“Hello! Thank you! God bless you!”
We removed our muddy shoes and entered the Vang abode.
Vang’s bamboo hut was large and spacious and so clean, I could eat off the bamboo-slatted floor. He had somehow managed to bring an ornately carved bureau up the mountain, and it was topped with water bottles, pop bottles, wine bottles, and—a bottle of Polo aftershave. White plastic-molded chairs surrounded a large wooden table in the center of the hut. Enclosed bedrooms ran along the left wall, and a large area for cooking ran along the right. Wooden stairs led to a second floor that functioned as a sleeping loft. A lone lightbulb hung from the peaked ceiling—Vang was very proud of his little generator. It had taken many years of rice farming to save up for it. Apparently Vang was prosperous for a Hmong tribesperson.
Vang lived with his two married daughters (whose names loosely translated were Grace and Peace), their husbands, and five grandchildren. Unfortunately, the sisters’ husbands were off buying a cow and wouldn’t be back for a couple days. They’d be disappointed they’d missed us. The Vang family enjoyed hosting trekkers and welcomed them an average of twice a month. Various travel agencies repaid their hospitality with food and a stipend. But they really did it to make friends from all over the world. A large piece of cardboard hung on the bamboo wall covered with signatures of all the overnight guests they’d hosted from Maryland to Iceland. We took turns signing it with my red felt-tip pen. Instead of his signature, Hanks drew an HL tucked inside an upside-down horseshoe U.
“My brand,” he said.
Over the bureau hung a Paint by Numbers of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. The colors were pea greens, dung browns, sausage taupes, and alarmingly white whites for the sheep and clouds. And it wasn’t even finished—one of the sheep was completely devoid of paint.
Grandma Gerd’s eyes lit up. “Fantastic!”
“Grandma … ,” I whispered warningly. I could just see her trying to buy his only bit of décor. Or, let’s be frank: stealing it.
“What?” she asked innocently.
“Would anyone like to wash?” asked Bounmy.
I could have kissed him.
After we’d all washed in Vang’s makeshift outdoor shower of bamboo, banana leaves, and bucket of water, we changed into clean clothes. I was relieved to shed the perspiration-soaked T-shirt and pants. (Why was my sweat in Southeast Asia so much more pungent than my sweat in Seattle? A question for Denise, who’d won the science fair with her entry: “Identifying the Bacterial Enzyme That Releases Sulfur-Containing Scent Molecules in Sweat.”)
For the first time since I’d arrived in Southeast Asia, I felt a touch chilly. My guidebooks said that it cooled down in the mountains and that at night, the higher altitudes could be downright cold. What a refreshing change!
In the kitchen, Bounmy cooked a makeshift meal, squatting beside the central fire. From his backpack came an endless supply of ingredients, Tupperware bowls, and utensils. Apparently the trek guide provided all the meals during the homestays.
Vang’s older daughter, Grace, enthusiastically helped Bounmy, her quick, deft hands slicing mushrooms and chopping up a recently slaughtered chicken. She had a gold front tooth, and laugh lines around her eyes. Peace sat in the corner, nursing her baby, and seemed to be making good-natured fun of Bounmy’s gourmet prowess.
“Peace say I make good wife,” translated Bounmy, grinning. Although Peace was only a year older than me, she already had two children: a three-month-old and a two-year-old. She had a dimple in her chin like mine, and a mole under her left eye that looked like a brown tear. Both she and her sister wore T-shirts with their sarongs and held their hair back with scrunchies.
I tried to imagine Denise, Amber, Laurel, and me all married with children—at our age.
And failed.
Peace gestured toward Hanks, who was sitting in the main room of the hut next to Grandma Gerd. Vang was regaling them both with his mega collection of postcards sent by former trekkers. She said something to Bounmy in a soft, lyrical voice and pointed to her cheek.
“She want to know if his hair … how do you say … tickle,” said Bounmy. He and Peace giggled. Grace reprimanded Peace, but she too giggled.
“Tell her I wouldn’t know,” I said. Would never know.
Then Peace asked Bounmy to ask me: “Is he your special friend?”
I glanced into the other room. Hanks was reading a “Salutations from Sausalito!” postcard.
