The Lost Girls
Three Friends. Four Continents.
One Unconventional Detour Around the World.
Jennifer Baggett
Holly C. Corbett
Amanda Pressner
To our parents, for always supporting us
on our journeys, no matter how far-fetched
or far-flung.
And to all the other Lost Girls out there
trying to find their way.
“The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be the beginning.”
—IVY BAKER PRIEST
Contents
Epigraph
Map
Prologue: The Lost Girls,
Maasai Village of Oronkai, Kenya
1. Jen, Iguazú Falls, Argentina/Brazil (Nearly two years earlier)
2. Amanda, New York City (March–August)
3. Holly, New York City (March, three months pre-trip)
4. Jen, Lima Airport/Cusco, Peru (June)
5. Holly, Inca Trail, Peru (July)
6. Jen, Amazon Jungle, Peru (July)
7. Amanda, Lima, Peru (August)
8. Jen, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil (August)
9. Holly, Salvador, Brazil (August)
10. Amanda, New York City (August–September)
11. Jen, Kiminini, Kenya (September)
12. Amanda, Kiminini, Kenya (September)
13. Holly, Kiminini, Kenya (September)
14. Jen, Kiminini, Kenya (October)
15. Holly, Northern India (October)
16. Jen, Southern India/Shraddha Ashram (November)
17. Holly, India/Shraddha Ashram (November)
18. Amanda, Goa, India (November)
19. Jen, Vientiane, Laos (December)
20. Amanda, Laos (December)
21. Holly, India/Shraddha Ashram (November)
22. Amanda, Thai Islands (December)
23. Holly, Boston, Massachusetts/Cambodia (December–January)
24. Jen, Sapa, Vietnam (January)
25. Amanda, Hanoi, Vietnam (January)
26. Jen, Bangkok, Thailand (February)
27. Holly, Bali (March)
28. Amanda, North Island, New Zealand (March)
29. Jen, South Island, New Zealand (March–April)
30. Amanda, Sydney, Australia (April)
31. Holly, Sydney, Australia (April)
32. Jen, Hunter Valley, Australia (May)
33. Holly, Australia (May)
Epilogue: Santa Catalina, Panama
(More than two years later)
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Map
PROLOGUE
The Lost Girls
MAASAI VILLAGE OF ORONKAI, KENYA
We weren’t sure what we’d just heard or if there had been any sound at all, but the three of us felt a palpable shift in the atmosphere. One by one, our footsteps slowed to a halt. We stood frozen in the grassy clearing outside our hut, watching tiny knots of people push their way down the hillsides and into the valley below. Some were carrying staffs, and most were draped in brilliant swatches of scarlet, eggplant, cerise, and cerulean. The fabric pressed against their long limbs and billowed back out again, like wind filling dozens of spinnaker sails.
The three of us had encountered plenty of unusual scenes during the four weeks we’d been volunteering in rural southwestern Kenya—chickens riding shotgun in matatu vans, locusts for sale as snacks, children helping to birth calves during school recess—but we had yet to see anything as extraordinary as this. Brief snatches of words, almost like chanting, drifted through the fields all around us. As the sounds grew steadily louder, pulsing in a call-and-repeat rhythm, Emmanuel and his wife, Lily, our program coordinators, emerged from inside the hut and stood beside us.
They smiled when they saw our expressions and explained what we were witnessing: the people streaming down the hillside were Maasai, a seminomadic East African tribe that was one of the most colorful—and certainly the most recognizable—in this part of the world. Many were friends and neighbors, but others had traveled long distances, some from days away, to reach our host family’s farm.
Emmanuel and Lily, both members of the Maasai, had suggested that we come during this particular week in October, so our visit could coincide with a traditional ceremony performed on the crest of a hill near their home. We’d arrived as scheduled—but still hadn’t had any idea what to expect.
“It’s almost time,” Lily said softly. “Come, let’s get prepared.”
She ushered us back inside the hut and showed us a small table covered with handmade jewelry. She selected three elaborate oval collars packed tightly with rows of turquoise, cobalt, and royal blue beads and gestured for us to put them on. As we helped one another fasten and secure the heavy pieces around our necks, the chanting outside grew even louder and was now punctuated by the sound of a beating drum. Kung-ka-kung-ka-kung-ka. It reverberated through the valley, and our pulses quickened to match the tempo.
“We are ready. Let’s go,” said Lily, motioning us to follow Emmanuel outside and along an incline that started at the edge of their property. We walked for several minutes, breathing hard as we pressed our way up the rocky backbone of the hill. As the thin path converged into a larger trail, we fell into step with several Maasai heading in the same direction we were.
Although we’d observed their migration from a distance, we weren’t prepared for what we encountered after pushing through the last stand of trees. A massive group of men, women, and children, literally hundreds of locals, had gathered in a clearing at the top of the hill.
