“Morning, kiddo! Everything’s been sent home, where it’ll be safe and sound and fungus-free.”
“Everything? What do you mean everything!?” I jumped out of bed and frantically rummaged through the backpack. “My jeans! My pumps! My one nice dress!”
“Just be happy I let you keep your guidebooks—which in my opinion are just crutches that prevent true exploration. And those Latin quotes you seem to get a kick out of. Anyway, one large backpack and one daypack are all you need. That’s all I ever take when I travel. I wash out my blouse and underwear each night so I don’t have all that fabric weighing me down. Add a few toiletries—no need to be odor-challenged—some vitamins, Chap Stick, and a hat. Now that’s how to travel.”
My cheeks flamed with the injustice of it all. “Well, lucky for me my Traveler’s Friend Hygienic Seat was in my money belt under my pillow!”
Grandma snapped her fingers. “Balls. And I thought it was in the bag with your teeth-whitening kit and spare slips.”
“And where are my Spring-Zs?” I looked under the bed. “Don’t tell me you sent home my official walking shoes!”
It would be on her head if I got varicose veins.
She patted me briskly on the back. “We’ll get you some sandals. They’re much more practical. All those temples.”
Temples?
“I’ve left you two pairs of pants, two button-down shirts, two T-shirts, two pairs of underwear, two bras, one pair of shorts, pj’s, and all your toiletries. That’s more than triple what I usually take. Once we get to Cambodia, I’ll buy you some fisherman’s pants like mine—I guarantee you’ll never go back to regular pants. So baggy, so comfortable, and one size fits all.”
I couldn’t believe it. I collapsed onto the bed. The rampant injustice was making me light-headed. Of all the diabolical —
“Aaaaahhhh!”
I jumped up and gazed down at the empty space next to my nightstand.
My briefcase with my laptop was gone! And with it—my novel! The notes dictated on my PTP—gone! My cell phone—gone! ALL GONE! I hadn’t realized that Grandma Gerd was really truly crazy. But there was no doubt about it—she was! And now we were supposed to go traipsing around Southeast Asia together. WITHOUT A PLAN! The idea was such a strong attack on my sense of order and preparation that I felt sick. SICK!
“How could you!? Mom and Dad are going to be furious! Just how am I supposed to finish my novel!?!”
“You have heard of pen and paper?”
“Longhand is the most inefficient mode of—” I choked on my own spittle.
“I think you’ll like it once you give it a try. There’s nothing more organic than creating with the most prosaic tools.”
Still seething, I examined the backpacks. “These packs aren’t even new! They’re all worn—look, this one even has a tear!”
“They have character. A history. Nothing new is ever interesting—”
“Oh, no! It’s not enough for an object to be useful, now it requires a history! And don’t even think about buying anything with a bar code! Right? Am I right!?”
“Why don’t you sit down? I think you’re overheating.”
“And my credit and ATM cards—where are they?”
“I told you, this vacation’s on me. I’ll pay for everything. If you need money, just ask.”
Something dinged in my head. “Wait a minute! How could you have disposed of all my luggage without waking me up, unless—”
Grandma Gerd smiled and shrugged. “Caught me there. I slipped a couple Xanax into your Pepsi last night. Believe me, it was for your own good. All that baggage was just bogging you down.”
My heartbeat accelerated, and I felt a flush cover my body: My very own grandma gave me knock-out drugs! I was furious, confused, disoriented, and slightly nauseated. Oh, for one of Dad’s Tums …
“And since you overslept, we’ll be taking the evening flight.”
Overslept!
Although normally a super-positive person, I couldn’t even look at Grandma Gerd without wanting to throw something at her. This was not the right attitude to have about my traveling companion for the next two and a half months. I pondered the idea of flying home right then and there. But the thought of Wendy already making headway in AP English, Advanced Latin Camp, and Sub-Molecular
Theory stopped me. I had no choice: I had to write my novel. In longhand. Then type it up chapter by chapter at Internet cafés. The rest of my life depended on it.
I was at the mercy of an unorthodox, unpredictable senior citizen who didn’t seem to realize she was a senior citizen. I could never, ever trust her again.