Then I whispered to Bounmy: “Tell her I wish he was.”
He did. Peace giggled again and nuzzled her face in her baby’s hair.
Bounmy tasted his noodle-spinach concoction and made a face. “Need coriander,” he said, and went outside.
The adults squeezed around the table while the children ate sitting on woven mats on the floor. Peace led me to the seat next to Hanks, smothering her mouth to cover a titter. Hanks raised an eyebrow. I looked away before he could see my face turning pink.
I noticed that we were each given a metal Asian spoon, but there were no individual spoons for each of the five different entrées. Everyone just dug in with their own personal spoons. A germ holocaust waiting to happen! And as I was about to pull out my antibacterial soap to at least wash my spoon, I remembered I’d left it in my big backpack at the guesthouse.
While Vang prayed in Hmong for our food, I prayed I wouldn’t catch anything. What the heck, it was worth a try. As soon as he finished, I was the first to load up my bowl with large helpings so I wouldn’t be forced to get seconds from the “tainted” bowls after the family all started digging in for the second round. Hanks gave me a bemused look.
“Mmm … the spinach noodles are fantastic,” said Grandma Gerd, literally gobbling down her food.
“It is the coriander, the gracious coriander,” said Bounmy.
Then he passed around a woven basket.
“Purple sticky rice. Laos specialty.”
We each took a handful.
Sticky was right. It was so gummy, it took a full minute to chew. But it was more flavorful than regular rice. And I liked the brownish-purple color.
“Dip sticky rice in food—no need fork!” Bounmy rolled a bit of rice into a ball and dipped it into a bowl of minced chicken and mint leaves. Then popped it into his mouth.
“Not bad,” said Hanks, going back for seconds and thirds.
“Sticky rice rubbery like Lao time,” said Bounmy, a cud of rice in his cheek. “To American, nine o’clock mean nine o’clock. To Laotian, nine o’clock mean ten o’clock. Rubber time!”
“Sounds like my kind of place, huh, Frangi?” said Grandma Gerd. Her silver-grey mop was more tousled than ever, and the greenish lenses of her glasses were smudged.
I smiled stiffly, then turned away. I still hadn’t completely forgiven her.
The Vang family all expressed their enthusiasm for Bounmy’s cooking.
“Feast, Miss Vassar! Enjoy banquet!” said Bounmy, noticing my bowl was now empty.
“Thank you, Bounmy, it’s delicious—it really is. But I’m full.”
He seemed stung, but I wasn’t going to allow manners to interfere with my health.
With a flourish, Vang set a bottle and votive-size glasses down on the table.
Bounmy smiled and lit up a cigarette. “Lao-lao. Vang’s very extra-special recipe.” He passed the pack around. Vang took a cigarette—positioning it through one of his gaps where it stuck out like a walrus tusk.
“What’s lao-lao?” I asked.
“A type of distilled rice liquor,” said Grandma Gerd. “Don’t worry, it’s not strong.” From the look she gave me, I knew I’d be required to partake, so as not to offend our host.
Vang poured a glass for each of us, then held his glass aloft and toasted us in a melodic, singsong voice. Bounmy interpreted: “‘Thank you for honoring my home with your presence. You are always welcome here. God bless you, your families, and your future families.’”
We drank. I didn’t know what to think. The only al
coholic beverage I’d ever had before was NyQuil. This was more delicate, much sweeter, and had less of an aftertaste.
Vang refilled our glasses.
“To Vang’s hospitality!” said Grandma Gerd.
We drank. The glasses were refilled.
“To Bounmy’s guidance!” said Hanks.
Toast. Drink. Refill. Repeat.
Then Vang looked at me and toasted. Bounmy snickered.
“He say: May you and Hanks have long life together with many little Hanks!”
I gasped.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Hanks with a grin and quickly downed his lao-lao.
CHAPTER FIVE
Freshly Brewed
After getting ready for bed and using the bamboo outhouse, we climbed the hut stairs to the sleeping loft. The mats were rolled out, each topped with a thick, fuzzy blanket, compliments of Mr. Vang. We laid in a row: Bounmy, Hanks, Grandma Gerd, me. The Vang family slept in the two enclosed rooms down below. Grandma Gerd’s whistling snores and Bounmy’s rhythmic breathing soon filled the air. Which didn’t thrill Hanks.
