The Lost Girls: Three Friends. Four Continents. One Unconventional Detour Around the World.

by Jennifer Baggett

  I couldn’t believe she was actually considering not taking this story partially because of me. I didn’t know whether to be touched or to run and find the nearest monastery and beg a monk to wipe my guilty conscience clean. The truth was, even if I’d occasionally sat on the opposition’s bench, when push came to shove, I would always be on Amanda’s side. And knowing she might regret not taking her first big travel writing gig, I couldn’t allow that to happen.

  “Well, I’m telling you that you have to do this assignment. And that’s just all there is to it, even if I have to go out and round up medicine men in every village to be your sources. So I don’t want to hear any more arguments,” I said firmly.

  “All right, all right. I’ll do the story, but on one condition,” she said with a sheepish grin. “That we maybe meet up with Carter and detour to Vang Vieng first.”

  “But of course, darling. We gotta make sure you have some fun before you’re forced to hole up with your computer,” I replied, pulling the chain on our bedside lamp.

  It had taken nearly six months, one subcontinent, and three full-size continents for us to get to this point, but here in Laos, everything finally felt right between the two of us again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Amanda

  LAOS

  DECEMBER

  The morning after Jen and I visited Wat Sok Pa Luang, I sat at a café in the historic district of Vientiane, waiting for the woman who ran the tree-house spa to meet me for breakfast. I’ll admit that the New Yorker in me had been wary when Noy offered to shuttle me into the countryside to meet her aunt—Would she demand money later? Would I get stranded in a part of Laos where no one would understand me?—but I loved the idea of veering even farther off the trampled tourist circuit. Now, a half hour past our appointed meeting time, I wasn’t so much worried about being taken for a ride as being stood up.

  I’d just ordered my second cup of Lao coffee (a delightful concoction sweetened with condensed milk rather than cream and sugar) when Noy blazed up on her motorbike and flung herself into the seat across from mine. She catapulted a string of strident phrases at the waiter, who jumped in response, then turned around to give me her full attention.

  “So sorry late, but big night!” she apologized with a guilty look on her face. “Too many Beer Lao…almost not wake up!”

  I thanked her for coming in spite of her late evening and asked how she could take the morning off work to act as a tour guide to an American she’d just met.

  She shrugged. “Easy, place not open till two,” she said, breaking the yolk on the eggs that the waiter had hustled to place before her. She was in no hurry to get moving, so I nursed my coffee as our conversation drifted from business (Noy was determined to save enough cash to open her own luxury spa in town) to family (her parents thought she was too independent and too career-minded to attract a man) to the universal topic that seems to bind women everywhere: relationships.

  Though at twenty-seven she considered herself way, way over the hill, Noy loathed the idea of arranged marriages and hoped that someday she’d meet a guy who could keep up with her modern sensibilities and ambitions. I told her that lots of American girls, especially this one, could relate.

  Maybe she felt comfortable enough to bare her soul or just figured she’d never see me again, but by the time I hopped on the back of her “moddah-bike” nearly two hours later, Noy was reaching deep into her personal file, revealing insider information even I’d need a glass of wine or two before spilling to a stranger. She told me about the different men she’d gotten involved with while working at the forest temple. Her current obsession was a middle-aged American guy named Alan, who’d promised to come back through town to see her. So far he hadn’t. I wondered how often this story had played out before, how many men had showed up in the forest massage center and assumed that the masseuses—or at least the very friendly single proprietor—could ensure them some kind of happy ending.

  I was surprised to feel my ire raised yet again over the treatment—and mistreatment—of local women we’d encountered on the road. Though I’d always been pro–equal rights for men and women, I’d never actually considered myself a feminist.

  Almost as soon as I was old enough to learn what it meant, I’d despised the term, hated the associations with unshaven, granola-crunching, crop-haired militant bitches and their unyielding man-hating ideals. Then, in my early twenties, as the guys I knew began expecting women to ask them for dates, to pay for them, and to be sexually liberated enough not to expect a follow-up call, I actually blamed feminism for ruining what had otherwise been a perfect system.

  But the more I traveled and the more I’d learned about the roles of women worldwide and how powerless they were in many cases, the more I understood just how grossly naive and sheltered I’d been. Of course I hadn’t grasped the importance of feminism, the century-long fight to win my right to vote, receive equal pay, be protected from harassment, and retain control over my own reproductive organs. Nearly all of the work had been done by the generations of women who had come before me.

