Hanks walked ahead of me, his cowboy hat pushed back on his head.
Why did he come along? I wondered. I’d have thought the less time spent with me, the better.
As if reading my mind, he glanced behind him. But I couldn’t interpret his expression. His mirrored glasses just reflected me back at myself—and I didn’t like what I saw. But at least my bug bites and purple bump had faded.
Come on, I tried to convince myself, who cares if he doesn’t like you—he doesn’t even fit your prototype. He’s not six feet five or blond or a surgeon-to-be. Doesn’t own a boat or a white nubby sweater. And lives a zillion miles away. Not remotely boyfriend material.
It didn’t work.
Below us the Mekong glistened in the morning sunlight. Blue and red and yellow long-tailed boats cut through the muddy water. We sat on a stone bench and ate croissants while we waited for Sone. The light and buttery croissants were a welcome byproduct of French colonialization (according to my Genteel Traveler’s Guide). I was conscious of Hanks’s thigh barely touching mine. But we both looked straight ahead as we chewed our breakfast.
A white sawngthaew (a pickup truck with two bench seats running down the sides of the flatbed) pulled up beside us.
A boy jumped out of the passenger seat and walked toward us, hand outstretched.
“Sabaai dii, madams and sir! I am your guide!”
He couldn’t possibly be more than twelve. Even game-for-anything Grandma Gerd seemed taken aback. The three of us swiveled in unison, scanning for someone more suitable.
“You’re Sone? The renowned hill tribes expert? The international authority on the Iridescent Ruffled Beetle?” asked Grandma.
“I am Bounmy, madam! I shall endeavor to please!”
He was five feet tall, wiry, with the usual cappuccino skin and jet-black hair. But unlike the usual Laotian attire of cool silk or cotton or linen, he wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and a thick jacket with NEW YORK YANKEES emblazoned on the back.
“Bounmy? I thought our guide’s name was Sone?” I said.
“Change of plan, madams and sir!” he said cheerfully, lifting our packs into the sawngthaew.
“But do you know what the Iridescent Ruffled Beetle is?” Grandma Gerd’s voice sounded strained. “And where it can be found?”
“Sone tell me,” said Bounmy with a wave of his hand.
“Brilliant! Unpredictability! I love it already!” she replied with relief and popped the last of her croissant into her mouth.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Old enough to like the ladies,” he said, leering.
Who was this fellow? And where had he picked up his banter?
“So are you married? Got any kids?” asked Hanks with mock seriousness.
“Alas, I have not found my special lady,” said Bounmy sadly.
After driving for fifteen minutes our sawngthaew driver turned down a bumpy dirt road that led to a clearing in the middle of the jungle. In the center of the clearing sat a battered helicopter. Grandma Gerd, Hanks, and I exchanged looks.
“What are we doing here? I thought we were going to the mountains?” I asked.
“Must take helicopter to start of trail,” Bounmy replied, holding the door as we all squeezed out of the sawngthaew.
The helicopter, Bounmy explained, was an Air America relic left over from the drug war. It looked soldered together—just barely.
“That doesn’t look safe to me,” I said to Grandma.
“But it is only way to reach trail, miss,” insisted Bounmy. “Do not fear, Bounmy most capable guide!”
Bounmy opened the side door with a flourish.
“Hey, if it can survive a war zone …” Hanks trailed off as the door came off in Bounmy’s hand.
After the pilot fixed the door with a bungee cord, I reluctantly followed Grandma Gerd, Hanks, and Bounmy into the helicopter. The pilot was a heavyset man who spoke no English. The blades whirled, and dust went flying. We jerked into the air. My knuckles turned white from gripping my armrest and Grandma Gerd’s forearm. She didn’t even flinch, just continued snapping Polaroids through the grimy—cracked!—window.
Now we were hovering over Luang Prabang. I never thought there could be so many shades of green. Rice paddies green, jungle green, mountain green. And dotted with gleaming gold peaks.
“Look at all the wats,” said Grandma Gerd.
Fsssht!