The women had tied sheets of pale yellow and beige fabric over deep sienna-colored shifts accessorized with beaded necklaces, bangle bracelets, and dangling earrings. They had encircled their slim waists with animal-hide belts studded with cowrie shells and adorned their heads with delicate tiaras made of copper, leather, and beading. Many of the men wore T-shirts and sports jerseys under the brightly hued clothes we’d spotted against the hillside earlier. They too wore jewelry—chokers, arm cuffs, earrings, and fur headdresses. The volume of the chattering around us increased until it reached a fever pitch, then, almost at once, dropped off entirely.
“Come now, the ceremony is about to begin,” whispered Emmanuel, beckoning us to sit down.
Moments later, the tribesmen began the traditional moran warrior dance, leaping through the air in near-impossible feats of vertical prowess. Then, once the men’s ritual ended, we watched the women move in to form a wide semicircle in the clearing.
As they began to sway and clap, slanted rays of sun lit up the beads in their jewelry and glinted off a young woman’s copper headband. It was hard to tell for sure, but she looked to be in her late twenties, just about our age. Even though her face was smudged with ocher, a greasy red paint that coated her features like pancake makeup, her expression still revealed the connection she had with the other women.
For several minutes, they sang and clapped in unison, their voices folding over and into one another to become a single, powerful track. Grasping hands, they swung in a wide circle, their words growing urgent and more intense. Around and around they went, whooping and shrieking as they picked up speed. The mood was electric, the dance the most joyous form of expression. We were leaning forward on the blanket, absorbing the energy that swelled and
sparked like a thundercloud, when suddenly three women broke from the formation and grabbed our hands.
We were all caught off guard (maybe the women meant to reach for someone else?), but there was no mistake about it: we’d been invited to join them. Accepting without a word—just a quick glance at one another—we allowed ourselves to be pulled into the swiftly moving orbit of the Maasai.
Of course we didn’t know the steps or how to sing along, but it didn’t matter. As we collectively spun like an out-of-control carnival ride, we did our best to swing our hips and move our feet like the other women. They watched from across the circle, throwing their heads back in fits of hysterical laughter at the artless antics of the foreign girls who looked clumsier (and dizzier) with every step.
Then, just as we thought the dance was winding down, the women began embracing us in a full-body, cheek-to-cheek hug. They repeated the love fest over and over again, one by one, until our cheeks and chins and foreheads were fully smudged with ocher. It wasn’t until we pulled back and caught a glimpse of one another—the enormous necklaces, the beads, the red streaks running across our faces—that we figured out what every other person must have already known: We hadn’t hiked up here to watch the ceremony as spectators. We had come to be initiated.
If we still weren’t convinced, Lily delivered the final confirmation.
“You are Maasai now!” she shouted, her face glowing as the other women cheered. She was the last one to cross the circle and draw us into an embrace, making sure every inch of our faces was coated in red.
Between our burning lungs and this unexpected piece of news, none of us could speak. What’s the right thing to say when you’ve been brought into the inner circle, literally, to join the ranks of spiritual, beautiful wanderers? The life we’d left behind in New York City—once all-consuming—now seemed like ancient history and as far away as a distant star.
As the three of us descended the hill later that afternoon, we walked in relative silence. Our initiation into the Maasai may have been purely ceremonial—a gift to us from Lily, Emmanuel, and their fellow tribespeople. But it reminded us how far we’d come since leaving our apartments, jobs, and loved ones behind in the United States to travel the globe.
When we’d first started plotting this adventure nearly two years earlier, the three of us—friends in our midtwenties—had shared the desire to take a giant step away from our own goal-oriented worlds to get a better sense of who we were—and what we really wanted from our lives. Up until then, we’d successfully hit the milestones that are supposed to give young women a sense of purpose: Moving away from Mom and Dad. Graduating from college. Getting our first jobs. Falling in love.
But as we rocketed toward the next major stage (the one involving mortgages, marriages, and 2.2 children), we all wondered: Were the paths that we were heading down the right ones for us—or were we simply staying the course because we thought we should? Was the road most frequently traveled the one that we wanted to follow?
Finding it difficult to gain perspective while living and working in New York City, we decided to take an unconventional detour: a 60,000-mile, round-the-world journey that would lead us across four continents and more than a dozen countries. Dubbing ourselves “The Lost Girls,” a term describing both our own uncertainty about the future and an emotional state we felt represented many in our generation, we committed to spending one year of our late twenties wandering the globe. We were searching for answers, but as we’d learn along the way, the ones you uncover are rarely those to the questions asked.
If we could transport ourselves back in time, we might tell our younger selves not to worry so much. Not to sweat the small stuff—or even the big stuff. We’d say that real life is the thing that happens when you’re busy trying to map out your future. Then again, maybe we wouldn’t tell them a thing. Those lessons might have made the last years of our twenties a little easier, but we wouldn’t have traded our on-the-road initiation for the world.
