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Authors: Autumn Cornwell

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BOOK: Carpe Diem
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“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!”
Trekking
E
ven 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.
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
 
B
y 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 from 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.”
“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 alcoholic 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.
BOOK: Carpe Diem
9.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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