Below us, the Mekong cut a path through the green-and-brown patches. I distracted myself by counting the wats. One, two, three, four—no, that was a hotel—four, five—I’m getting nausea ted!—count, count, oh, look—sick, sick, gonna be sick …
The helicopter finally landed on the cleared section of a field at the base of a mountain. Nearby, workers macheting bamboo paused to watch us disembark. I rushed over to vomit onto a pile of discarded stalks.
As I wiped my mouth with a Kleenex, the helicopter rose into the air, its blades hurling pieces of bamboo into our faces. I shrieked. Anyone who wears gas-permeable contact lenses understands the excruciating pain even the tiniest of fibers can cause when it becomes embedded under the lens. Quickly, I popped my right contact lens out of my eye and put it into my mouth, hoping my saliva would rinse the offending particle off.
Then I felt a big thump on my back and Grandma Gerd said: “There. Feel better? Got it all out?”
Gulp!
I choked and coughed, working up phlegm to enable the contact to ride out on it like a wave. I jammed a finger down my throat to induce more vomiting. But I just gagged over and over … my mental self knowing that my physical self had nothing more to regurgitate. It wasn’t to be fooled. For a full five minutes, I alternately swore and jammed my finger down my throat. Grandma Gerd, Hanks, Bounmy, and the bamboo harvesters watched as if I were performing some sort of tribal dance.
I whirled around to face Grandma Gerd.
“You made me swallow my contact lens!?!”
They had no idea how unbalanced and off-kilter the world looked through one lens. And, wouldn’t you know, I suddenly realized, I’d left my spare pair of glasses behind in my big backpack at the guesthouse.
“When are you going to get soft lenses like the rest of the world?” asked Grandma.
“Gas-permeable contact lenses happen to prevent my eyes from getting worse,” I said, clenching my jaw so tightly, I got an instant headache.
Bounmy stared at me expectantly—probably wondering what nasty bodily function I’d perform for an encore.
“Bounmy, I need you to call back the helicopter. I can’t go on the trek with just one contact.”
He smiled encouragingly. “Sorry, miss! No phone here. No phone for entire trek. Very natural and rustic as requested.”
I attempted to control my mounting impatience. “No, with your cell phone.”
“Cell phone?”
“What? You don’t carry a cell phone—or even a walkie-talkie?”
He laughed delightedly. “No, miss. The helicopter shall return in six days as planned. No need for phone when have good plan.”
Right.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Grandma Gerd. “What if something happens?”
“You shall experience the bounties of the coquettish Mother Nature. Relax, please, and enjoy. Ready, miss?” Bounmy held out my daypack. “Must hurry to see the most lovely beetles.”
Then he hoisted an enormous backpack full of food onto his shoulders, topped it off with four rolled-up rubber mats, and picked up two plastic bags bulging with water bottles and said, “Shall we go?”
“You’re not really carrying all that?” Grandma asked.
“Let me help,” said Hanks.
Bounmy looked like a snail in an oversize shell. “I shall be fine.”
“Do me a favor and let me take some of it,” insisted Hanks.
Bounmy finally gave in: “If it will enhance your enjoyment.” And he handed Hanks one of the bags of water.
“Madams and sir, if you endeavor to main
tain a good pace, I shall regale you with a most spellbinding sunset.”
We followed him up a narrow, dirt-packed path. The harvesters returned to their hacking. Show over.
“So, Bounmy,” said Grandma Gerd. “How many times have you led this trek?”
“First time.”
“What?!”
I stopped dead in my tracks. Grandma Gerd quickened her pace, not eager to catch my frigid gaze. She said, “Interesting. So how do you know where you’re going?”
“I follow Sone once. Look! Butterfly! Nature’s little dancer!”
“Exactly where is Sone and why couldn’t he take us himself?” I asked.
“Sone have accident. Ah, so many butterflies! Be warned: They follow beauty.”
Like fingers that won’t stop fiddling with a sore tooth, I kept probing:
“What sort of an accident?”
“Oh, he fall off cliff and break both legs. Mud very slippery. Such bad tragedy.”
We all exchanged looks.
