbed-wired gates to where Sok was waiting in a whirlpool of car exhaust, street touts, and tuk-tuks.

“Where I take you now?” he asked as we climbed inside. Where do you go after seeing such horror? What do you
do
? Everything seemed so trivial, as if nothing really mattered.

When none of us said anything, he asked, “Maybe you like to eat? I know good restaurant.”

I didn't have any appetite but couldn't stomach going back to the thin-walled hostel room, with only a bed and a dangling lightbulb, to stare at the cracked ceiling. Jen, Amanda, and I looked at one another, and I nodded. He was probably going to take us to a friend's eatery in order to bring him some business, but that was okay with us.

“Yes, let's go there.” Before Amanda could even finish the sentence, Sok revved the tuk-tuk engine and flowed into the river of traffic.

I saw food carts, children hawking books, and a man selling papers. I watched life happening all around, people moving along, moving on from the past. In a matter of minutes we were near the National Museum in the city center. Sok pulled to the side of the road just as abruptly as he'd pulled onto it and pointed to a sign that read
MITH SAMLANH RESTAURANT
. Outside the French Colonial building was a courtyard packed with tables and decorated with red, blue, and yellow murals that looked as though they'd been painted by children. It seemed cozy and safe.

“The name mean ‘Good Friends Restaurant' in English,” Sok said. He explained that the eatery was part of an organization that used profits to house Khmer street children and train them in hospitality and cooking so they could start careers. Most of its staff were former street kids who worked as waiters, cooks, and managers. “You go. I wait here,” he said.

We walked inside, and a boy no older than sixteen seated us at an outdoor table. Everywhere we heard glasses clinking. Waiters carried out spring rolls and salads delicately arranged
on pristine white plates. I overhead a teenage waiter asking a diner if he could practice his English with him and then asked, “Why say ‘raining cats and dogs'?”

The restaurant was like a pocket of hope in a country where history's wounds are still visible, raw, and real. We'd passed more than one child on the street with a missing leg, the victim of a land mine accident. And we'd noticed the absence of elderly people, because so many had been killed during Pol Pot's rampage only a generation before. It was easy for me to feel depressed at the horror, and I was just a visitor passing through. But these kids lived with daily reminders of the violent past and had no choice but to carry on. Again my mind traveled back to Esther and Sister Freda, who showed me that it's possible to transform ourselves into something greater than our suffering, how life forges on despite pain.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Then I stood at the edge of the room and watched the Cambodian teens going about their business. I imagined them wanting the same things that I wanted: To feel safe in an unpredictable world. To work toward something that mattered. To know love. To belong. I watched them from my place on the outside, standing still.

When we later paid the bill, we left to find Sok waiting for us, smiling. “Would you like to go to my friend's shop?” he asked.

“Yes, Sok, we'd like that very much,” I said.

SAPA, VIETNAM
JANUARY

H
uddled in a frozen mass on the mattress, I peeled the woolly throw from my face just long enough to ask Amanda how her current fire-building attempt was going.

“Well, the wood is damp, there's a draft from the flue that keeps blowing out the flame, and I've lost all feeling in my fingertips. Otherwise, it's awesome,” she said, readjusting her ski cap to fit more snugly over her ears.

“All right, we just need something dry to use as kindling,” I replied, gathering up my cocoon of blankets and trudging out the door and back to the front desk to collect a pile of hotel literature. Catching my reflection in a hallway mirror, I groaned at the sad girl who looked like death
not at all
warmed over.

It's not that I wasn't thrilled to be in Vietnam, but between the flurry of overland bus trips and whirlwind tours Amanda, Holly, and I had packed into the past few weeks, we'd neglected to do our homework. So we were in complete and utter shock to encounter hearty gusts of wind and fleece-worthy temperatures when we stepped off the plane in Hanoi. Apparently, unlike our first stop in Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon) in the south, the northern part of the country actually gets cold
during the winter months. We'd gotten so spoiled by the seemingly endless summers that we'd chased thus far across the globe that the girls and I were ill prepared to handle even the tiniest bit of Jack Frost.

But after spending a couple days pounding the pavements looking for essential cold-weather attire in Hanoi's bustling Old Quarter and resting our travel-weary bones in a cozy B & B, we were eager to take one of the excursions that had drawn us to this region of Vietnam in the first place: a spectacular trek through the misty mountains of Sapa, a quaint frontier town near the border of China. So we booked a four-day trip offered through Kangaroo Café, one of Hanoi's most reputable tour operators and, incidentally, one of the few places in the city that serves huge mugs of coffee (as opposed to the thimble-sized teacups that are the local standard). Not only would we squeeze in some hard-core hiking, we would also have the unique opportunity to stay with a local Hmong family in one of the tribal villages along the trail.

Happy to trade the city smog for country fresh air, we packed small weekend bags, stashed our big backpacks in our guesthouse storage area, and boarded an eight-hour train to Lao Cai, where we'd catch a van transfer to Sapa.