“Got any more earplugs?”
“No. But here. You can have one and I’ll have one and we’ll sleep with our unplugged ears to the pillows.”
He reached out a hand, then hesitated.
“What’s the matter?”
“Ear wax.”
“Your loss,” I said, and put them both in my ears.
“I’m kiddin’! Wait! I kid! I kid!”
But his loud whispers were soon muffled by the expansion of the orange pieces of foam in my ears and I drifted off to sleep.
Two hours later, my bladder awoke me. I wasn’t used to drinking so much liquid before bed. I removed my earplugs to hear:
Rain.
Great. I’d have to go outside in that.
I groped around in my daypack for my toiletry bag and carefully put in my lone contact lens. Then grabbed my Maglite and Kleenex.
I gently made my way past the sleepers and down the squeaky bamboo ladder. No one stirred. How inconvenient to have only one entrance to a home.
I pushed the door. It didn’t budge. I pushed over and over until I noticed that a length of wood held it firmly in place. I jiggled the wood, but I couldn’t dislodge it.
What the heck? Why the barricade? After all, it was a hut, not the U.S. Treasury!
The pressure in my bladder was so great by this time, I was crossing my legs and squeezing.
I rocked back and forth and wondered if I should wake up Vang or his daughters. I didn’t relish knocking on either of the closed bamboo bedroom doors and disrupting their sleep. I tried rattling the door in an attempt to somehow dislodge the wood barrier. There was no budging it. Reluctantly, I approached one of the bedroom doors. But just as I was about to knock, I had an epiphany.
I scampered back up the ladder, made my way back to my mat, and removed an empty water bottle from my backpack. If Hanks could do it, so could I!
First I double-checked that Grandma Gerd, Hanks, and Bounmy were all still asleep. Then I turned off my flashlight and pressed myself into the corner farthest from my sleeping companions. It was dark enough that if one of them should stir, they wouldn’t quite be able to tell what I was doing. I could pretend I had a leg cramp and was doing stretches. Or something.
I tied a sarong I’d bought in Cambodia around my waist for added protection from any accidental gaze.
Then positioned the bottle.
And willed myself to pee.
Nothing.
Peeing on command is hard enough, but peeing on command in a bottle when you aren’t sure if you have correct aim is the hardest thing I’ve ever attempted—and that includes memorizing the entire Periodic Table.
Oh, to be a guy! How much easier their lives were!
I repositioned and tried again.
Behind me, someone coughed.
I froze.
Oh, please don’t let it be Hanks, not Hanks, not Hanks! “Gonna try recyclin’ after all, eh?”
A thought crossed my brain. He wouldn’t, would he? “If you dare take my picture—” I said through clenched teeth.
The bamboo flooring creaked, and then he was right behind me.
“Here, I’ll hold up the sarong around you. See?”
“Don’t look!”
“I’m not. Just relax.”
“But what if it overflows? I don’t know if I can stop it once it starts.”
“Take it easy. It’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“I can’t do this—you’re making me nervous.”
“Come on. Pretend you’re sittin’ on your toilet at home, doin’ your Latin homework … .”
Latin! If only it were as easy as Latin!
I closed my eyes and willed myself to relax: Relax, relax, relax. Think soothing. Soothing. Sitting with Mom and Dad by the fireplace, drinking herbal tea, reading—conjugate “to read”: eg, legere, lg, lctum …
Somehow I managed to fill the bottle and—Euge!—didn’t need another.
I pulled up my pajama bottoms and breathed an enormous sigh of relief.
Hanks dropped his arms, and the sarong wall collapsed. A euphoric stupor enveloped me. I was completely relaxed—and drained.
“Screw the lid on tightly. We sure don’t need any spillage,” he said.
Gripping the warm bottle of liquid, I turned around—and found myself nose-to-nose with Hanks. Or, to be precise, almost nose-to-nose, since he was a couple inches shorter. His black hair hung in his eyes, and his chops were still on his cheeks.
