Turbulence

by Annette Herfkens

  When we got to the hospital, I stayed glued to her side. When they parked her in the hallway, when they took her for X-rays, when they took her to her room. Once her parents had arrived and everything she said switched to Dutch, I decided that she was “safe.” From then on, I just focused on the negotiations to get her out of the country. All the various interests involved did not make it easier for me. I tried to keep her parents and Eveline in line with how I wanted to approach the authorities. After a week of experiencing total defeat and sadness, their emotions were raw.

  The smallest of things could have caused them to explode, and although relieved and ecstatic, they were also understandably frustrated. But given how fragile the situation was, I didn’t need anyone stepping on those sensitive Vietnamese toes.

  Another challenge was the presence of curious onlookers and, of course, journalists. While waiting for test results to come in, Annette was resting in a room on the tenth floor. I had left her by herself, just to stretch my legs for five minutes. When I returned there were two people in her room. They had a lens sticking in her face and were trying to ask her questions. I managed to throw them out. They were oblivious to their insensitivity and intrusion and were incensed by my intervention.

  The most important person to deal with was Mrs. Chien, the vice minister of health at the time. She was the one who had to give final permission for Annette’s departure and sign the release documents. She was a tough woman who didn’t smile much, but she was realistic and straight. She had been a medic for the Vietcong in the C Chi tunnels during the Vietnam War. She was proud of everything the Vietcong had achieved. She was all too aware of the international press. Annette was a high-profile case, and the effects of her decision could reach beyond Vietnam’s borders. That is probably why she changed her mind a couple of times about clauses in the handover protocol. The situation remained tense until the last moment on the tarmac. Something caused a delay. I personally believed that it had to do with the company that was flying Annette out. I just hoped that those doctors were giving her a sedative. I was surprised to see how small the plane was.

  Once the aircraft took off, my mission was accomplished. I could go back to normal. But I never forgot those defiant eyes that would not surrender, no matter what.

  PERCEPTION AND PERSPECTIVES

  VIETNAM, 2006

  My ears are ringing. Chris has revealed so many facts I did not know. I can’t believe there actually was a helicopter, and that it had crashed on its way to pick me up, not while searching for the plane! Eight people died rescuing me!

  In general, Chris has a different take on the things that happened, yet another version of the truth.

  • • •

  After our lunch, Chris drops me at the Continental. It is really local, like the state-owned hotels in Russia I used to stay in. None of the obligatory goodies they offer in international hotel chains but with its own national pride. It pleases me; I like being immersed in a different culture. I walk around the block to orient myself. The crazy traffic is overwhelming. Crossing the street is like playing double Dutch: dangerously difficult to decide when to get in. I buy a locally printed book at a street booth. Chris told me they copy anything and everything.

  When Heaven and Earth Changed Places, it is called. By Le Ly Hayslip, a Vietnamese woman who grew up during the Vietnam War, or, as they call it here, the American War. It seems appropriate to tackle this book now, so I order room service. I start reading right away and get completely immersed in the memoir. This strong woman has seen it all! With all the atrocities the French, the South Vietnamese government, the Vietcong, and the Americans have inflicted on this country, how can I blame the Vietnamese for not caring about one foreigner? My sudden understanding does not calm my paranoid thoughts, though. Should I blame their government for sending that orange man to watch me die—if that’s what happened—to protect the desperately needed tourist industry? One life sacrificed for the good of many? Who am I?

  REGRESSION, 2006

  Early the next morning, Chris picks me up to show me around town. On a motorbike. I hold on for dear life. The traffic is manic: Motorbikes are shooting around left and right, cutting each other off, running red lights while honking incessantly, driving just inches from one another into oncoming traffic. Some carry whole families, dead hogs, chickens. Everyone is wearing a triangular handkerchief over their face. The Wild East!

  I have asked to go to Pasje’s office, a thirty-minute ride. We stop in front of a colonial villa. I am happy to finally see it, knowing how much effort it took Pasje to get this office up and running.

  Willem had to start a foreign branch from scratch and play the cards he was dealt. There were hardly any other foreign bank offices at the time. I am impressed!

  When we have lunch at a local eatery, we get to know each other better. Chris has a great sense of humor, probably inherited from his Welsh mother. That, combined with his Dutch father’s common sense and his knowledge of Eastern culture, makes him a very likable person.

  I just wonder whether I am regressing a bit to my old persona. When he takes me to his office and temporarily installs me behind a desk, I somehow feel like a trainee again. Chris’s trainee. Or like his younger sister? When under pressure, it takes much more effort to apply my acquired wisdom. It feels safe to return to control scenarios from both my childhood and my personality. I’d better get over myself, build up my confidence so I can tackle that mountain!

  VIETNAM, 2006

  Back at the hotel, my anxiety about the rest of the trip and the upcoming flights has not eased at all. I decide to take the bull by the horns by writing an e-mail to the Dutch ambassador in Hanoi. I tell him so far I have not been treated all that hospitably by Vietnam Airlines, that I would very much appreciate it if he could try to arrange for me to at least be given special seating on airplanes. I copy Chris on the e-mail.

