Magdalena is an exotic type—as exotic as her name. She tells me to relax. I have to stare into her dark, velvety eyes. I think of The Jungle Book, the scene where Mowgli looks into the snake’s eyes and they turn into a kaleidoscope. It makes me laugh. Again and again. It doesn’t work. Every time I am at the point of slipping away, I cross my arms and get myself back.
“You have too strong a mind,” she says. “For you the only way is to hypnotize yourself. Focus on two things at the same time with the exact same focus.”
It works. With a bit of yoga breathing and a touch of New Age thinking. I take the subway to Brooklyn at rush hour. Under the water. To practice. The subway is packed. I struggle even to find a car I can fit into. It is quite a test for a claustrophobe to stay nonjudgmental when sharing a tight place with many people. “You love them, you love them, you love them,” I tell myself, and suddenly I do.
So am I prepared? I better be.
AMULETS
NEW YORK, 2006
“The angels will carry you up that mountain; God will protect you. The energy of the trees will lift your spirit,” my various supporters say to boost my morale.
They tell me to buy special mountain shoes, Teva sandals, lightweight ski poles, a UV-protection blouse, and treated socks to ward off mosquitoes.
I carry an energy pendant; a picture of Saint Francis, friend of nature and animals; a silver pillbox from my friends; and a good-luck letter from nine-year-old Joosje.
THE OLD JAIME
NEW YORK, AMSTERDAM, 2006
To say that Jaime and I are estranged is perhaps too much, but over the past few years, he has definitely withdrawn, if not isolated himself. From our friends, from life, from me. From everyone but Maxi and Joosje.
I did not fully understand the extent of his withdrawal until recently, when I start planning my trip. He slowly but surely gets drawn back in and returns to me, and I realize how much we have grown apart.
After I leave for Vietnam, I call from the car to say good-bye one more time and hear it in his voice. The warmth, the interest—devotion almost. Just the way he used to be.
When I call from Newark Airport, he is the same. And again after I arrive in Holland. I get his call in a shoe store in The Hague. I am buying yet another pair of hiking shoes. “Sandals that just fit around the scars,” I tell him. I am nervous my damaged feet will not carry me up that mountain.
“You can do it; I know you can,” he tells me over and over.
Finally, I am talking to him from Amsterdam Airport, just before boarding that endless flight to Singapore.
“It is ten hours!” I complain. “What if I get claustrophobic?”
“You won’t. You’ll be in the front. Just enjoy, talk to your neighbor. Think of the old days. You have been there and done that, and much worse. ” His warm voice is there again. He has come back to me. Think of the old days.
HEALED
SINGAPORE, 2006
The twenty-hour flight from Amsterdam to Singapore turns out to be quite pleasant. The lady next to me senses I am nervous, despite my perfect seat in the first row. By the time we are in the air, we are chatting. She is Australian, on a world trip. I tell her what I am up to. She gives me a crucifix. A little wooden one, with silver corners and a minuscule Jesus figure.
“I don’t know why I collect them,” she says. “I’m not even a Christian. One day you’ll give it back to me.” It is beautiful. I add it to my collection of charms given by my friends. I relax.
I am looking forward to seeing Myra. She is the orthodontist who fixed my jaw after the accident. She also fixed my resolve, by feeding me Japanese and Indian takeout and suggesting to my family to get me my first Game Boy. Now she will fix my nerves. She is waiting for me at the world’s most efficient airport. What a warm and open person she is, and how right she had been to suggest a stopover, to acclimatize both mentally and physically before climbing my mountain. Better to ease into it slowly, with her motherly guidance. We have been exchanging letters since I recovered, and hers are always warm and wise.
Myra takes me straight to a supermarket and asks me to pick out what I want to eat. I marvel at the international choice. When we get to her house in a quiet Singapore neighborhood, she gives me a beautiful room and her house key.