And I would never, ever forgive her.
VASSAR SPORE’S GOALS FOR THE DAY
1. Do not hate Grandma Gerd.
2. FIGURE OUT WHAT SHE’S BLACKMAILING MOM & DAD ABOUT ALREADY!!!
3. Do not hate Grandma Gerd.
4. Email parents an update (with positive spin) and friends the latest chapter.
5. Do not hate Grandma Gerd.
6. Buy a notebook and pens.
7. Do not hate Grandma Gerd.
8. Never let my Traveler’s Friend Hygienic Seat out of my sight for a second!
9. Do not hate Grandma Gerd.
10.–100. Do not hate Grandma Gerd.
Amber: We’re LOVE LOVE LOVING the novel!
Laurel: We can’t wait to read each chapter!
Denise: Can’t you write faster? Email more frequently?
Amber: Man, if only your real trip is half this interesting!
Laurel: How funny about the Ear Nibbler! Where’d you dream him up?
Amber: We LOVE the Malaysian Cowboy character. Can you package him up and send him home?
Laurel: Spoon update?
Amber: Oh, and Aunt Aurora ROCKS!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Why Am I Surprised?
“Final boarding call for Angkor Air Flight 51 to Siem Reap, Cambodia,” crackled the loudspeaker over our heads. It was 8 p.m., and the flight left in five minutes. Grandma Gerd and I sprinted down the corridor toward the gate, wearing our backpacks and carrying our daypacks. She had on her standard uniform: Vietnamese hat, baggy orange fisherman’s pants, a billowing chartreuse blouse with a fringe, and her most recent creation: a choker made out of silver semiconductor strips. And I wore what remained of my downsized travel wardrobe and my big white hat. We were late per usual, thanks to Grandma’s failure to grasp the concept of time.
“Hurry!”
“Relax. The odds of a Cambodian airline taking off when scheduled are ninety to one. Make that a hundred to one,” she panted as she caught up with me. “Kiddo, you’re not supposed to wear socks with sandals.”
She pointed at the white socks I’d bought at the kedai next to The Golden Lotus before we left for the airport.
“You do if you don’t want to get blisters. Which will most likely happen since I didn’t have time to break them in, seeing as someone so kindly just bought them for me and disposed of my already broken in and highly comfortable Spring-Zs—”
“Oh, you’ll thank me later.”
She stopped suddenly, her attention captured by a passing Malaysian woman wearing a colorfully embroidered linen shirt.
“Isn’t that the most fantastic shirt you’ve ever seen? What an unusual Cubist pattern. Obviously handmade. Check out the embroidery. Meticulous, but not too meticulous. Flawed just enough so that you know it’s not machine made. Think of the history in that shirt. The years of memories soaked into that cloth!”
Here we go again.
“Grandma, come on!” I said, striding ahead.
But Grandma Gerd had already waylaid the woman. The woman stared at her incredulously and pointed to her shirt in disbelief. Grandma Gerd nodded with such enthusiasm, she almost sent her tortoiseshell glasses flying. The woman’s female friends covered their mouths and laughed. But they stopped when she pulled out a wad of Malaysian ringgit and started bartering.
Grandma Gerd is literally
buying the shirt off a woman’s back. She’s capable of anything.
“Final boarding call for Angkor Air Flight 51 to Siem Reap—”
“Grandma! We’ve got to board—now!”
“I’m running to the restroom to swap shirts, so you go on ahead—”
“What? But the—”
“Go on. I’ll meet you on the plane. I’ll be two minutes max—right behind you. Wait. Carry my daypack, will you? I need two hands for this.” She handed it to me.
“Fine, fine, just hurry!” I felt like a pack mule with my backpack and the two daypacks weighing me down.
“Tell ’em to hold the plane!” she called after me.
Right.
“Hurry! Don’t waste motions!” I commanded over my shoulder. Then, as I handed the flight attendant my boarding pass: “This extra carry-on is my grandma’s—she’s right behind me.”
She just smiled and salaamed.
The rickety aircraft had only two rows of seats on either side of the aisle. I headed toward 12A, catching my breath and trying not to whack fellow passengers in the head with the packs.
