The Lost Girls (7 page)

LIMA AIRPORT/CUSCO, PERU
JUNE

S
till…no…bag!” Holly exclaimed, a wide-eyed expression spreading across her flushed face. The baggage carousel spun in futility, tormenting us with a rotation of the same three deserted suitcases and mangled boxes tattooed with crimson
THIS END UP
and
FRAGILE
warnings.

“Okay, Corbett. Give us the play-by-play. What's happening?” Amanda said, her pocket-sized camcorder poised to capture every action and emotion of the long-awaited kickoff to our round-the-world trip.

So far we'd explored a dizzying array of international terminals, departure lounges, and overstuffed planes but had yet to set foot on foreign soil. No matter. We had 364 days of incredible adventure and never-ending thrills ahead of us. Assuming we ever got the hell out of Jorge Chávez International Airport, that is.

“Well, we just landed here in Lima and we already have a lost luggage crisis,” Holly explained, hamming it up for our inaugural Peru video.

“I'm just curious, Holly. Why do you think
our
bags made it here and yours didn't?” Amanda inquired, feigning bewilderment.

“I already told you. I tried to get the vaccine out of my bag during our layover in Miami, but they wouldn't let me,” Holly replied, referring to the final dose of typhoid prevention meds she'd meant to stash in her carry-on but had left in the side pocket of her checked bag.

“That's crazy. Why would the most savvy drug sniffers in America be suspicious of an unmarked vial of liquid packed in a thermos of ice?” I asked, throwing my arm over her shoulders to buffer my sarcasm. “Don't worry, though. I promise we'll get your bag back.”

“Definitely, Hol. I'm on it,” Amanda said, turning the camera on herself to sign off.

As Amanda marched over to the customer service counter, Holly and I plopped down on the dingy floor tiles, resting side by side against a row of abandoned skycap carts with weary grins spreading across our faces. After all the fantasizing and planning and whirlwind good-byes, the day we'd all been waiting for had finally arrived. We weren't going to let anything bring us down.

Sitting there with Holly, I could hardly fathom all that had transpired since the last time we had been in South America together. I'd returned from our Argentina vacation refreshed and full of hope, throwing myself headlong into my new job. Before long, my career was soaring high, but unfortunately, things with Brian had plummeted to an all-time low. Our minor squabbles were upgraded to knock-down, drag-out fights, and, more times than I care to remember, we'd hurled out angry threats about taking time apart or breaking up altogether. Neither of us was quite ready or willing to disband the safe and comfortable partnership we'd built together, so we'd eventually kiss and make up, fading our confrontations into the background for weeks on end.

Each time I'd believed that the answers would just
have
to reveal themselves over the course of the year, but as the months
ticked by, it became painfully clear that no mythical relationship fairy was going to sprinkle magic dust over us. Suddenly, the round-the-world trip that Amanda, Holly, and I had fantasized about at Iguazú Falls felt like my salvation from a precarious and uncertain future. I'd been dating the same guy for nearly half a decade and still wasn't sure if “till death do us part” would ever roll off our tongues. Maybe some distance—from Brian, from New York City, from the status quo—was the only way to know for certain.

I longed to feel as inspired and alive as I had when I'd made the radical move to Manhattan with only two suitcases and a sliver of space on Amanda's living room floor. And since I never wanted to feel as if I'd given something up to get married and settle down, it was now or never to do something drastic. So from the second I'd told the girls I was in, I'd never had a moment's pause about committing to the trip.

It's not to say that the long road to departure hadn't been a bumpy one. But since boarding up my Manhattan life weeks ago—all that was left of my earthly possessions wedged in my parent's minivan—I'd felt only giddiness and enthusiastic anticipation for the journey to come. And though I figured pangs of fear or sorrow, even regret might rear their ugly heads eventually, right now I was happy to pretend that Amanda, Holly, and I were merely embarking on another extraordinary South American vacation. Luckily, Amanda returned with good news: Holly's bags were on the next flight from Miami and would be delivered to our hostel that night. With that, the three of us finally escaped the baggage area and headed toward our first of many customs lines.

