I hurried through immigration and ran toward the gate. From the corner of my eye I regretfully took note of Hong Kong International Airport’s shopping facility.
I plopped down in the luxurious airplane seat. The stewardess handed me a wet towel and a glass of champagne. I raised my glass: I was on my way to see the love of my life.
• • •
It was night by the time I arrived in Vietnam. Pasje was waiting at the airport. As always. Standing strong, solid, open, warm, and full of expectation. I rushed into his arms.
• • •
The next morning I was unpacking and repacking my suitcase on the bed in the hotel suite that Pasje was calling his home for now. We would leave on a short beach holiday the next day at seven a.m.
“Why do you always do that to me?” I asked.
“What?” Pasje answered.
“Booking the earliest possible plane only one day after I arrive. I just got here.”
I was putting my beach clothes in a pile, all ready for the flight to the coast.
“I just got here,” I repeated grumpily, stuffing the remaining clothes in the drawers and hiding my watch, necklace, and bracelet at the bottom. I showed Pasje a fancy hairpin I had bought in Tokyo.
He smiled. “You know you’ll never wear that.”
He was right, and I put it in the drawer.
“Pack one smarter dress for the hotel,” Pasje said, looking over my shoulder. “It is kind of old and grand. That is all I can tell you. It’s a surprise.” I softened and let go of my irritation. He was so proud to finally show me his new life. What he had built in only six months by working nonstop: two offices, a new circle of friends, and large stepping stones for our future. I turned around and threw my arms around his neck. I kissed his mouth: familiar, determined, sweet. We took a break from packing.
• • •
Later we walked over to his country club at the river. Making our way through the swarms of cyclists, we passed several markets. The merchants, taking a chance that we were American, were offering us military dog tags. With real names, of real people. It made me uncomfortable. I stopped, feeling a sense of responsibility. Shouldn’t we send those to their loved ones? Pasje moved me away. “It’s the tip of the iceberg,” he said.
Pasje was on full alert for pickpockets. He told me you could trust no one. A month earlier two friendly old ladies had sandwiched him in and emptied his pockets. He must have felt so defeated after all that alert- ness he had acquired on our travels. I was surprised as well. Strong Pasje mugged by two old women? I was on guard.
We spent the day at the club’s swimming pool, full of pink expatriates. It was Pasje’s first relaxing day in months. He turned such a painful shade of red he could barely sit through our romantic dinner that evening.
The night was way too short, as we had to get up at five the next morning to catch our flight to the coast. It was Friday, November 14.
Last picture of Pasje (taken with the camera that survived), Ho Chi Min City, November 14, 1992
2
* * *
FOUND
THE RESCUE
Suddenly, in late afternoon, I hear ruffling leaves and loud male voices—a group of Vietnamese men appears from the bushes. They are carrying big black bags. I can’t believe my eyes. They seem to move in a purposeful way. A man in his twenties comes toward me. He is holding a piece of paper. He leans forward and shows it to me. It is a passenger list. He gestures. He wants me to point out my name. I oblige and point at “Annette Henriet”—my first and middle names. He smiles and rewards me with a sip of water. From a square, light blue plastic bottle. No words can ever describe the taste of that one little sip. That bottle will forever be etched in my memory.
More men approach. They move me onto a canvas. Then they bind both ends to a big stick. Two men carry me, each with one end of the stick over his shoulder. I can’t believe what is happening. The men have started to move; I am hanging between them. We pass the dead girl. We pass “Numachi.” They are both badly decomposed and are being put in the black bags. The men zip up bags. Now I am suddenly terrified! But what about Pasje? What about my man? I don’t want to leave him! This is the first time I truly panic. They are taking me away! Away from my Pasje, away from my mountain, away from where I feel protected! I beg for water. They give me a little sip. It works like a Valium.