I stuffed my backpack and daypack in the compartment above and shoved Grandma Gerd’s daypack under the seat in front of me.
Garbled admonishments came over the sound system in at least three Southeast Asian languages, then finally in English: “Please secure safety belt and all item stow under seat. Aw kohn—thank you.”
Where was she? I craned my neck to look down the aisle. Cutting it close—as usual.
How can she live like this?
To distract myself, I pulled out my Genteel Traveler’s Guide to Cambodia. I skimmed through the introduction—then realized we were moving!
I peered out my oval window, scanning the terminal for any sight of—wait! There she was! Wearing the “fantastic shirt” and waving at me cheerfully.
I leaped to my feet and waved desperately for the stewardesses. But they were already buckled in and gestured for me to sit down. “Must sit, please, miss. Plane taking off.”
I sat down and rebuckled.
Fuming.
The plane pulled away from the terminal, and the tall, lanky figure with the unruly silver-grey mop of hair grew smaller and smaller. I couldn’t believe it. Oh, yes, I could. Figures Grandma Gerd would mess things up. She was always messing things up.
Just when I didn’t think I could be angrier at her—she did something else.
Suddenly, fear took hold: I didn’t know where I was going, where I was staying! Grandma Gerd had all that information in her head. What was I going to do?
Calm down. Look in your guidebooks.Thousands of tourists do just that, don’t they?
With shaking hands I flipped to the town of Siem Reap. I knew where I was going. That was something, at least. There seemed to be a lot of very affordable hostels—
Uh-oh.
Grandma Gerd had the money.
I had maybe two dollars’ worth of Malaysian ringgit. No credit card, no ATM card.
An overwhelming sense of dread filled me: You’ve never been totally on your own before, Vassar.
I pushed Grandma Gerd’s pack to give myself more foot room. Hold on! Maybe she kept some money in there.
I lifted the pack onto my lap and unzipped it: a large bottle of echinacea. A glue stick. Double-sided tape. Her Polaroid camera with extra film. And—no wonder it was so heavy—her Everything Book, still barely held together with the help of that giant rubber band.
But no money.
I felt hot and prickly. I was going to hyperventilate if I didn’t distract myself—NOW!
The Everything Book.
Most of the pages were covered with rough pencil sketches, flowers, leaves, and random bits of trash that I’d glimpsed every now and then when she’d cracked it open to shove something inside. Like that Polaroid of me with the kopi stain.
There were photos of Grandma and others in a sort of multilayered, multipage collage. My late grandpa wearing his plaid golf pants and squinting at the camera. Grandma eating sticky rice with a beaming Thai lady. Grandma in a pouffy A-line dress. Grandma balancing a giant cabbage on her head. Dad as a boy wearing his little blue suit and jabbing a calculator button with a pencil.
Then I flipped the page to find endless photos of ME! Photos from toddler to teen that my parents must have sent her over the years without me knowing. There I was, dressed as a giant bran muffin for my fifth-grade play on the food pyramid. And there again “Shufflin’ Off to Buffalo” during a tap-dance recital. Then there was my fifteenth birthday photo, which was the first photo of myself that I ever really liked: My braces were off, my dark hair cut shoulder length, the cowlick in my bangs flattened with extra-strength hairspray, and my eyes eye shadowed and mascaraed—making me look “exotic” instead of “schoolgirl.” Under that one, Grandma had scrawled: Almost a Womb. No, wait: Almost a Woman.
Grandma carried photos of me wherever she went? I had no idea. She’d also kept all my letters and notes. Even my latest one, a thank-you for last year’s birthday gift:
Dear Grandma Gerd,
Thanks for the birthday collage. It’s hanging above my bed. Does the deflated rubber ball signify anything in particular? I’m assuming the fifteen swizzle sticks were meant to symbolize my age.
In answer to your questions: No, I don’t have a boyfriend as I haven’t yet been on a date. Mom says I’ll have more than enough time for that after college. And no, I haven’t yet read Graham Greene’s Travels with My Aunt. What with my rigorous AP schedule, fencing classes, after-school Latin and Trig study groups, National Honor Society duties, membership in Toastmasters, and community service hours—not to mention my regular school workload—I have little time for recreational/light reading.