Compared with many of our previous rail trips, the ride through northern Vietnam was a breeze. Our cozy little sleeper car came equipped with real pillows, fluffy blankets, lamps with actual shades on them, complimentary bottles of water, and, most important, no cockroaches. Although we arrived at the station at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., we felt surprisingly well rested and ready to explore the local village. Well, this was until we actually stepped foot outside and realized that the “slightly cooler climate” we'd been told to expect was actually closer to that of a postapocalyptic Antarctica.

Melodramatic, maybe, but anyone who's known me for more than five seconds can attest to the fact that when the tempera
ture drops below freezing (which in my opinion occurs at 55 degrees), I transform to “Pure-evil Jen” faster than Carrie on prom night. And after spending the past seven months in countries where eggs could legitimately fry on the sidewalks, who could blame me for being a bit wimpy? But my thin skin would probably toughen up again after a day or so in our new environment. And even if it didn't, our hotel was sure to have a roaring fireplace and cozy heated rooms, right?

Unfortunately, the only source of (supposed) warmth in our double was a miniature wood-burning fire pit in the corner, covered in cobwebs thick enough to trap a small cat. Sprinting back to the room, I used one of five remaining matches to light the edge of a brochure that depicted an attractive couple drinking wine by a blazing hearth in our very same lodge. As their smiling faces went up in flames, I was hopeful. But the wood still failed to ignite.

“I've lit massive bonfires in torrential downpours at campsites up and down the Appalachian Trail and never had this much trouble,” I wailed.

“Oh, yeah, well I used to walk a hundred miles barefoot through the snow to get to school,” Holly said, appearing in the doorway. “So I finally got a fire going in my room, but unless you're sitting directly on the coals, it's not that warm. I figure the only way to avoid becoming a block of ice is to get out of here and move our bodies.”

“Do you mean, you actually want to
exercise
right now? It's barely 8 a.m.,” I protested.

“I guess it's better than turning into Popsicles here in the room,” Amanda said.

“Definitely. Why don't we hike to the Cat Cat waterfall, which is only about three kilometers away. And then we can grab a huge breakfast. Pancakes, eggs—anything you want,” Holly said.

Although I was still grumpy, the thought of food perked me up enough to agree.

“All right, as long as I get first dibs on the coffee, I'm in,” I said before all three of us bundled up and headed outside.

 

J
ust after dawn the next morning, we were wrenched out of sleep by a sharp rapping on the door. The small fire we'd managed to build before falling asleep had long since crumbled to a pile of cold ash. Unwillingly cracking the shell of my cryogenic chamber with my two-ply wool feet, I stumbled across the room to see who was knocking.

“Morning! Hello! You to have your breakfast now. Then meet guide for hike, okay,” sang the cheerful owner, whom we'd met yesterday at check-in.

“Oh, okay. Thank you. Uhh…
cam on
,” I stammered in Vietnamese, but he'd already proceeded to Holly's room next door.

Quickly stuffing the few items we didn't already have on our bodies into our small daypacks, the three of us then climbed a long set of stone steps up to the lodge café. Although a few sheets of Sapa's dense signature fog had burned off at daybreak, an ominous rumble rippled across the charcoal sky and freshly squeezed raindrops were starting to form puddles in the outdoor stairwells. Snagging the wooden bench closest to the potbellied stove in the dining area, Amanda, Holly, and I sat sleepily clutching tin mugs of hot cocoa. We stared out the panoramic windows, searching the hazy skyline in vain for Fan Si Pan, the country's highest mountain and last major peak in the Himalayan chain.

“Are you Jennifer, Amanda, and Holly?” a bubbly voice called across the room.

Simultaneously turning, we were greeted by a young local
woman with a petite but sturdy-looking five-foot frame and striking facial features. She was dressed in a raven-dyed wrap dress, apron, and leg warmers, with silver bangles dangling from her wrists and colorful scarves and ribbons tied around her neck, her waist, and the top of her socks.

“I'm Tsu,” she said. “I will be leading you on your trip.”

With a near-flawless English accent, Tsu (pronounced Sue) gave us a quick briefing on herself. She'd been working as a guide for nearly three years, had grown up in a neighboring village, where she still lived with her family, had taken classes in hospitality and tourism at a city school, was presently single—but looking—and loved American movies and music. As her attire suggested, Tsu was a member of the Black Hmong, the Sapa region's most prominent tribal subgroup (there are also White, Green, Red, and Striped Hmong). One of the largest ethnic minorities in the nation, the Hmong are believed to have descended from the people of southern China who settled in the bordering regions of Vietnam, Laos, and Myanmar. In striking contrast to the Hmong villagers Amanda and I had encountered during a tour in Laos, Tsu had been around Westerners most of her life, and with her easygoing nature and wry wit, she was a favorite among the Kangaroo Café–sanctioned leaders.

After shoveling a few bites of omelet and bread into our mouths, we hit the now-rain-soaked streets and joined up with several other tour groups all prepped and ready to start the trek. Examining our clothing, Tsu suggested we make a quick pit stop at her friend's store to pick up some cheap rain gear, which turned out to be our saving grace. Our small daypacks stuffed beneath yellow plastic ponchos with only our heads peeking out from the hoods, Amanda, Holly, and I looked like a strange breed of mutant turtle as we splashed through puddles and slowly navigated the first of many steep climbs.