The men start moving right into the jungle. I see the leaves up close again; the afternoon sun lights up the raindrops. I relax. I am still hanging between the men’s shoulders. They tread lightly, almost like slow running, up and down little hills. Then my sense of humor comes back: who would be so privileged as to be carried like this? We come to a deep crevasse, which we have to cross. The men form a line and pass me from one to another. They make an obvious effort not to hurt me, but I scream with pain every time I am transferred. After that the men who are carrying me take off their shoes, one by one. They are treading even more lightly now. I smile at them gratefully. Dusk sets. The men stop. To camp? They make a fire. They put me near the fire, hanging my canvas between two sticks, like a roasting pig. I beg for water, but they shake their heads. I beg for more, feeling furious. Like an addict: “Give me more of that crystal liquid!” Meanwhile they are boiling something on the fire. It is rice. After a while they let me drink hot rice water. Finally! It tastes OK. Way better than nothing, but I so crave those earlier sips of pure cold water!
I fall in and out of sleep. The men, all six of them, are talking around the fire. In loud Vietnamese. Very loud. Some are smoking. Whenever one of them is near me, I gesture for more to drink. They sometimes oblige by giving me little sips of the rice water. But when I make a smoking sign with my two fingers on my lips, they laugh as if I am making the biggest joke. I am not, but I smile back and shrug my shoulders. I guess they have a point. I like them. Then they start to move around, disappear into their tents. I panic. I beg them, “Please leave some light on.” All those days alone in the jungle without fear, and now suddenly I panic about everything. They strap their lantern onto yet another stick and throw more wood on the fire. They then withdraw into their tent. I sleep outside, hanging between the two sticks. Like a roasting pig.
Perspectives
MY MOTHER: I woke up on Saturday night from an awful dream. Something had happened to one of my daughters! I did not know which one. I told my husband the next morning when we were walking in the woods. We were spending the weekend at a cottage in the country.
In the dream, I had to clean up an apartment. I was terribly sad. Sitting on the floor, surrounded by CDs. There were so many, and I had to sort them out. “Well, that’s obvious,” my husband said. “All those CDs, they must have been Annette’s. It is just a dream,” he added when he saw my worried face.
Their plane had crashed around one a.m. Dutch time.
MY SISTER, EVELINE: I woke up early that Sunday morning in DC. I had spent the day before hiking and enjoying an outdoor barbecue in the Blue Ridge mountain range. I was looking forward to a quiet day of work-related reading. At that time I was a board member of the World Bank. Life was perfect. Then the phone rang. It had to be from Europe. A male voice. Dutch. Someone from ING. Taking care of Dutch interests was part of my job, but bothering me on a Sunday morning, that early?
It had nothing to do with my job. He apologized for calling me, but he needed the contact details of Willem’s parents. ING did not have them on file. He paused for a moment and then broke the news. Willem had taken a domestic flight in Vietnam. There had been a storm or something, and the plane was missing. And yes, my sister was on board too. And they had to contact Willem’s family. No, no further information was available, but when did I think I could get back to them with those phone numbers? I told them to check the phone directory for the city of Breda . . . I hung up.
This couldn’t be possible. My little sister! And dear Pasje. Both conquering the world, such a beautiful couple. A plane crash? That should have happened to me! All those dub
ious South American airlines I had flown. And lately various Yaks, parts from Aeroflot appropriated by the former Soviet republics—those kept crashing. But there was no time to think or feel anything. My parents had to be told, my brothers. I booked the next plane to Amsterdam. But that wouldn’t land until Monday morning. That would be too late. Freek, my eldest brother, had to be told now—and he had to tell our parents. Freek’s wife, Marije, answered the phone. I started crying the moment I heard her voice.
MY BROTHER FREEK: I decided to get in the car right away. It was the second time I had to bring bad news—the first time was when our brother had cancer—but this was even worse. Both of them gone! Annette, the youngest, was much closer to our parents than the rest of us. They were much more involved in her life, her friends. And, of course, Pasje, whom they loved as a son.
