The Lost Girls

by Jennifer Baggett

  Although the selfish side of me just wanted her around, the best-friend side wanted to see her find happiness and fulfillment from other sources. But this was neither the time nor the place to get into that, so I stayed quiet. Halfway down the river, a wave of exhaustion suddenly hit me and I was actually relieved we were heading back. I couldn’t wait to lounge at the lodge pool with a good book and frozen beverage in hand.

  Then, as if on cue, Amanda asked, “So when I’m done with my e-mails, do you girls maybe want to work on the guidebook article?”

  “Umm, let me think…no,” I replied.

  “Well, I mean, we promised to hand it in next week, so why not work on it now, when there’s nothing else to do?” Amanda said.

  “What do you mean, nothing to do?” I exclaimed, feeling the noose of agitation tightening without warning. “We’re in the Amazon jungle. And probably the only time we ever will be.”

  “I know, but you could say that about the whole trip,” Amanda replied. “You told me that you were okay with us taking the assignment, but you never actually want to do it.”

  “Yeah, I know, but this may be the only time ever in our lives that we don’t have to work. Don’t you think we should find other things we’re passionate about or challenge ourselves in new ways?” I asked, my voice still calm but rising an octave.

  “Yeah, I guess this is the time to let go of things that have been holding us back or try something that scares us,” Holly added.

  “You know, I’d even travel by myself for a few days, even though the idea totally freaks me out,” I offered, trying to bring the conversation to a more productive place. I shied away from solo travel and being alone at all costs, so I hoped Amanda would understand that this would be a sacrifice for me.

  “I really want to learn more about Hinduism and meditation, so maybe I really should sign up for that yoga teacher training program in India that I read about,” Holly said, launching another peacekeeping mission.

  Amanda was silent, so I blabbed on. “I mean, do you really want to work on the road? This might be the first and last time in your adult life that you have absolutely no responsibilities and nothing but time on your hands. You’ve already established yourself as a successful writer. So why not give that up for a few weeks and see what else you love? The trip would be more fun that way.”

  Amanda’s head snapped in my direction, and she gave me what I can only describe as a death stare. “That’s so unfair of you to ask, Jen. It’d be like me suggesting you give up your love for film.”

  “Oh, please. It’s not at all the same thing,” I said, stunned by the ferocity of her reaction. “Movies are a fun passion. Writing story pitches is work. I mean, c’mon. Try being an underachiever for once in your life.”

  That did it. I’d crossed the line.

  The tension was heavy enough to sink our schooner. And considering that we were in piranha-infested waters, I needed to defuse the situation fast.

  “You know what, just forget I said anything. It was stupid,” I said, hopping out of the boat and onto the dock we’d reached just in the nick of time. “I’m going to take a quick nap. I’ll meet you girls in the lobby later.”

  Amanda and I had been close friends for years but had rarely fought, so the whole incident was seriously awkward. On one hand, I knew it was childish of me to whine so much about, God forbid, having to adjust my travel schedule to accommodate my friend’s journalistic career, but I hadn’t quite been able to shake the mild resentment that I’d been baited by one trip, then given the old switcheroo once we were on the road. I wanted to just get over it and agree to disagree, already, but that was proving to be easier said than done.

  We awoke the next day with a bit of a heavy heart, bummed that it was our last one in the Amazon. But we were quickly perked up by that morning’s field trip to Monkey Island, home to eight different species of monkeys that are cared for and protected by a wildlife preservation project. Designed as the ultimate petting zoo, the island provides adventurous tourists with the chance to interact directly with its inhabitants (who are supposedly people-friendly).

  As we crept through the rain forest en route to the site, we could hear their distinctive howls and shrieks radiating through the trees. Swinging from branches, running through the fields, and leaping across a huge platform were more wild animals than in Times Square at rush hour. Without an ounce of caution or concern, the girls and I sprinted toward the main platform like kids racing to get the best swing on the playground. Clearly accustomed to humans, the monkeys didn’t even flinch. In fact, they crept toward us, hoping we had snacks to give them. The groundskeepers handed us soft white fruits that resembled bananas to feed to our new fuzzy friends and, of course, lure them closer for the ultimate photo op.