“You can keep it,” she says. “You never know if you’ll be back one day.” The guest room opens up to an orchid garden, tended by her husband, a psychology professor. They make a wonderful couple. He is a native Singaporean, born to idealistic British parents who set out from England to help build the perfect state. She is a Chinese immigrant. Her mother walked with her young family all the way from China to freedom in Singapore.
Myra has a busy orthodontic practice at the hospital and flies all over the world to repair cleft lips. She also bakes elaborate wedding cakes for anyone who wants one. She is even more generous to me. When I admire her ring, she tells me she had the band made in Thailand especially for the stone. She shows me how the light forms an asterisk-like shape on the surface of the blue stone. She takes it off and says, “You have it; it matches your eyes.” Of course I protest, but she insists. It fits perfectly. Another amulet.
We discuss how many religions coexist in peace in Singapore. Rather than being politically correct, people allow gentle jokes about each other’s choice of worship. Myra and her husband are rational and erudite intellectuals who say they don’t buy spirituality or religion of any sort. But they are both so dedicated to others, to this world, and to paying such close attention to every aspect of their daily lives. I can only define it as the perfect example of how spirituality is rooted in reality.
The next day Myra takes me to work at Mount Elizabeth, the hospital where I was reassembled thirteen years earlier. She asks me if I recognize it. I do, a bit.
“I recognize the feeling,” I say.
“Now, that I don’t get,” she answers. “How do you recognize a feeling?” I just do.
The doctors and nurses are great. They actually remember me. They have many versions of how fragile, ghostly, sick, anemic, dehydrated, and close to death I was the last time they saw me.
NUMACHI
SINGAPORE, 2006
The next day I meet up with Numachi, my Japanese colleague who described my last days in Tokyo so meticulously thirteen years ago. Who brought me sake with real gold flakes while I was recovering in Holland. We have stayed in touch over the years by sending each other lengthy Christmas wishes. From time to time, I have picked up the phone to ask him how he is doing. He will always remind me of that Vietnamese man in the jungle, the one who lent me his trousers. I remember how I called him Numachi in my mind, how the similarity was comforting.
Numachi has his own company now, partly in Japan, partly in Singapore. I insist on playing golf with him, picking up where we left off last time. He takes me to a golf course near the Malaysian border. When our taxi gets stuck in a huge traffic jam, I get an anxiety attack, fueled by fears about my impending climb. Numachi smiles at me cheerfully and says, “Well, you can’t do anything about it. You can’t get out!” It takes me back to the crowded subway in Tokyo all those years ago. He said something similar on that occasion. Then I was amused by his lack of empathy. But then I was younger and braver.
I think of Joosje. Once, when she was doing her homework, she quoted, “Courage is not the absence of fear, but the knowledge that something is more important than fear.” I tell myself to get over it. I turn inward. By using both my breathing and my new self-hypnotizing techniques, I succeed.
From Singapore to Ho Chi Minh City I will fly Vietnam Airlines. A free flight. On the airline’s invitation. I have to collect the ticket at the Vietnam Airlines office in Singapore, somewhere on the eleventh floor. I take the elevator with apprehension. Seeing the logo gives me the creeps. It is like facing an old enemy.
The girl behind the counter smiles when I introduce myself. I ask her politely whether I can sit in the very first row of the plane.
; “I was in an airplane crash, you know. I was the only survivor and I woke up with a dead person in a chair on top of me. I have long legs and get anxious when I feel the chair in front of me, against my knees.” The girl smiles, sympathetically.
But when I’m boarding I am really nervous. Even more so when I find out that I won’t be sitting in the front row after all. Sure, it’s the first row in economy, but my knees are squashed against the business seat in front of me. Even though the whole business section is empty. I feel uncomfortably closed in. My mind starts racing: They don’t care! When they close the curtain separating the two sections, my heart starts pounding in my throat. I have to get up. I approach the stewardess.
“Excuse me, but I am extremely claustrophobic. Is there any chance you would upgrade me to the first row of the plane?”