  Five minutes later the phone rings. It is Chris. He seems a different person. With an ice-cold tone in his voice, he tells me I might want to have a good look in the mirror, that I should ask myself what I have come here for, that he wonders whether he truly wants to be involved.

  I freak out. What have I done? Why is he so angry? Why has he suddenly turned on me?

  Now I start to doubt him: Whose side is he on? Who is he, anyway? Is he working for the government, as Jack suggested before I came?

  Jack also warned me more than once to be careful when talking on the phone or sending e-mails, as “they watch everything.” What do I know? Is anything ever what it seems?

  And the Vietnamese government: How interested are they truly in my well-being? I remember vividly how little empathy the military man had for me when I was found in pieces. How much tolerance will they have for the hysterics of a spoiled foreigner now?

  Then there are the theories about the orange man: that he was ordered to find the wreckage and watch everyone die before coming to the rescue, that he was ordered to wait until no one was left alive to tell the story. That I am lucky he did not kill me. Suddenly I fear that he might actually exist. That I might bump into him while visiting his village! Maybe he will want to finish the job now.

  My mind runs off, seeing conspiracies everywhere.

  FEELING LONELY

  VIETNAM, 2006

  After a sleepless night, I decide to roam the streets of Ho Chi Minh City by myself. I call Chris and say I need to take a break for a day. I need some time on my own to digest all the impressions.

  His voice is warm again. He apologizes for yesterday’s outburst and assures me that everything is under control. He has spoken to the ambassador: Vietnamese Airlines has agreed to treat me like a VIP. They also have apologized for not realizing I have issues with flying, certainly at the back of an airplane. Chris sounds genuinely concerned, involved, worried. He offers to pick me up, but I tell him I really wouldn’t be good company right now. I am tired and grumpy from a night full of soap operas in my head.

  I aimlessly walk around in the c
ity. I like to absorb, to experience a place, which is really only possible when you are alone. I try to imagine Pasje here in his last days. I thought New Yorkers were tough, but the Vietnamese must have invented the word. When you look at the people, you feel a true toughness underneath.

  And the sex. The sex is in the air. You can sense it everywhere. It is not bad, but it is not good either. Loveless, just to titillate the senses. Still, it doesn’t feel like it is a loveless city; it just functions on tough love. Like New York. And there seems to be a huge discrepancy between the coldness of the military and the warmth of the other people.

  I think of Chris, who has lost his money and had so many challenges in his life here , yet still chooses a tough Vietnamese life over a comfortable Dutch one. Comfort and love don’t always walk on parallel lines. They sometimes step in each other’s way.

  I picture Chris when I left him at his bus stop yesterday, waiting in the sweltering heat to commute to his small apartment in the suburbs, his face glowing with the anticipation of seeing his family. By the time he boarded the overcrowded bus, his shirt was soaked. When he waved at me through the back window, squashed between the other commuters, I remember thinking, Now that is love.

  How can I not trust him?

  I resolve to shake off my blues. I turn toward the various market stalls on the way to the Saigon River.

  When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping, I think. I get a fake Patek Philippe man’s watch. A very good fake, Pasje would have agreed.

  I also pick up the nightgowns for my mom that I ordered less than twenty-four hours ago at a little atelier next to the hotel. Three copies of a gown she purchased in Singapore thirteen years ago, when I was in the hospital. It has turned out to be her all-time favorite, worn to threads. The girls in the shop are extremely friendly, despite their fifteen-hour working days. I have told them the reason I am in Vietnam, and when I enter the shop, one of them immediately runs upstairs to get the goods. Apart from the nightgowns, they hand me a dress they have designed especially for me. It is a gift and token of good luck.

  EXPECTATIONS

  VIETNAM, 2006

  Later that afternoon, I call Chris. Hoping to clear the air between us completely, I ask him whether we could visit a Buddhist temple together. I fancy Buddhism. I have finally picked up the book that I smuggled out of my hotel in Tokyo. I like Buddha’s lack of dogma and his emphasis on compassion, going beyond personality, both divine and human. It makes sense to me.

  Chris says he will be happy to take me to a temple his wife often visits. It is Cambodian, just like her. He says he will bring his family.

  His wife, Akim, is stunningly beautiful, with an aura of je ne sais quoi. Chris explains she has grown up in Angkor Wat, on the ruins of the most impressive Hindu and Buddhist temples in the world. She was born during the Pol Pot regime. Her grandfather, the grand abbot of the Angkor complex, saw to it that she was raised by Buddhist monks. They seem to have done more than just keep her safe: she exudes grace and wisdom.

  We take a taxi to an ordinary-looking street packed with traffic. It is late afternoon and people are on their way home from work. We turn into a tiny alley you wouldn’t normally notice. At the end is a large, well-tended garden with tiny cottages and a colorful temple. A true oasis—green with plants and trees and a manicured lawn. Young bald men dressed in orange robes are quietly shuffling around; others are sitting on benches, reading. Chris’s children run in as if they are visiting their grandparents. They confidently break the silence with the typical enthusiasm of three- and five-year-olds. Like their mother, they obviously feel at home.