Once again, I appreciate your thoughtfulness in remembering my birthday, albeit five months late.
Sincerely,
Vassar Spore
Yikes. Was I really as smug as I sounded on paper?
Feeling guilty for prying, I closed the Everything Book and returned it to the backpack.
Dread once again overwhelmed Sarah: What am I going to do in a Third World country with no guidance, no reservations, no money—and no clue?!!
PART THREE
Cambodia
CHAPTER ONE
My Guardian
It was pitch-black when the plane landed in Siem Reap, Cambodia. There were no lights other than the tiny ones on the runway to guide the plane. I pulled on my backpack, slung a daypack over each shoulder, and headed down the aisle. Then panic set in. I froze. Took a series of deep breaths.
“Move along, little doggie, you’re cloggin’ the aisle.”
I whirled around.
Hanks, the Chinese Malay Cowboy!
Relief flooded me.
“You!”
“Howdy!”
“What are you doing here?”
Although Hanks was hatless, he still wore his standard Western shirt and jeans. And his sideburns were there in all their glory.
“Gerd thought I’d make a good guardian.”
“Guardian? You’re my age!” My relief turned to indignation.
Hanks said, “Actually, I’m two whole years older than you, Spore. Makes a world of difference.”
So Hanks was babysitting me again.
“I’ve toured Angkor before. And I speak conversational Cambodian—my aunt’s from Phnom Penh. So I’m darn qualified to be your guardian.”
Then it hit me: “I bet she missed the plane on purpose! This was all planned! And she says she doesn’t plan!”
“Now why would she do that?”
But there was something odd in his voice.
“What about your internship?”
“Renjiro thought I deserved some time off for good behavior.”
Hanks pulled his cowboy hat out of an overhead compartment and plopped it on his head. Then he took my daypack and slung it over his shoulder and picked up a duffel bag—which was topped with a lasso. “Move along, m
ove along.” He smiled at the flight attendant. “And I thought I wasn’t gonna get in any herdin’ practice.”
She just smiled blankly and salaamed.
Why had Grandma asked him along? We didn’t even know each other. And now we were supposed to be travel buddies? Wait, make that: guardian and ward?! What was she up to?
“I hope you have money,” I said.
We disembarked down a set of metal stairs. The heat and humidity assaulted us as we made our way across the tarmac into the airport, which resembled a set from a 1950s movie—and was probably built in that era. Stoic custom officials wearing tan uniforms dotted with metals stamped our passports and checked our visas.
Then Hanks led me outside, where a bevy of taxi drivers—each of them nursing a stub of a cigarette—jockeyed for our business. He smoothly negotiated, and in a matter of minutes, we zoomed off into more darkness, the headlights weakly illuminating just two feet in front of us.
Barely visible Cambodians on bikes and motorcycles shared the road with us, casually moving out of the way as we chugged by. Brightly colored sarongs and rubber flip-flops seemed to be the common garb for both women and men. The town of Siem Reap itself was no brighter. Like Melaka, it had a river cutting through town, though this one was much narrower and flanked with benches. Electric lightbulbs shone weakly above café tables and reflected in the water. Backpackers roamed the streets with flashlights, navigating their way down the dirt roads and into the guesthouses and restaurants.
“Bet you could use some grub.” He handed me a package of peanuts.
“Okay. Just what’s the deal with the cowboy act? Where did you learn your English?”
He shrugged. “In school, like everybody else.”
“But you talk like—”
“Uncle How.”
He flipped open a buckskin wallet and flashed a creased photo of a Malaysian guy wearing chaps over his jeans in mid-flight off a bucking bronco. It was hard to tell what he looked like other than airborne.
“He was an engineer like my dad. Until he invented a new kind of wire bonder machine. With the money he made, he bought a cattle ranch in Little Creek, Wyoming. I’ve spent every summer with him. Picked up Little Creek–style twang from him—along with how to ride, shoe a horse, lasso, and chew.”