“No, madam, I am not authorized to do that.”
“I was in a plane crash with your airline. It is because of Vietnam Airlines that I need to sit there in the first place!” I say more urgently. Her doll’s face shows no emotion. She won’t budge. I panic even more. It really seems she couldn’t care less, like the men in the ambulance and in the hospital in ’92. That same indifference and distance. It all comes flooding back. What am I doing here? What was I thinking?
I go back to my seat and have no other choice than to breathe and to befriend the Singapore businessman next to me. We talk throughout the flight. He wishes me luck.
I also breathe my way through the bus ride to the terminal. The bus is packed with people, many Vietnamese. They might as well have sat on my chest; that’s how it feels.
The other business class bus is empty. What would it have cost them to treat me as if they cared?
6
* * *
BACK IN VIETNAM
FINALLY, CHRIS
VIETNAM, 2006
By the time I meet him at the airport in Ho Chi Minh City, Chris has taken on legendary status in my mind because of all the heroic stories Jaime has told me about his interventions after the crash. And in his e-mails after I contacted him, he has always said the right thing. Dutch common sense meeting Eastern wisdom—something like that.
It is awkward seeing him in person. He is definitely older than I had imagined, and looks like an average European—though, I reckon, so do I—a bit of a bulky body, profusely sweating in the blazing heat. I let my disillusion evaporate by concentrating on his nice voice, and I relax. Once we are in the car, Chris fills in the thirteen-year gap since we last “met.” First, his business made him quite wealthy. Then he married a Vietnamese pop star who turned out to be a taker. Gone were the marriage and the wealth. He had to start from scratch again. The good news is he has remarried. His new wife is Cambodian, and they have two little children.
“I am ruined but happy,” Chris laughs.
He takes me to the restaurant at the roof of the Rex Hotel. That rooftop, with its French Colonial atmosphere, tropical plants, and the constant buzz of the city as background music. The same rooftop where Pasje took me on my first night in Saigon. The same rooftop where Chris told Jaime I was alive.
When we sit down and order our drinks, Chris looks straight at me and asks, “So, what do you want to know?”
I am startled by his sudden directness. After a few moments, I answer: First of all, I want to thank him for everything he did after the accident. For all of us. And I have to apologize for my long silence. I tell him Pasje’s parents and I have separated, so to speak, and they got to “keep him,” as he was Pasje’s good friend in Vietnam, the last one to know him.
Chris looks thoughtful, then says, “I guessed as much. But the truth is that I hardly knew him. We only went out a couple of times. I just helped him along, the same way I always do with new expatriates.” Chris must see the shock on my face. He adds, “But I have to say that I liked him so much that I thought we might become real friends. He was grounded and genuine.”
I am still taken aback. Isn’t that alleged friendship the whole reason for me being here with him?
“If it isn’t out of friendship for Pasje, why would you go up that damn mountain with me?”
“Because you made a deep impression on me, that’s why.”
To keep my composure, I open my camera bag, put the camcorder on the table, and say, “Well, if you don’t mind, could you start telling me why?”
Perspectives
CHRIS, VIETNAM, 2006: My stock was up in 1992. My business and everything else was flourishing, and I was living in a big house near the center of Ho Chi Minh City. It was so big that I had rented out a room to Carola, Pasje’s deputy. That’s how I knew her. When the plane crashed, I first followed the events but stayed in the background. I gave Carola some tips on how to deal with the communist bureaucracy. Poor girl. She was dealing with all this on her own, with only a few guys from Willem’s bank in Hong Kong to support her.
I knew Willem a little bit. We had been out a couple of times, and there had been something there. I could see he was making an effort to get to know the country and the people. He was different from the other expats. He wasn’t trying to score cheap points by criticizing our host country. A week before the crash we went out for a drink and Willem mentioned the upcoming holiday in Nha Trang with his girlfriend. It was obvious from the way he talked about her that she was very important to him. That she was someone quite special, and that he had planned many surprises for her visit to Vietnam. It was an enjoyable evening. We felt a kinship because of a shared curiosity and thirst for adventure. It was clear that we would seek each other’s company more often, but we never got the chance.