  With our cameras at the ready, Amanda, Holly, and I took turns coaxing los monos into our arms. We were pleasantly surprised by how sweet they were. That is until, out of nowhere, one of the larger monkeys jumped onto Holly’s head. Possibly mistaking her for food, the crazy little beast grabbed at her hair and nibbled on her shoulder. Holly shrieked and twirled around in circles, trying to throw him off.

  Between fits of laughter, we went to Holly’s aid, but as soon as we extracted her from his intense grip, he merely refocused his attention on another victim: me! I screamed as the cheeky little monkey scrambled up my arm and started gnawing on my hand. I wanted to get him off me as quickly as possible, but Amanda had another idea. “This is great stuff! Hold on so I can get it on camera!” she exclaimed.

  “What? Are you crazy?” I managed to squeak out in between wrestling rounds with my furry opponent.

  “Come on, Jen. Just a few more seconds, and I’ll have the moment on tape. It’ll be excellent fodder for our blog.”

  “Oh, well, if you put it that way! What’s a limb in the name of art?” I shouted over the monkey’s howls.

  “C’mon, Jen, hold still so I can—” Amanda began. She’d gotten only halfway through her sentence when the mother of all monkeys swung down from the rafters and landed on her back.

  She screamed, pitching away the video camera, which Holly thankfully caught before it could hit the ground. Instead of turning it off, she turned the lens back around to capture Amanda’s battle with the beast.

  “Ahh, Jen, come over here and help me!” Amanda shrieked, unable to get a good grip on the animal behind her.

  I grinned, walking toward her slowly with a piece of fruit in my hand.

  “I don’t know, Amanda, I’ve been trying to pull the monkey off your back the entire trip. Are you sure you’re ready for me to do it now?” I smirked, wondering if she understood that I was referring to work, not wildlife.

  “Yes, yes, just come over here and help me!” she shrieked, half laughing, half whimpering.

  Okay, so she didn’t quite get it, but I moved behind her anyway and did my best to disengage her new furry friend. I’d hoped she’d see things from my perspective at some point, but if not, I’d still be just a few feet away, ready to lend her a hand.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Amanda

  LIMA, PERU

  AUGUST

  Okay, you can open your eyes. But don’t get too excited,” Jen warned, placing a heavy blue bag in my outstretched hands.

  “You made it! Happy twenty-eighth!” Holly sounded nearly as psyched as if it had been her own birthday. Seconds earlier, she and Jen had ordered me to keep my eyes closed—tight!—while they ran around putting the finishing touches on my present.

  “Wow, guys. Um, you shouldn’t have,” I said, laughing, as I dug through the tissue and pulled out an electric pink, blue, and silver kiddie tiara with matching dangly earrings. “This is just what I wanted.”

  “We did have to spend a whole dollar at the party store, and it’s a matching set, so make sure you keep those pieces together,” said Jen, poking fun at my tendency to misplace important items, such as keys, phones, and now possibly plastic jewelry.

  “That’s n
ot all! Keep looking,” Holly said as she dropped down next to me on the bed.

  Setting aside two small bottles of Inca Kola, the biohazardous yellow soda that tasted like bubble gum, I reached back in the bag to pluck out a pair of delicate black high heels.

  I was genuinely thrilled. In my effort to be practical, to commit to the true “rugged adventurer” spirit of backpacking, I’d brought just three pairs of shoes with me: hiking sneakers, Tevas, and Reef sandals. Though I’d initially felt proud of my monk-like ability to unburden myself of material possessions (and secretly, that my backpack was the lightest of the three), I’d lost my ability to feel feminine along with the extra weight.

  In direct opposition, Holly hadn’t bought into some arbitrary perception of what a “real traveler” should take on a journey—and didn’t believe in lightening up merely to save her spine. Every time we shifted locations, her strong runner’s legs would buckle under the strain of the travel novels, packing guides, energy bars, moisturizers, and cosmetics that consumed every spare inch of space in her pack. Whenever Jen or I would ask why she’d brought so much, she’d grin and say, “Just because we’re homeless doesn’t mean we have to look like it, right?”