  As Noy flooded the gas and we zipped out of the touristy historic district, Vientiane no longer looked like the French Colonial village I’d initially found so charming. Car dealerships, repair shops, and liquor stores lined the main road. The traffic was terrible. Entire families were perched like carnival acts on the backs of motorbikes, with Dad driving in the front, Mom cradling an infant behind, and a toddler sandwiched in between. Wannabe tough guys stared as we zipped past. Noy shouted that I should keep my purse shoved between us, as locals had a nasty habit of snatching them. I did as she instructed, and for the next forty-five minutes, the wind made conversation impossible.

  We passed acres of harvested farmland before finally reaching Wat Pahakounoy, the Buddhist temple where Noy’s Aunt Meekow lived. As she entered the yard to greet her niece, I wondered if Noy had been wrong about her age. The tiny, bald woman with a dried apricot complexion and shriveled hands poking out from the yawning sleeves of snowy robes looked much older than sixty. Her face was stern, with no hint of a smile, and I couldn’t tell if she was upset that Noy had shown up unannounced with a Westerner—or that the Westerner had worn a tank top and capri pants to a monastery. I retreated as the two women spoke, feigning interest in a kitten that had curled up on the brim of a bamboo hat.

  Noy returned and ushered me toward the garden. “Okay, she say fine to show you around. After she make rice for monks, we return and she explain the herbs for the sauna.”

  Well, that was promising. At least she hadn’t kicked me out.

  Together we strolled through the dense wooded area, touring temples built several feet above the ground on raised platforms and crossing paths with monks who stared for a half second before dashing out of the way or averting their eyes. My immodesty seemed to be inducing a wave of panic among the holy men. I was kicking myself for spacing out on the rules of respectful attire when I noticed that Noy’s thin white T-shirt and jeans did little to hide her curvy figure.

  If anything was amiss, Noy didn’t acknowledge it. She patiently guided me along the narrow dirt paths winding through the trees, pointing out the buildings used for study and meditation, identifying those meant for sleeping and eating. I asked her if she’d ever considered following in her aunt’s footsteps and entering religious service.

  “Me? No! Never could be a nun! Of course, is considered a very great honor, but not required for women. The boys, they must do one year of service, at least, when they very young.” She explained that being a nun requires tremendous discipline. Though monks may eat one meal a day, food they receive from the villagers, the nuns eat whatever is left over after the monks are finished—if there is anything. Sometimes the women go for days without food, but they are expected to prepare the meals for the men.

  “And you know what else?” she hissed, looking horrified. “No sex—ever.”

  She composed herself as our steps lead us back to the clearing where we
’d started. Auntie was there waiting. She beckoned us up to a meditation platform built above a garden in vibrant, unabashed bloom. Though she was not quite smiling, her face seemed to have softened a bit, and she indicated that I was to sit down at her feet.

  The nun looked at me but spoke to Noy, who translated. “She asked what you want to know, why you come here to see her.”

  Under the woman’s steely-eyed gaze, I’d almost blanked on the reason, but my reporter sensibilities kicked in. Via Noy, I explained that I was writing an article for an American magazine and I hoped to learn more about the healing herbs used at Wat Sok Pa Luang. How had she come to know so much about the medicinal plants in the first place?

  Noy explained that when Aunt Meekow was sixteen years old, she was a nurse in the “big war” and had fallen in love with a soldier. They had wanted to get married, but he was from a wealthy family and she was an orphan who lived in poverty. His parents refused to allow the match. Heartbroken, she decided to become a nun, but her uncle forbade her to do so. She was too young and too beautiful to give up on love, marriage, and children. But Meekow was not to be dissuaded. She trained for more than a year at school and proved her devotion by meditating every day for six months, sometimes up to twenty hours a day.

  “Eventually she pass out from so much effort, so uncle realize that she mean business,” said Noy. “He finally give her permission…and she become a nun.”

  It was only after Meekow apprenticed under one of the monks, however, that she learned about the medicinal properties of the plants growing in their gardens. When the monk had taught her everything he could, she went off into the mountains to live alone, collect more plants, and create a special mixture of herbs with tremendous healing potential. These plants—lemongrass, eucalyptus, mint, rosemary, kaffir lime, and holy basil—were among the ones now used to create the steam at the forest temple.

  “Aunt say, monks have use herbal remedies for thousands of years for curing sickness, disease. Also make easier to relax and better for meditating.”

  “What types of illnesses can you treat using the herbs?” I asked, finally reaching into my purse to grab the tiny laminated pad and pen I used for stories. “Is there a way for someone to re-create the steam treatment themselves at home?”