After the crash, families and embassy staff were getting extremely frustrated with the perceived lack of commitment and efficiency of the Vietnamese authorities in handling the rescue operations. It was 1992, and Vietnam was still new to being a member of the global community. The American embargo was still in place and was lifted just a year later. Dealing with an incident involving foreigners was clearly a challenge.
Communicating with foreigners was not their strong suit either. Who was responsible and who would coordinate the rescue efforts? It is quite possible that these questions were asked for the very first time. The frustrations were justified, but that did not translate into results. The only way to get somewhere was to be cooperative and not confrontational.
By the time Carola asked me to help her, I was already on alert. The Dutch ambassador in Bangkok had called and asked me to get involved. There were so many rumors flying around; he wanted me to use my contacts to cut to the chase. I did and managed to forge a good relationship with a deputy director at Vietnam Airlines who was in charge of coordinating the matter in Ho Chi Minh City.
On Saturday morning, I was called to come to the VN Airlines office to listen in on a rescue mission, a joint effort by the military, VN Airlines, and other officials. Apparently, the wreck had finally been located and they knew where to go. But fate struck again: not much later we were informed that the rescue helicopter had crashed and everybody on board had been killed. Until today very little is known about this accident, but I am sure that it heightened the tensions in what was rapidly becoming a major affair.
The next day a rumor was spreading that there might have been one, possibly more survivors! It was not clear who had survived and how. Expectations and pressure were mounting. Had the rescue team been too late? Had there been survivors who had died while waiting to be rescued? For us, the only question that mattered was whether Willem and Annette were alive, but we got no answer. By now I was getting more involved, and we adhered strictly to our policy that we were not seeking blame, only clarity. Sometime later, we learned that a rescue party was on its way, on foot, to the crash site. It must have been Carola who first heard that Annette was alive. When I heard it too, I could not believe it. I had been in similar jungles and would not expect a Western girl to last for more than a day!
The news that Annette was found reached Bangkok. The ambassador’s instructions were cle
ar: “Make sure she gets out of there as soon as possible.” That was my priority.
Carola decided to go to Nha Trang to take care of her upon her arrival. Once again, we had agreed that we would focus on getting the job done and not confront anyone with contentious questions. After Carola had left, my primary task was to deal with the families. The first delegation—Annette’s colleague Jaime and Willem’s brother and sister—was about to arrive, unaware that Annette was alive. Her parents and sister had heard the news and would also fly to Ho Chi Minh City “to pick up Annette.” I knew a bit about her sister’s bulldozer reputation from the newspapers and the grapevine. I had also learned that her colleague was someone to be reckoned with. My first concern was to keep communications with the authorities clear and open. I knew that good relations would be crucial in getting Annette out. I didn’t need any loudmouths, but I have to say that I liked the mercurial Jaime right away.
I remember telling Jaime, Miebeth, and Jasper the sad news that Willem hadn’t survived the crash, and the great news that Annette was alive. Jaime jumped up and cried, “I knew it. I knew it!” It was a long night. I learned that it was impossible to reconcile joy and devastation.
• • •
I met Annette on the tarmac in Ho Chi Minh City. I rode with her in the ambulance to the hospital. She was on a stretcher on the floor of this rickety old Russian thing with a wailing siren and hard springs. Although clearly very uncomfortable on that bumpy ride, she was incredibly lucid. Her eyes were shining brightly, and right away she started talking to me. About Pasje. And the horrible smell. And that she had heard other passengers moan. I then decided not to leave her side. The last thing anyone needed to hear at this time was that she was saying out loud that people had been alive after the crash. After eight days and frustrations galore, it wasn’t far-fetched to think that such provocative details might be counterproductive in our mission to get her out of there.
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