It was early evening by the time I got there. They had just finished dinner. They immediately sensed that something was wrong. It was not like me to come unannounced. The only time I had done that had been two years before, when I had to tell them my younger brother had cancer. The oldest child, as well as a radiologist, I was the bearer of bad news in our cancerous family. I told them to sit down. “I might have terrible news,” I said.
JAIME: I walked into the office late Monday morning, straight from the airport. Everyone jumped up when I came in, as if they had been waiting for me. Anita, our secretary, told me to go straight into the boss’s office. I noticed that she was looking very pale.
When Ana told me the news, I could not believe it. I immediately walked over to the screens on my desks and checked at Reuters whether it was on the news. It was. Something to the effect that the plane had not made it to its destination. I sat down. On automatic pilot, I unlocked my desk, took my handset out of the drawer, cleaned it, connected it, and stared at the screen, waiting. All my colleagues tiptoed over to share their dismay, to give their condolences. But every time someone referred to Annette in the past tense, I would bark at them. “She is. She has. She is not dead.”
That evening I went over to Annette’s apartment with her friend Helen, to check if everything was OK and collect some things her family had asked for. Photo albums and valuables. Helen picked up a few pieces of jewelry. I was too scared, too shaken to go through her things. I just took her hairbrush from the bathroom. “She might need it,” I said.
Then I picked up a picture of Annette and went out onto the terrace. There I had a private conversation with God. I looked at the picture. “I will bring you back,” I said out loud.
MY MOTHER: When Freek left, my husband started drinking. After a lot of Dutch gin, he even managed to fall asleep. I wondered how he could. I did not even bother going to bed that night. The next day Freek drove us to our house in The Hague, where visitors took over. My family, our friends, Annette’s friends and cousins, all camping out to commiserate. Every time the phone rang, we all jumped up—for news that didn’t come.
Annette’s boss called. She was sweet and supportive. She said not to spare any costs in the effort to find Annette. She would pay for everything. Airplane tickets to Vietnam, hotels, anything and everything. I thanked her politely.
I just kept on moving. Between the living room, the kitchen, and the hall. As if waiting for a messenger. I think I attended to my guests. My sister prepared sandwich after sandwich. The phone was ringing all the time, with condolences. There were flowers everywhere. I hated them. I wanted to throw them out of my house!
When it all became too much, I went upstairs. I was chilled to the bone. Psychological, I guess. It consoled me to put on Annette’s coat. The sheepskin coat she had bought in Hungary. She always brought us presents, from all those places she went to for work. So thoughtful. Oh, those stopovers! We loved having her with us, even if it was just for a day or two. How I hated taking her back to the airport. Time and again. And now . . . I sat down on her bed. Now I will never have a granddaughter.
THE VILLAGE
The pain wakes me up. Overwhelming pain. Nothing like I have ever felt before. Everything hurts, everywhere. As if my makeshift hammock is crushing me. It is still early; the campsite is purple with the light of dawn. The men look packed and ready to go. When they see I am awake, they start speaking loudly in Vietnamese, like the day before. They give me a sip of rice water and put me back between their shoulders. Again they handle me with the utmost care. Again they take off their shoes, to walk more smoothly. They are checking all the time to see if I am all right. I try to be brave, try not to show how much pain I am in. I can only hope my tortured smile communicates how grateful I am.
We go down the mountain, dense with trees. Thousands of them. It is very steep. Twigs are sweeping against my face. I close my eyes. Dizzy. Can’t see the forest for the trees, I think. We continue downhill for hours. Then suddenly civilization of some sort. I see a few wooden huts scattered around. An authoritarian-looking man appears and takes charge. He is dressed in army clothes. I take an instant dislike to him. He can speak English but doesn’t show any interest in talking to me. He just says, “I have to make a phone call.” Hey! So do I! The men put me in the back of a minivan; only one of them gets in and sits next to me. I wave at the rest of the crew almost nostalgically. I put my hands together in front of my chest and bow my head. A thank-you nod I am used to making when dealing with the Japanese. They smile widely, showing crooked teeth. My saviors.