CHAPTER ONE
Jen
IGUAZÚ FALLS, ARGENTINA/BRAZIL
NEARLY TWO YEARS EARLIER
We were surrounded on all sides by an immense curtain of white water. The cascades heaved over a sheer cliff, carving jade green pools in the jungle floor of Iguazú National Park, and drowned out every sound save one: the pounding of our hiking boots as they tore across the metal viewing platform at the base of the falls.
Holly, our resident sprinter, led the charge toward the exit, with Amanda and me sliding right after her. As updrafts of mist swirled around our feet, we skidded across the final footbridge and shot up a steep staircase, our labored breathing and laughter echoing against the basalt rock walls. Slowing slightly to wipe the spray from my face, I glanced down at my watch. We had less than ten minutes to make it to the top, or we might be stranded in Brazil all night.
According to the ranger (who’d raced over seconds earlier to see why on earth the three crazy American girls were still casually snapping photos when the park was about to close), there was only one more shuttle bus leaving that evening. So unless we’d brought camping gear or a wad of extra cash to bribe the Brazilian border officials, we’d better be on it. Sure, it would’ve been helpful if our taxi driver had mentioned the one-hour time difference between the Argentinean and Brazilian sides of Iguazú (or Iguaçu) when he semi-illegally transported us across the border, but hey, where’s the fun in that?
We probably should have taken this impending travel disaster a little more seriously. But considering that we’d all but signed over our firstborn kids to our bosses in order to take this little adventure in the first place, we weren’t going to let a little thing like a potential immigration scandal bring us down.
In fact, our escape from New York City a week earlier had felt like nothing short of a prison break. When Amanda and I had first told our friends and coworkers that we were planning to take ten days off—in a row—in order to backpack around Argentina, we were met with some seriously arched eyebrows.
“Wow, I didn’t even take more than a week off when I got married,” one acquaintance remarked. “Better hope they don’t fill your jobs before you get back.”
Only Holly, another assistant editor who worked with Amanda at a women’s magazine, seemed to share our enthusiastic attitude about escaping the freezing winter and the endless projects tethering us to our desks. Even though Holly and I had met just a few times and couldn’t be sure that we’d get along for a single day on the road, let alone ten, she’d asked only two questions before anteing up the money for a ticket: “Which airline are we flying, and when do we leave?” For my part, I was thrilled to have a new coconspirator in my quest to find a more authentic “real world” than the one we were about to leave behind in Manhattan.
After moving to the city nearly four years earlier to take a job at a national television network, I had been dropped into a world of claustrophobic apartments, exorbitant rents, fourteen-hour workdays, mandatory media events, and gospel preachers predicting doomsday on the subways. I quickly learned that the city had spawned a new kind of Darwinian struggle: only the most career-driven and socially adaptable would survive. In order to cope with the pressure, people generally took one of two paths: the first lined with Xanax, therapists, and cigarettes, and the second with Bikram yoga, feng shui, and green tea.
My personal survival method? Escape. Even now, dripping with sweat and frantically racing to make it across country lines, I felt that familiar burst of exhilaration that flooded me every time I booked an international flight or added a new stamp to my passport.
And though it had been a challenge to get on the road in the first place, Holly, Amanda, and I had done our best to squeeze every ounce of life from our holiday. We’d arrived a week earlier in the “Big Apple” of South America, cosmopolitan Buenos Aires, and filled our time wandering its cobblestone alleys, savoring sumptuous lomo steak dinners, stuffing our bags with street market finds, and exhausting ourselves at late-night tango danci
ng sessions that lasted until the night sky was slivered with pink.
Although our love affair with the passionate culture and sultry vibe of B.A. had only just begun, the three of us were ready to drop even farther away from city life. It was time to head for the jungle. After a two-hour flight on LAN Peru, our small plane touched down in the frontier town of Puerto Iguazú and it was good-bye strappy tango sandals, hello hiking boots.
Glancing down at my own shoes, now filthy from the day’s trek, I was amazed that I was still able to run, much less sprint up the final flight of stairs. As we finally broke out of the deep shade of the rain forest and onto the main road, we spotted the bus fifty yards ahead, packed to the brim with passengers. In a scene befitting a screwball silver screen comedy, the bus started to pull away at the exact moment we arrived. Holly, who by now I’d learned ran marathons for fun, fired up her legs and dashed even faster, waving a tanned arm above her head as Amanda and I screamed for the bus to stop. Thank the jungle gods that we’d popped out into the open when we had, because the driver somehow noticed us in the rearview mirror and chugged to a stop. Gasping for breath and dripping wet, we stumbled aboard and were met by a busload of cheering tourists, all clapping for our frenetic victory. Collapsing into the only empty seats, Amanda, Holly, and I passed around the one bottle of water we had left between us, laughing and congratulating ourselves on yet another skin-of-our-teeth arrival.
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