  Aunt Meekow stared at my hands as I wrote but didn’t clam up as I thought she might. Instead, she went into great detail explaining how the plants could be used to treat everything from anxiety to reproductive issues.

  Both women spent several more minutes indulging my questions, and the nun even allowed me to snap a photo of her. I wanted to give her, and the monastery, a small token in return for the time she’d spent with me. I reached into my purse to donate 60,000 kip, about $6. I hoped at least some of it would go toward food for the nuns.

  Aunt Meekow accepted the bills and bowed toward me, the corners of her lips just barely curving upward into a small smile as she righted herself. I bowed back, trying to keep my own smile in respectful check, and started to rise to my feet.

  That’s when I felt the old woman’s hand on my shoulder and looked up to see that her expression had flatlined once again. She indicated for me to sit and spoke to Noy for several seconds, gesturing in my direction. Suddenly I felt nervous.

  Noy turned to face me and gave me an odd look. “So my aunt ask me if you have been here before, and I tell her probably no. Right?”

  “Yeah, this is my first time…I’ve never been here.”

  “My aunt say something about you familiar. This not be the last time you come here. You return, study with her, learn more about the medicines, herbs.”

  I smiled and bit my lip. Was this something that all spiritual advisers and healers in Southeast Asia said to tourists like me?

  “She say she can see you have very strong will. Dedicated to work hard every day.”

  That much was true.

  “She think it better you devote self to work, stay focus. Sorry to say, but men very bad for you, only bring trouble to your life. No good idea for you get married. Better stay away from men. Work hard. No get distracted by love and sex.”

  Aunt Meekow’s words sucked the serenity right from my body. Work hard? No get married? Was she giving me advice—or predicting the future?

  “Hey, hey,” said Noy, no doubt noting the expression on my face. “No worry. Aunt always say men bad—for you, for me. Everybody. I never listen anyway!”

  I forced a smile and tried not to overthink the exchange. Like most women I knew, Aunt Meekow was probably offering guidance based on her own experiences.

  Looking up at the nun, I tried to imagine her as a beautiful young woman, the person she’d been before time and heartbreak had etched themselves across her face. At first I’d thought it sounded romantic—she’d devoted her life to religious service because she had been denied the one man that she loved. Now the decision seemed almost reckless, and I could understand why her uncle had tried to talk her out of it. I wondered: Did she ever lie awake at night, reconsidering the choices she’d made as a teenager? Did she experience pangs of regret? Consider that her beloved might have moved on and married someone else while she’d been sequestered away from the world?

  Somewhere nearby, I caught the chime of bells, and Aunt Meekow signaled that our conversation was over. She slowly rose to her feet, and I followed suit.

  “Khawp jai.” I thanked her using one of the Lao phrases I’d learned. The slight smile returned to her face, and she nodded in response.

  The two women descended the steps leading from the meditation platform to the ground and entered the garden. Noy stood with her aunt, talking softly as the old woman meticulously selected plants. She handed them to Noy, who placed them inside her canvas satchel and bowed respectfully.

  “You ready go?” Noy asked me. “Getting late.”

  I was ready. The sun was at its highest point in the sky when we left the monastery through a stone archway and zipped past the farmers hard at the harvest. Noy and I didn’t really talk much on the way back to Vientiane. Once again the wind made conversation impossible, and after Aunt Meekow’s words, I was grateful to ride in silence. Today’s warning against men hadn’t been the first I’d gotten recently.

  When Jen, Holly, and I had first revealed our travel plans to our girlfriends, several of them had become obsessed with the idea that one of us would hook up with some local guy, fall madly in love, and move around the world to get married and have ten thousand of his babies. They were sure it would be easier to find a halfway decent boyfriend in, say, French Guiana or Outer Mongolia than it was in New York City.

  Only my ex, Baker, who’d finally returned to the States after years spent traveling in the Caribbean and Latin America, had anything negative to say about on-the-road romance. “Whatever you do, DO NOT have sex with dudes you meet in hostels! Just say NO!!” he’d warned me repeatedly via e-mail. I’d snorted and rolled my eyes at the computer screen as I read his assessment: As a group, backpacker guys were the sluttiest, dirtiest, most indiscriminate group of horn-dogs on the planet. They roamed in feral, salivating packs, moving from country to country, hostel to hostel, crawling into as many bunks and sleep sacks with as many girls from as many different nations as possible, all before returning home to the serious girlfriends they’d been Skyping the whole time.

  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.
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  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.

  The 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?”