“When Sone get hurt they no want to lose business. So they ask me to go since I follow Sone on trek one time. So Bounmy take vacation from school to guide you most excellently!”
CHAPTER THREE
Trekking
Even Grandma Gerd was struck dumb by Bounmy’s revelation. We were heading into the lush jungle that umbrella-ed us from the harsh sun but also insulated us from any refreshing breezes. My clothes were saturated with sweat. Bamboo, ferns, palms, and other greenery enclosed us with a stifling thickness. The smell of my namesake, frangipani, filled the air. Butterflies danced above our heads. And the path led us grindingly up a mountain, switchback style. Up, up, and up on a path so narrow, only one of us could fit on it at a time.
Okay, keep calm, keep calm. At least he seems to know where he’s go—
“Stop please, madams and sir!” Bounmy said as he gracefully squeezed past us back down the way we came. We followed dumbly. When we reached the bottom of the trail that ran alongside the base of the mountain, he abruptly turned onto a trail offshoot. “Yes. Now we are correct!” His Levi-clad legs led us back up, up, up.
I grimly refused to comment, and Grandma Gerd knew enough not to say a word.
How could Bounmy carry all that when my small daypack already felt like bricks?
Grandma Gerd stepped spryly for the first eight or so switchbacks, then downshifted into slow but sure strides. Ten minutes later she downshifted yet again into leaden Frankenstein steps.
“Bounmy, is there any wildlife we should be aware of—like anacondas?” I asked.
“Pardon?”
“Snakes.”
“Ah, snakes. No bad snakes. Only friendly snakes. But we have many leech, spider, and scorpion.”
“Does that relieve your mind?” said Grandma Gerd.
I tucked my pants into my socks and sprayed on extra bug repellent.
We trudged onward and upward.
“Hold on!” Behind me, Grandma Gerd stooped to pick something up off the ground: an iridescent rock. She dropped it and straightened up. “False alarm.”
Hanks dropped back to wait with me as I paused for a rest. He took off his mirrored aviator glasses and put them in his breast pocket.
“Walkin’ fast, then stoppin’—that’s not good for the body.”
“And?” I could barely speak I was panting so hard.
“Keep a slow, steady pace instead of rushin’, then stoppin’ to catch your breath. Think of your body as a car engine. Each time you start and stop it over and over again, it takes more and more energy and fuel. But by maintainin’ a slower, constant speed you conserve energy. Got it?”
“I think so.”
He rustled in the underbrush, then returned with two bamboo sticks. “Use these for support and balance. One, two, one, two.”
I stopped. “Hanks.”
A step ahead of me, Hanks paused. “Yeah?”
I looked up at him. His cowboy hat cast a shadow over his eyes. All I could see were his nose and mouth. Which made it easier to say what I had to say: “I’m really, really sorry about your Godings.” My voice peaked at an unnaturally high pitch. I cleared my throat. “I really am … sorry.”
A moment passed. Then he slowly smiled. He pushed the hat back on his head so I could see his dark brown eyes. “No problem. They were … just boots.”
Flip-flop.
The heaviness I’d felt for days finally lifted and a surge of energy filled me. Now I could walk forever!
“Whoa!” If Hanks hadn’t grabbed me, I would have stepped right over the edge. “That’s the fourth time I’ve saved your keister. Don’t let there be a fifth.”
“Madams and sir, we shall stop here for refreshment!” called Bounmy from way up the trail.
“About time,” croaked Grandma Gerd from behind me.
She was a sodden mass of laundry—her fisherman’s pants, shirt, and socks were dripping. I was no different. After four hours of trekking, we were all sweat bags—make that starving sweat bags. Bounmy passed out a late lunch of squashed ham-and-cheese baguettes (another colonialization perk), but Grandma Gerd and I were so exhausted, we could barely chew. For once I sat down, my renewed energy left my body. The combined forces of altitude, humidity, and the exerting of muscles heretofore unexerted sapped me. Thus, no conversation. Just the soft sound of mashing of bread against the tongue.
Aunt Aurora’s putting us all through this for some stupid iridescent beetle with ruffles, Sarah thought as she huffed her way up the mountain.