We drive for about half an hour. I try to communicate with the military man, who is sitting next to the driver, but he ignores me. He doesn’t seem to see me as a person. In contrast, the man next to me responds each time with a smile.
• • •
We stop at a village. “Hospital,” the man sitting next to me says. They lift me up and bring me into a small building across a little square. They leave me in a windowless room, on a stone platform built into the wall like a box bed. Two friendly Vietnamese girls are there to watch over me. They smile a lot. They dab my wounds gently with a cloth. Just my arms and feet. They do not take off my clothes; they just work around them. There is no light, no electricity. I am amazed by how primitive it is. “How did you ever manage to beat the Americans?” I ask. They just smile. Don’t they understand English, or is my broken jaw flapping too much? I do like them, though.
I fall in and out of sleep on my bed of stone, without even bothering to define what all this means for me. I patiently take things as they come.
Eyewitness’ perspective (first page), Hon Ba Mountain, Vietnam, December, 1992
Eyewitness’ perspective (second page), Hon Ba Mountain, Vietnam, December, 1992
Perspectives
MY FATHER: By Tuesday the story of the accident was all over the news. In the newspapers, on television. But in fact there was no news. No updates, no connections. The phone kept ringing and ringing, but they were just calls from friends and journalists. With questions. No answers. Vietnam was sealed off. Impenetrable. No phone lines, no Internet. Just rumors, lots of rumors. That they had been lost at sea. That they had crashed into a mountain. We could only speculate. It was monsoon season in Vietnam; the weather could have played a role. The only facts were the planned route and the make of the plane: a Yak-40. Anyone with any knowledge about aircraft was quick to talk about the poor performance record of these planes. That they didn’t have radar. That the Russians no longer sent maintenance crews to check the mechanics.
What hope was left? With my operational research background, I calculated the chance that anyone would have survived this: point zero. My wife is a natural realist. We were just waiting for the final confirmation.
We stayed in constant contact with Willem’s family. His parents came to The Hague, and we all decided to organize a joint service in a week’s time, in the nondenominational St. Peter’s Church in Leiden, a historic landmark, just behind the house where Willem and Annette had spent their early years together. We also decided we should put some kind of notice in the paper. People had to be informed. “Missing since November 14, our
dear Annette, 31 years old, and Willem, 36. They loved each other for thirteen years.”
Willem’s uncles and aunts also placed a notice. A real death notice: “Our dear cousin and nephew, Willem van der Pas, who loved life and all people, has died in an airplane accident in Vietnam, together with his girlfriend.”
MY FRIEND CHRISTINA IN LONDON: I arrived at Banco do Brasil early on Monday morning, as usual, to get a sense of the market before it started heating up. Mid-morning Ria from ING Bank phoned. Unusual, I thought. Then she gave me the news: Annette had not arrived at her holiday destination in Vietnam. They didn’t know where the plane was, maybe in the sea. They just didn’t know yet.
I couldn’t believe it. I just could not believe it. We had spent such a beautiful long weekend together in Madrid before Annette traveled to Hong Kong and then to Vietnam to meet Willem for a holiday. We had enjoyed ourselves in the bright sunshine, and had talked and talked as we often did when together, enjoying the free time as young free spirits without worries. Annette had even put her little rubber pool out on the terrace. I was shocked. I just couldn’t accept that Annette had died. No one could.
The news went around fast. Everyone in the market hoped that Annette was still out there somewhere, alive and feisty. “Negotiating herself out of there,” someone said. I tried to figure out how to talk to Jaime, to Annette’s parents, but I couldn’t do it. Not that Monday.
On Tuesday I finally picked up the phone and called her parents, with a heavy heart. I knew them and liked them so much. Annette’s mum came to the phone. We had the strangest conversation. I talked as if Annette was alive, and her mother talked as if she was dead. So difficult. I didn’t want to add more pain and tell them that I was still hopeful. I understood that, having waited for news since Sunday morning, they were accepting the fact that the worst had happened.
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