 

A
fter a perfunctory two-day sweep of Lima—our designated hub during our six-week Peruvian sampler—we
found ourselves back at the airport. Travel weariness mostly alleviated and three backpacks tucked safely into the belly of a tiny local aircraft, Amanda, Holly, and I began the 350-mile journey to Cusco.

Perched among the clouds high in the Andes, the ancient “City of the Sun” was infinitely more breathtaking than we'd imagined. We reached the town center just as dawn began to wriggle its way through the frosted mountain peaks. Emerging from the dingy airport shuttle into the sun-soaked Plaza de Armas, we felt like Dorothy and Toto first discovering Technicolor. A vibrant kaleidoscope of emerald-painted fountains, freshly pruned flower gardens exploding with every color, lollipop peddlers, and rosy-cheeked “munchkins” swaddled in patchwork shawls twirled around us.

The Baroque-style Cusco Cathedral and historic Church of La Compañía de Jesús stood watch over the cobblestone square. Rainbow-striped flags soared above whitewashed buildings with sapphire and cobalt blue doorways. Shrunken grandmothers in traditional Quechua garb coaxed llamas into tourists' photos in exchange for a few soles. One thing was for sure: Cusco was certainly no place like home.

Eager to shed our forty-pound portable closets and do some exploring, we yanked out our
Let's Go Peru
to find directions to Loki hostel, a supposed backpackers' paradise I'd booked online weeks before. Following a crude street map, we slowly navigated the narrow brick roads until we reached a steep, crumbling staircase that stretched endlessly toward the crystal blue skyline. A staggering 11,000 feet (estimated) above sea level, Cusco's dramatically high elevation could send even the toughest Olympic athlete into a full-blown wheezing fit. Between the weight of our backpacks and the much thinner mountain air, Amanda, Holly, and I were short of breath before we'd barely broken in our new hiking shoes. Though we'd built in two weeks to accli
matize before attempting to brave the Inca Trail, at this point I now wasn't sure if that was enough time.

“Does anyone kinda feel like they want to die?” I sputtered. “I mean, it's been a couple weeks since I hit the gym, but this is ridiculous.”

“Don't worry, it's not just you. I was running six miles a day before we left, and I can barely walk right now,” Holly replied.

“Yeah, Jen, where is this place? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” Amanda added.

Just then we heard a low rumble and crunching gravel behind us. We managed to waddle to safety just as a rusty taxicab sped past us and fishtailed to a screeching halt fifty feet up the hill. From the thick cloud of road dust emerged a youthful gang of gringos who effortlessly hoisted their packs from the trunk and disappeared through a hidden doorway.

“Ladies, I think we're on the right track,” I said, a newfound burst of energy propelling me toward the finish line.

Though it's always a bit of a risk to book a hostel sight unseen, luckily for us, Loki was truly a high-mountain oasis, boasting a TV room, bar, and huge common area that provided the warm welcome and fireplace the girls and I needed for the bargain-basement price of $8.50 per person per night. It was too early to claim our bunks, so we stowed our bags in a secure closet and headed back down the hill in pursuit of one of the cozy cafés we'd spotted earlier in the plaza. Overwhelmed by the barrage of ticket touts and vendors pushing menus, we quickly settled on a quaint wooden lodge advertising a warm fireplace and prix fixe menus for 12 soles. We could hardly fathom that a $4 meal would be remotely satisfying, but for less than the cost of a Starbucks latte, we feasted on thick vegetable soup,
pollo a la plancha
(grilled chicken) with rice and French fries, and
frutas tropicales
.

Throughout the meal, we religiously sipped steamy mugs of
mate de coca
, local tea brewed with coca leaves and boiling water
that our guidebook recommended as a natural herbal cure for altitude sickness. By the time the bill arrived, we felt surprisingly less dizzy and nauseated. At least, we did until Holly returned from the bathroom, passed off our shared roll of toilet paper and hand sanitizer, and announced that we were dealing with a “one-star” situation.

During our brief stint in Lima, we'd developed our own unique restroom-rating system, defining a rare “four-star” establishment as one with running water, toilet paper, soap, and paper towels. Unfortunately, one to two stars seemed to be the standard so far, so we added a couple important commandments: (1) Thou shalt not leave the hostel without something to wipe thy ass and cleanse thy fingers and (2) Thou shalt wait until meal's end to do thy business and/or refrain from announcing the star status so as not to spoil the appetite of anyone in the party.