Hanks blotted his face with his bandanna. I watched with fascination as a drop of sweat ran along his jaw. His chops were peeling and his shirt clung to his chest. Highlighting every muscle.
Flip-flop.
Before we resumed climbing, Hanks cut us pieces of moleskin with his pocket knife. We applied them to our blisters—which all three of us had thanks to our new jungle boots.
Bounmy’s energy was bountiful. “Enjoying trek, madams and sir? Such good flora and fauna we see today. And more to come. Butterfly!”
Our lack of enthusiasm did not deter him from pointing out each and every butterfly that crossed our path.
“Bounmy, I’d prefer you keep your eyes peeled for beetles,” said Grandma Gerd, fanning herself with a napkin.
“Beetles, very nice. So pretty, so colorful.”
“How much farther?” The effort of simply forming words made me want to curl up in a fetal position.
“Five tiny hours, madams! Five more hours of blessed views!”
I wished I hadn’t asked.
What made people climb mountains? Those lunatics who climbed Machu Picchu, Kilimanjaro, Everest—what drove them to waste all that time and energy to simply get to the top of a land mass?
Dainty balls of perspiration rolled down Bounmy’s temples. And his short black hair was damp, but he refused to remove his leather New York Yankees jacket. He pulled a pack of Lotus-brand cigarettes from his back pocket and lit up as smoothly as a forty-year addict. He inhaled deeply and expertly exhaled through his nose. Then he politely offered us the pack.
“Should you be smoking at your age?” I asked.
“Smoking is a gift everyone should enjoy! No matter how old,” he added, nodding respectfully at Grandma Gerd.
The smoke mingled with the butterflies fluttering overhead.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr. Vang’s Hospitality
A homestay is a delightful way to immerse yourself in the native culture. A home away from home filled with people oh-so-different than you!
—The Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Laos
By the time my thigh and calf muscles were pulsating with pain, we reached the top of the first mountain peak. Dusk approached. Yet another phenomenal tropical sunset streaked the sky.
“We shall now enter genuine Hmong village,” Bounmy said.
The small village consisted of ten huts made out of bamboo and wood, raised off the ground by stilts. A system of hollow bamboo tubes procured water fr
om a nearby stream. Pot-bellied piglets and mutts roamed. Round, graceful cages made of thin strands of bamboo housed roosters and hens. Brown pieces of what looked like leather hung on a line.
“What are those?” I asked Bounmy.
“Dried meats,” he said.
“Beef jerky,” said Hanks.
In the valley below us, terraced rice paddies gleamed golden in the glow of the setting sun. Mountains and hills surrounded us as far as the eye could see. As we followed Bounmy along the central dirt path of the village, the smell of smoke from hut fires filled our noses and the damp of night cooled our skin.
Both the adults and children of the village cheerfully welcomed us by sompiahing (like the Malaysian salaaming, hands pressed together chest high) as we went by.
“Hello!”
“Americano!”
The women wore blouses and brightly colored sarongs; the men wore shirts and short pants; both wore rubber flip-flops or went barefoot. They resembled the Laotians in Luang Prabang with their dark eyes and blue-black hair, but their skin was slightly darker from farming.
It was obvious Westerners had trekked this way before, but not enough to deflate their curiosity or goodwill. An elderly woman chopping sugarcane insisted on giving each of us a stick. Bounmy showed us how to chew it, suck out all the sugar, then spit out the fibers.
We passed by a pen with two brown cows.
“Don’t get any ideas,” said Hanks.
He was lucky my mouth was full of sugarcane.
Our first homestay was in the hut of Mr. Vang, a widower. His big grin offered us a gleam of white with gaps where eyeteeth should have been. His hair was neatly trimmed, and he smelled of aftershave.
“Hello! Thank you! God bless you!” he said in a jovial tone, shaking our hands one by one.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” said Grandma Gerd. “We are—”
“Hello! Thank you! God bless you!”
“That is all the English he know. He speak Hmong and some Laotian,” said Bounmy, who then conversed with Vang in Laotian.
“Mr. Vang say that you are very welcome and someday he will visit Disneyland.”