On our return, the sky abruptly darkened with rain clouds as lightening flashed and thunder clashed around us. Running for cover, Sharon and I dashed under a large banana tree. 

"Scared?" Hank laughed at us, then boasted: "I’m not afraid." Looking up in the sky, he raised his fist in the air and shouted, "I dare You to strike me!" 

Zapped! He instantaneously jumped back as a thunderbolt struck a few inches away from his feet. The smell of burnt weed and a rising trail of smoke came from the ashen spot. 

"Ahem...God heard you," Sharon quipped.  

Then it started to pour. Hank suggested that we take a shortcut home. Without a compass, we soon lost our way as we ventured deeper and deeper into the jungle. Leading the way, Hank, with a bowie knife, vigorously hacked away at brushes and branches to clear a path. Tired, wet, and hungry, we eventually found ourselves knee-deep in mud crossing a swamp. 

As it was getting dark, Sharon joked, "I bet we’d probably come out of the woods right in front of Diana’s place." 

At that very moment, Hank cried: "Wait! I think I found an opening to a path." 

Quickening our pace, we followed the path and approached a refuge in the dusk; it looked familiar and then I realized it was my very own home! 

With great relief, I turned to Sharon, "Thank God, He heard you." 

That experience was the beginning of my long friendship with Sharon. Among many of my beloved friends, she is the only one that has brought magic to our journeys whenever and wherever we were together. Traveling with her is like living out our fantasy, always with an uplifting finale. Witty, daring, and independent, she made the perfect partner whether in trekking into the wilderness, exploring a remote region, or mingling with the diplomats in a party. Like a chameleon, she could play any role impeccably with spontaneity, humor and fun as an adventurer, a challenger or an entertainer.  

Our first Christmas in Cameroon was very much like a fairy tale. Sharon from the West and I from the East spent what little money we had on transportation to have a rendezvous at the Peace Corps headquarters in Yaoundé. 

"I miss Christmas at home," I said. 

"Know what you mean, what’s lacking is the Christmas spirit," she added. 

Just then an acquaintance passed me a note. It was an invitation to a Christmas party in Kribi, a seaport in the South. Expected to see a horde of Peace Corps volunteers, we were instead greeted by the lone wealthy Greek, whom I met briefly four months before. Feeling sympathetic to the food plight in our isolated posts, our generous host spoiled us with shrimp, caviar and champagne on our first night in Kribi.  

Before other guests arrived on Christmas Eve, we had to pinch ourselves several times to make sure that we were not dreaming of seeing caterers in tuxedoes, a live music band, a pile of delicious imported food, and plenty of alcohol to last for days displayed on white tablecloths. As we were wondering who the guests would be for this extravagant event, a line of prominent businessmen, rich expatriates, the American ambassador, and even our own Peace Corps director walked into the grand room. 

"It’s a surprise to see my hard-working volunteers celebrating Christmas in style," our director said. 

"Oh, we're just doing our duty as volunteers by observing protocol in every town we visit," Sharon aptly responded. 

"I see. Well, try to enjoy yourselves, too," our director said with a wink.  

That night, we rejoiced Christmas in all its traditional spirit as we sang carols, danced and drank until dawn. Our host enjoyed our company so much that he asked us to stay on at his mansion with a private beach for the rest of our vacation. Watching sunsets and sipping pinã-coladas had fulfilled our ideal holiday retreat, for we found the Kribi experience to be a momentary lapse of escape from the world of harsh reality. 

Besides those magical experiences, we’d shared extraordinary and dangerous adventures such as camping in the jungle, shooting rapids in a pirogue (canoe), spear hunting with the pygmies, and wandering into a village where hundreds of locals and animals died from inhaling the poisonous gas released from Lake Wum. As each journey tested our strengths and weaknesses, we forged a stronger bond of camaraderie of undivided loyalty, deep understanding and sisterly love. I’ve never had a dull moment with her; each journey had left me with vivid flashes of her sparkling personality and unforgettable memories of the times we shared in the past. 

When our service in the Peace Corps had terminated, we went our separate ways but kept in touch over long distance. A few years later, we turned up working in opposite ends of the Honshu Island, Japan. For our winter vacation, we decided to visit South Korea, including the paradise island, Cheju. While riding on the train from Seoul to Mokpo, we were discussing where to spend the night. 

"Wonder if this small fishing village would even have a hotel," Sharon said with a frown. 

A Korean gentleman in a three-piece suit sitting behind us overheard our conversation. He smiled and offered, "Let me show you the hospitality of my hometown." 

When we got off the train, he handed us over to the police. He seemed to have some clout as he ordered the local police to roll out the red carpet. And they did by taking us to an exclusive inn! Treated like special guests, we were accompanied by the inn owner wherever we went – a restaurant, an open market, and a nightclub. Filled with curiosity, we learned the man who had helped us was an official member of the Korean government on leave for the holidays. On the very day of our departure, we even had a police escort to the harbor to catch the ferry for Cheju Island. This insignificant fishing port with friendly and generous people has left its indelible mark in my journal as one of the most heart-warming places in my travels. 

After Sharon went home to the U.S. via the Trans-Siberian Express, I lost contact with her when I changed apartments and jobs. Sadden by the loss of a terrific companion, I’d frequently thought of my friend. I’d sensed that we would cross paths again because the magic that had bound us would certainly reunite us one day. 

Ten years later, I came across her photo in a newsletter on the Internet. I quickly contacted the newsletter and waited for her response with bated breath. She was ecstatic as she wrote in her email: “My long lost – and now found – buddy! You don’t know how wonderful it is to hear from you!” 

Like magic, she’d vanished and reappeared in my life. As we age and our circumstances change, one thing remains for sure – the magic in our friendship will never be vanquished.