  Her tongue-in-cheek response never failed to make me shake my head and smile—she was only half kidding. Though I’d worked with Holly for almost two years at the magazine, I’d only recently come to realize that she had a sly, screwball sense of humor—which of course meant that she fit in perfectly with Jen and me. Together, the three of us could laugh about our most bizarre travel situations and agreed that we were totally at our most hilarious when exhausted (which, considering the late-night/early-morning nature of our travel routine, was 99 percent of the time).

  In my recent quest to learn how to defuse stress with humor—and humility—it was Holly who had become my guru. After watching her soften up everyone from the grouchiest government officials to obnoxious bunkmates (and usually get her way), I’d learned that far more can be accomplished by being calm and sincere than letting your temper get the best of you. I still had a long way to go before I’d be even half as laid-back as Hol, but somehow, it was just easier to roll with the punches whenever she was around. Other than Jen, I couldn’t think of a single friend I’d rather have at my first-ever Southern Hemisphere birthday.

  Once we determined that my glamorous new shoes did, in fact, fit, Jen told me to get dressed: she and Holly were taking me out to dinner to celebrate.

  I unzipped my pack to survey the contents. There’s one undisputable benefit of cramming your wardrobe into 3,500 cubic inches: You really can’t burn through forty-five minutes trying on and rejecting outfits when you have only six to choose from.

  Digging underneath the mud-encrusted pants and Deet-scented tops I’d worn in the jungle, I located the one nonutilitarian article of clothing I’d allowed myself to bring: a black cotton jersey dress with a V neckline and twisted Grecian-style straps. Unrolling it and shaking out the wrinkles, I laid the dress carefully out on the bottom bunk, placed the tiara and heels next to it, and awaited my turn for the shower.

  I’d once read that the real nightlife in Lima centers almost exclusively around the process of dining and drinking, rather than partying in pubs and clubs. The city’s young elite breaks bread at new restaurants as a way to see and be seen—why hide in the shadows when you can be on maximum display on the floor of some trendy new tapas bar? So far, no place we’d visited brought this idea to life more stylishly than T’anta.

  From our table situated along the back wall of the restaurant, I could see that the place was crawling with Peru’s hipster bohemians. The girls, slender-limbed and beautiful, wore almost no discernible makeup but sported shaggy crops streaked with champagne-and manila-colored highlights. They dressed for the unpredictable weather of the Peruvian coast, layering floppy woolen scarves and off-the-shoulder tops over asymmetrically hemmed dresses or jeans, and stood strategically under the heat lamps.

  “Where’d you hear about this place?” I whispered to Jen after a waitress delivered our Pisco Sours. “And how’d you get us a reservation?”

  She smiled cryptically. “Oh, never mind. I have my special connections.”

  The three of us had sipped our way through our first round of foamy green drinks when Holly excused herself to find the ladies’ room. I immediately looked down into my bag to locate our shared roll of toilet paper, and when I looked up, a saucer-eyed Holly was slinking back into her chair.

  “Uh, I’m not sure…I could be going crazy, but you don’t think…over there, that could be? Well, maybe not. But I think the guy really looks like…”

  “What? What are you talking about?” I said, leaning forward to have a look.

  My gut clenched even before I could identify the guy I’d just spotted across the room. How could I have missed him before? He was the only person in Lima I actually knew—but had no desire to meet again.

  “I think I just saw Carlos,” she said, squeaking out the name a second too late.

  Crap. I melted back into my seat, my brain racing through potential escape routes. It seemed there were none. We were seated at the back of the restaurant, so I’d have to walk right past him to get out. Could I just crouch under the table until he left?

  “Carlos? Here? No way.” Jen swiveled around to look behind her and snapped back again, clasping a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God, it is him.”

  “Only you, Amanda,” said Holly, shaking her head. “Lady, I swear, this kind of thing only happens to you.”