  I am introduced to a young monk with the sweetest face. Beautiful, with small, standard features and soft eyes. He also has an air of authority, maturity even. In broken English, he suggests we have a service first, and then he will show me around. That sounds great. I am impressed. My expectations are high.We sit down on a carpet in a little room with candles and a small shrine. He starts to chant. I am thrilled. This is just what one would expect. The real deal! He goes on and on in his monotone voice. My thoughts are drifting off. To the jungle, to the mountain to be climbed. My eyes follow the children, who are jumping around in a remarkably unrestrained way. I think of Christian churches, where children have to sit quietly with their hands in their laps.

  When he stops chanting, the monk looks at me and asks something in Khmer. “He wants to know if you have any questions,” Chris translates.

  Questions? Many! About what? About life? Death?

  “Why don’t you ask him how our climb will be,” Chris translates for him. I don’t quite get it. Is this man a fortune-teller now? With surprise, I look at the dice he throws on the carpet. He calls out the numbers and starts explaining. Chris translates with an equal amount of respect and cynicism in his voice. “He warns us against bad weather. We will have problems at first, but we’ll definitely make it up the mountain.”

  Oh, good, I think, still startled. When we go back outside, I am relieved. “So what do you feel?” Chris asks, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Confused,” I say, pondering.

  “Imagine the reverse. You grow up here in Asia, and one day you get hold of the Bible and get really impressed with its message. Years later, you go to Europe to attend a Catholic mass. You see the ornaments and the saints; you join in the rituals of confession and communion. Afterward, you try to find all that in the Bible, but you can’t.” Chris smiles, shrugs his shoulders, and says, “Well, like everywhere else, people need something to get them through their hard lives. Here it is numbers. That’s why gambling is so big in Asia.”

  We are about to leave when Chris beckons me to follow him. We walk around the cottages where the monks live. At the back we have a view of the balconies, filled with clotheslines. Orange garments are hanging neatly side by side.

  “Look!” Chris says, pointing.

  I don’t understand. I look at the cute cottages instead, but he insists: “Look at those! Don’t they look familiar?” His face is full of expectation.

  “Why?” I ask, blankly.

  “Look again!” he exclaims. “The orange man! Wasn’t that his outfit?” I look up at the monks’ robes. I see almost every possible shade of orange. “No,” I answer. “I hate to disappoint you, but it was plasticky orange!”

  How often do I have to tell people!

  A FALSE START

  VIETNAM, 2006

  It is Tuesday morning, and we are finally leaving for Nha Trang. On the same flight as the one I took thirteen years ago.

  I am almost happy to go into my crucible. After more than a year of planning and plotting, I am prepared, if not eager, to take that plane and meet the challenge of my mountain.

  I wake up before five a.m. with much anticipation. I organize the many chargers and batteries for my cameras. I separate my suitcases just as I did thirteen years ago: one for storage, one for Nha Trang. This time I also have an extremely well-equipped backpack for the jungle.

  Chris picks me up, reliably on time again. I am really happy to see him in the hall of the Continental Hotel when I walk downstairs. I have just checked out and called for a taxi when Chris receives a call on his mobile: our flight has been canceled due to an impending storm! Chris is visibly upset and amazed.

  “That never happens at this time of year; it is not supposed to!”

  I know that. That’s why we planned this climb for March. The initial trip scheduled for the November anniversary of the crash was too risky, because of the rainy season and typhoon risk. In March the skies are supposed to be clear and sunny.

  I try to shrug it off with, “Shit happens.” This trip has already been plagued by so many changes of plan, I have become resigned to “just my kind of odds.” I suggest we go for coffee across the street. I am still trying to shift my focus to the surprisingly tasty cappuccinos when Chris gets another call: Come immediately to the airport. The flight has been reinstated. It will leave on time, after all!

 
Back to the Continental to get my luggage and off we go to the airport. I tell Chris how it was still dark the morning I left with Pasje for Nha Trang, that I remember the many bicycles and the “pajamas,” now replaced by motorbikes and Western outfits.

  The ring of Chris’s mobile interrupts me: all flights canceled again for the entire day. He tells the taxi driver to turn around and head back to the Continental Hotel. It is fully booked. So are many other hotels, due to the airport closure. Thankfully, the manager of the Hyatt is a Dutchman. So that’s where I end up, completely exhausted, in busy Ho Chi Minh City, and yet again not at the beaches of the South China Sea. Crucible postponed, and who knows what else. More than ever, I am convinced I am never going to make it up that mountain.

  The new plan is to leave the next day on the same flight, skip the beach, go straight into the jungle and to the guesthouse, and set off the following day before dawn to climb the mountain. But only if it will not turn out to be too wet, slippery, and dangerous on the mountainside after all the rain.

  Great! More variables and uncertainty. I realize with some incredulity that the monk’s prediction has been accurate so far. Let’s just hope he continues to be right and we make it up the mountain. More than anything, I hope I finally get to see that sea. Where Pasje and I were heading to begin with.

  I send an e-mail to Jack to keep him posted and almost immediately get one in return.

  To: Annette Herfkens

  From: Jack Emmerson