It didn't take us long to discover that a tortoiselike pace was
in fact a necessary survival tactic if we didn't want to pitch right over the edge of the path. After several steady hours of drizzle, the hillsides were frosted in thick, gooey layers of mud and the trail had been transformed into an obstacle course worthy of a
Real World/Road Rules Challenge Gauntlet
round.

A few wild arm flails, awkward hip shakes, and nosedives later, Amanda, Holly, and I had unintentionally invented a brand-new dance: the Sapa Slide. Unlike its cheesy predecessors, such as the Electric Slide, the Macarena, or Mambo No. 5, the Sapa Slide didn't require any lame music scores, choreography skills, or even hand/eye coordination. Success was measured purely on one's ability to (a) make a complete fool of oneself, (b) avoid sudden death or dismemberment, and (c) keep inevitable swearing under control, particularly considering the large number of impressionable youths who had latched onto our group.

“Now, remember, kids, we are trained professionals, so please don't try to re-create our moves at home without…adult…super…vision,” I managed to utter before the root I was clutching snapped and I sailed three feet back down the trail.

Despite our best efforts to popularize our illustrious new dance moves, they didn't seem to be catching on with the locals. Everyone—from Tsu to the hordes of resident schoolchildren to the shrunken old grandmothers who'd joined our caravan—was able to work the trail like supermodels at fashion week. Strutting gracefully to the end of the path, they'd turn to offer words and gestures of encouragement, while politely attempting to stifle their giggles at our spastic attempts. As they effortlessly strolled along, some of the older girls even wove small toys and intricate crowns of freshly picked grass and thistles, without so much as breaking a sweat. But despite the obvious discrepancies in skill level, together we formed the perfect team: they helped us successfully navigate the slippery slopes, and we kept them entertained.

After an hour or so, Holly, Amanda, and I found our groove and were eventually even able to carry on a conversation with our new Hmong friends
and
look up from time to time. With the rain finally tapering off and the gray clouds moving on to reveal bluer skies, the girls and I reached the top of one particularly slippery rise and surveyed the scene that had finally become visible before us. Vertical rice terraces rose skyward while vast paddy fields blanketed the lower slopes of the Hoang Lien Mountains. Scenery befitting a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale stretched endlessly across the rolling hillsides. A powerful nostalgia sparked within me for a time when my banana seat bicycle could fly me anywhere, couch cushions were the building blocks of castles, and giants roamed freely in the backyard. Even at my present “adult” age, I half expected to see strange woodland creatures emerging from the mist or one of the many pigs indulging in an afternoon mud bath to sit up and start talking to us.

Blame it on a temporary midtrip slump, but in recent weeks, I'd become exhausted—and a bit jaded by backpacker life and the incessant claims of “once in a lifetime” adventures. But I was happily surprised, in that instant, to find myself feeling invigorated and appreciative again. Road weariness notwithstanding, this hike truly was a remarkable experience, one that I would undoubtedly long for after returning home. But as intuitive as it may seem, I had to remind myself to savor these ever-fleeting moments. Making a conscious effort to bask in my fantasy-inducing surroundings, I (for once) maintained relative silence throughout the duration of our journey.

 

A
few hours later, the path leveled out and Tsu directed us to a small wooden farmhouse that would serve as our digs for the evening. Clearly accustomed to having Westerners tromp
through their home on a daily basis, the host family barely flinched as we piled into the entryway, our boots tracking mud and water droplets spilling off our ponchos, forming puddles on the dirt floor. Assorted garden tools, baskets of plants and vegetables, and oversized burlap sacks filled with rice, corn, and grain lined the perimeter of the main room. Nestled in the rafters above was a large platform accessible by a ladder. Near the back wall, five young children and an elderly woman sat squished together on a threadbare sofa, their eyes glued to an incongruous satellite television set. Welcoming us in, the mother directed us into an adjacent shed, where the father and possibly an uncle or grandfather sat in the corner chatting with each other while chopping and preparing food.

After we settled down on three-legged stools around a small fire pit carved out of the earthen ground, Tsu introduced us to Hai, a young male guide, and his two charges, an Australian couple, Karen and David, who were on an extended honeymoon. I'll admit that my ideal postwedding getaway did not include barnyard animals of any kind, but I was envious of their ability to take a full month off work and awed by their knowledge of the local culture and the tenets of responsible tourism.

Ever since Amanda, Holly, and I had touched down in Peru, and encountered hundreds of tiny children hawking Chiclets and cigarettes, we'd wrestled with issues of social responsibility on the part of tourists. While it was a bit disconcerting watching my dollars spawn future MTV generations among ancient tribal Hmong children, according to David and Karen, the alternative was often much worse. In the absence of income from hosting homestay tours, many minority people relied solely on the corn and rice they harvested for food. And since rice is a labor-intensive crop with a single annual yield, residents of many communities were malnourished. Tsu agreed but also pointed
out that many children were dropping out of school altogether to sell trinkets on the trails.