“I’ll get rid of that for you.” His hand covered my hand as he reached for the bottle.
“That’s okay—”
As I tried to pull away, his hand tightened over mine.
Which sent tingles racing across my entire body.
I suddenly felt like I had to pee again.
His normally mischievous eyes were intense. Like magnets. They seemed to suck my eyes into his.
In all my fantasies, I’d never foreseen the possibility of my first kiss taking place with a chop-wearing Chinese Malay cowboy named Hanks in a bamboo hut in a hill tribe in Communist Laos—all the while clutching a bottle of my own freshly brewed urine!
Hanks leaned forward.
I remained absolutely motionless.
Softer than I’d anticipated, with a slight flavor of lao-lao.
Flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop flip-flop!
I’m kissing! I was melting from the inside out, there was a ringing in my ears, my stomach whirled, my eyes glazed, my skin secreted a pint of sweat. But Hanks didn’t seem to notice. I was so hyperaware of his warm skin, the blood pulsating through his veins, the pressure of his fingers, that I unconsciously held my breath. Could he tell this was my first kiss? After a couple minutes, I let out a strangled half-choke, half-belch as I gasped for air.
Hanks laughed.
How romantic.
He touched the dimple in my chin.
“Let’s try that again,” he said in a husky voice.
My body seemed to have a mind of its own—suddenly I was clinging to him.
Tight. Tighter. Tighter.
“Frangi, what are you doing? It’s two in the morning.”
As Grandma Gerd rummaged around to find her glasses, Hanks and I jolted apart—dropping the bottle onto the bamboo floor.
“Careful,” said Hanks, his voice even huskier than before.
Disappointment flooded me. That little taste wasn’t enough—I wanted more!
“I was just … uh, giving Hanks one of my earplugs,” I said. And then followed the words with the action.
He took it. “So that’s all it took.”
We crawled onto our mats. I removed my contact lens and put in my earplug—and the retainer I’d forgotten to put in earlier.
I never felt more awake, more alive, in my life.
On the other side of Grandma Gerd was a cowboy with my name on him.
“See?” whispered Hanks. “Sarah does have the hots for Wayne.”
Sleep would not visit me tonight.
CHAPTER SIX
Ta Prohm Revisited
Another one of Southeast Asia’s alarm clocks cock-a-doodle-dooed in my ear. Or at least it was so loud, it sounded like it. Morning. Pouring rain. My blurry eyes barely made out the figure of Grandma Gerd—about to drink from a water bottle.
“Shhhtop! Nhhooo!” I slurred, thanks to my retainer.
“What’s the matter?”
Then I realized my bottle was still sitting safe and sound next to my mat.
Hanks found that extremely funny.
“Oh, don’t mind her. She didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Grandma winked at me. “I know.”
It was strange to awaken and realize I’d kissed Hanks.
Flip-flop!
I could barely make out Hanks’s face, but I could tell that he was smiling. A big smile. And what would tonight’s homestay bring? I couldn’t wait to find out!
Then I moved. “Owwww …”
“Not used to hikin’ nine hours straight, eh?” said Hanks.
“Here. Extra-Strength Tylenol,” said Grandma Gerd, popping two gel caps and handing me two.
I found myself watching every move Hanks made. When he lifted his daypack, I noticed a fascinating muscle on his upper arm. Many times I’d labeled that muscle as the triceps brachii on muscular-system diagrams, but I’d never realized how appealing it was on a real-life specimen before.
I opened my Latin quote for the day: Malum consilium quod mutari non potest. (Pubilius Syrus) “It is a bad plan that cannot be changed.”
As Grandma Gerd and I headed down the ladder for breakfast, I saw Mr. Vang remove a wooden peg from the hut door and effortlessly lift up the piece of wood that had barricaded me in.
“So that’s it!”
“What?” asked Grandma as we sat down at the table.
“Oh, nothing …” No need to advertise my stupidity.
A whiff of Old Spice wafted through the doorway as Hanks walked into the hut fresh from his morning shower. His wet pomp glistened. His toned muscles rippled. His lips—
Hanks grinned at me. “Take a Polaroid, it’ll last longer.”