  Stealing another glance at Carlos, I groaned. She was right. Most women could visit a foreign country packed with 28 million people and manage to avoid bumping into the one man they’d blown off just a week before, but not me.

  Over the last few years, I’d become something of an expert at crossing paths with guys I hoped never to see again, usually in claustrophobic spaces like elevators and ATM vestibules. Obnoxious dates I’d neglected to call back. Setups that never should have been set up. Ex-boyfriends I could have sworn had left the state years earlier. Holly always joked that I had some kind of weird karmic energy or power of attraction that forced me to reencounter guys from my past over and over again. “Either the universe is telling you that you still have something to learn from them,” she’d say, “or else someone up there just gets sick pleasure out of watching you squirm.”

  Natural-born pragmatist that I am, I never believed that “the gods” had put a romantic hex on me. I just figured that bumping into boys of relationships past was simply a matter of geography. Living on an island not much bigger than a university campus, wasn’t it only a matter of time before I ran into someone I no longer wanted to know? Of course, that theory could hardly explain why one of them was sitting less than twenty feet away from me in a restaurant I’d never been to before ten thousand miles from home.

  I’d met Carlos exactly a week earlier during a brief layover in Lima before we went to the Amazon. Once we’d secured our Brazilian visas and packed our bags for the jungle, we went in search of Café del Mar, a restaurant and jazz club Anthony had raved about back in Cusco.

  Everything about the place had been done on a dramatic scale, from its forty-foot ceilings to the massive wall stocked floor to rafters with top-shelf liquor. Warm amber backlight made the bottles glow and turned bartenders into swiftly moving silhouettes. We’d parked ourselves on a cut-velvet sofa and were just noticing how underdressed we were when a waiter skated over to deliver a message.

  “Perdóname, señoritas. Alguien quiere comprarles una botella de champaña. ¿Aceptan ustedes?”

  “I think he’s saying…someone wants to send us a glass of champagne,” Jen said.

  “No way,” said Holly, looking around. “Who?”

  “¿De quién? ¿Quién lo nos compra?” Jen asked the waiter. “Who’s buying it for us?”

  “I bet you a hundred soles that it’s from those two,” said Holly, motioning to a couple of guys in button-down shirts loungi
ng at the bar about ten feet away.

  “¿Champaña es de ellos?” Jen asked the waiter, make a subtle gesture with her hand. He somehow interpreted the motion as his cue to take off and return to our table with not a glass but a bottle of bubbly. I’m sure we could have tried harder—or at least somewhat—to prevent him from popping the cork, but we rationalized: wasn’t half the point of traveling to meet new people?

  The waiter tipped the frothing liquid down the sides of three glasses, and within minutes the guys edged their way over, pausing at our table almost as if it had been an afterthought. Carlos and Daniel, as they introduced themselves in English, admitted that they’d been our secret benefactors and asked if they could join us.

  “Don’t worry,” Carlos teased as we shifted over to make room. “We have another place to be tonight, so you won’t have to put up with us for long.”

  With thick, wavy hair that fell just below his ears, deep brown eyes, and a voice that trailed off in a low, throaty growl, Carlos definitely struck me as the more intriguing of the two guys. And so when he opted to sit beside me on the sofa—leaving sandy blond Daniel to slide into the chair across the table—I didn’t complain.

  Setting down his glass with a light plink, he turned to face me directly. Back home, this would have been the moment when the first-encounter interview started—a casual yet carefully phrased interrogation where one person determines if the other has the right combo of desirable attributes (résumé, title, earning potential, family background, social circle, geographic location, and attractiveness) to warrant a prolonged conversation. It was a dating and mating ritual that had at first intimidated me—but I’d finally accepted as an occupational hazard of meeting new people in New York.

  But Carlos didn’t seem interested in my on-paper attributes. He wanted to know my opinion on a wide variety of topics, such as…Peruvian politics. And social issues. And current events. Had I been following the tight presidential race between candidates Alan García and Ollanta Humala? What did Americans think of Humala’s connection to the Venezuelan dictator Hugo Chávez and Fidel Castro?