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Authors: Autumn Cornwell

Carpe Diem (19 page)

BOOK: Carpe Diem
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Bounmy
D
o not hate Grandma Gerd. Do not hate Grandma Gerd.
Grandma Gerd handed me a chocolate bar. “Here. You need some pep.” The label read CRUNKY! “It's from Japan. They're big into wacky brand names.”
I took it without speaking or changing my expression whatsoever. Wouldn't give her the satisfaction. This time
I
was administering the silent treatment.
The three of us were walking along the Mekong to meet our trek guide. We all wore daypacks (traveling light; the rest of our luggage remained at the guesthouse) and new green-and-black jungle boots Grandma Gerd had bought us—along with hiking socks that wicked away moisture.
“You can't make this trek in flip-flops or sandals—even if the locals do.” The rugged jungle boots made a humorous juxtaposition against Grandma Gerd's fisherman's pants, Cubist-patterned blouse, and Vietnamese mollusk hat—as well as Hanks's cowboy hat and chops.
As for me, well. If Mom and Dad could see their only daughter now: Gone were my stylish travel linens and trusty
Spring-Zs—replaced with baggy green fisherman's pants, a Laos Ale T-shirt, jungle boots, and a tan, which I'd managed to acquire despite repeat applications of 45 SPF. But I still had my big white hat.
Grandma Gerd's daypack bulged with extra boxes and cotton for all the Iridescent Ruffled Beetles she was planning on capturing. “This particular part of Laos is the only place they're found in all of Southeast Asia,” she explained to Hanks.
Grandma Gerd abruptly dropped to a squat and groped through the dirt. After a moment she jumped to her feet clutching a smashed cigarette pack. She wiped it off on her shirt, leaving skids of brown across her chest. “Brilliant! Just look at the design: It's a lotus. A red lotus on a golden yellow background. Isn't that just sensational?”
“So we're taking the road less traveled,” I said. Giving her the silent treatment was getting old. I shifted my daypack. My shoulders weren't used to carrying something so heavy.
“Frangi,” Grandma chortled. “We're taking
no
road!”
I wasn't liking this.
“No Road Travel—we're taking their Trek Where No Trekker Has Gone Before!'”
“But my guidebook says that the Laos government doesn't allow overnight stays in the tribal villages—”
“
Unless
you're with a licensed outfit. And as it so happens, No Road Travel is the only licensed outfit in Luang Prabang. We're going to see the
real
Laos—not a tour simulation. Our guide, Sone, is
the
expert on Laos hill tribal areas.
The
authority
on the Iridescent Ruffled Beetle.” She dug around in the side pocket of her daypack.
“Now that you're talking to me again …” Grandma handed me a cluster of tiny pebbles glued together to form a “T.”
“What makes you think I'm still interested?”
“That intellectual curiosity of yours.”
D-A-D-E-P-T.
Bicycles, motorbikes, and
tuk-tuks
cruised past us. Outside a handicrafts shop, wooden boxes containing flattened paper pulp peppered with tiny orange flowers were drying in the sun. Grandma Gerd
oohed
and snapped a photo with her Brownie camera. Then bought eleven rolls of dried paper to be picked up on her return.
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 maintain 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?”
BOOK: Carpe Diem
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