With visions of food poisoning dancing in our heads, we returned to the chaotic land of Cusco to log some sightseeing before our Loki check-in time. Although we couldn't afford even one woolly mitten in the upscale retailers lining the plaza, there was no harm in playing tourist and window shopping. Craving an escape from the shockingly brisk Peruvian winter wind, we dipped into Werner & Ana, a cozy boutique filled with scarves, hats, and sweaters woven from the soft fur of Peru's ubiquitous alpaca, an adorable animal that could be the downy-soft love child of a llama and a sheep.

Determined to practice our Spanish, we bumbled through initial greetings and salutations with the petite store owner, Ana, and her friend Didie, a handsome local who looked to be in his midtwenties, before they switched to English entirely.

“So you have
las alas
for tonight, yes?” Didie asked.

“I'm sorry,
no comprendemos
. We don't understand,” Amanda said, trying to make sense of the exchange.

“Each year there is a very big, very famous party at the Fallen Angel club in this evening. My friend is the owner and gave me extra passes to enter,” he said, pulling red paper wristbands out of his pocket. “Here. You take three so you can go to the party.”

“Oh, okay.
Muchas gracias
,” Amanda replied, graciously accepting the scarlet strips and placing them in her pocket.

“But what was that you said,
las alas
?” I asked.

“Ahh, those are wings. You know, like an angel has,” he said, making flapping motions with his arms. “Everyone must have some to get in, so you will need to buy or construct them.”

Later, still laughing about the strange scene that had transpired, we breathlessly made our way back up the hill toward the hostel. Was this mysterious Fallen Angel party a real thing? If so, was it safe for us to attend? Stepping into Loki, we got our answers. Scattered across every available surface of the TV room were piles of panty hose, wire coat hangers, feathers, and glue sticks. In the few hours we'd been away, hordes of sleepy backpackers had come out of hibernation and were feverishly constructing what could only be interpreted as…
las alas
.

“Helloooo, Charlie's Angels,” called a random voice from the doorway. “You must be new recruits here at Loki.”

Simultaneously turning to locate the source of such unabashed cheesiness, the girls and I were met by a serious Don Juan–abee, fully equipped with mirrored aviator shades, a shrunken Hanes T-shirt, and what appeared to be a never-ending supply of hair gel.

“Yeah, we just checked in. And let me guess. You wanna play Charlie?” Amanda threw back.

“Oh, touché, girls, touché! I'm Anthony, but it'd be a lot cooler if you called me Charlie,” he replied, his bleached teeth aglow against his overly bronzed complexion. “But seriously, welcome to Loki. It's a very happening place to be. I'm going on my fourth week here and just may never leave.”

“Yeah, we all keep trying to get rid of the bloke, but he just won't take the hint!” a boyishly handsome Brit interjected, knocking Anthony out of the way. “But we told him he could come with us to get costumes for tonight. Wanna come too?”

After dumping our bags in our assigned dorm, Amanda, Holly, and I rejoined our new hostelmates and headed out the door. Cramming into a few passing cabs, we made a beeline to Cusco's piñata district, where it was rumored that shopkeepers had immense supplies of premade angel gear prepared for that night's festivities.

Along with Anthony and the Brit, James, we were joined by a friendly gaggle of guys and dolls from around the globe, including Stuart, a sarcastic and wildly flirtatious Irishman; Andrew, a pensive, soft-spoken German on summer break from university; Nate and William, two hilarious stoner dudes and rugby extraordinaires from Liverpool (whom I never could keep straight); and Lara, an excitable Portuguese model type who chattered on about the makeup and hair products she'd scored in town.

The group was surprised to discover that (a) we were American, not Canadian, as they'd speculated, (b) we had dared to venture beyond the standard Caribbean or European destinations, and (c) we'd taken an entire year off work to visit mostly third-world countries.

“Wow, guess for Americans that's a pretty big deal. Seems like your countrymen are a bit closed-minded about this sort of travel, yeah?” Nate said.