Dear Annette,
Look on the bright side. If only someone had made the decision to delay the flight all those years ago, you would not be having all this hassle now. See if my Prayer Flag is still hanging in tatters there. And no more talk of doubt. You told me that you had a wonderful physique. Glad that the arrangements are now in order. If it is Mrs. Anh again, give her my regards. No, better not; deny any knowledge of me. If the river is swollen from the recent rain, insist they carry a light rope for your safe crossing.
Regards, and to Chris (I hope he has a sense of humor), Jack
I hope I can keep my sense of humor.
ANTICLIMAX
VIETNAM, 2006
The Hyatt is a far more comfortable hotel than the government-owned Continental. As I take a bite of the usual bacon and eggs at breakfast, I look at the girl sitting next to me. She is dressed in a business suit and reading the Financial Times. Just like I used to do. The newspaper shields you from men. The hotel separates you from the country’s culture. The suit separates you from yourself and ups the self-esteem when you are negotiating in a foreign environment. Good for business, but bad for blending in.
Again Chris picks me up early. We make it to the airport this time. A smiling Vietnam Airlines employee welcomes us and guides us through security. Chris is very supportive and sensitive, tuning in to my much-stretched nerves. It is all so eerie. The airport has changed a lot, but the atmosphere is the same as I remember. I recognize the spot where I watched the Vietnamese man eat his soup the last time I was here, while I was waiting for Pasje. I think of Pasje and all the things I have lived since he checked in here. For the last time. All the things he didn’t get to experience.
We are taken into a lounge. I am treated like a VIP, thanks to the intervention of the Dutch ambassador. When we walk over to the plane, I am stunned to find out that this plane is actually big enough to have a business class section. Because of all the cancellations, the original plane we were supposed to take has been replaced by a bigger model. I guess I look disappointed, because Chris says, sarcastically, “Now, you are hard to please!” I laugh. He is right. I am so mentally prepared to tackle my fears and fly in that small plane that it is almost a letdown.
Once inside I am very happy with all the space. Now I can focus on the view. It is exciting to see the endless jungle through the window, and at long last, I see the sunny shores of the bluest bay of the South China Sea.
TO THE VILLAGE
VIETNAM, 2006
Mr. Tan, a very friendly Vietnam Airlines official, meets us at Nha Trang Airport. He takes us straight to a minivan at the back of the airport. He explains we’ll be heading to the village of Khánh So’n, where we will spend the night before setting off early the next morning for the mountain.
We haven’t been driving for long when we stop to have lunch at a most idyllic spot. A little restaurant on stilts, in the middle of a swamp. We walk over wooden pontoons to get to the entrance. Inside, everything is made of bamboo. The Deer Hunter comes to mind. We have octopus as a starter. The unidentified main course is cooked for us at the table, while we get acquainted with our guide.
Mr. Tan is young and upwardly mobile. He is a married lawyer and has two kids. He is the head of the little Vietnam Airlines office in Nha Trang. He climbed the mountain with “Mr. Jack,” of whom he speaks very fondly. This is much to Chris’s surprise. Chris has not liked Jack’s methods at all and expects Mr. Tan to feel the same way.
We continue our drive into the countryside. Chris and I recall how we have grown up with the Vietnam War in the background. Images of rice fields and triangular hats have been etched in our minds. We pass a few villages and stop somewhere to use to nature’s bathroom. When we get out of the minivan, we are immediately surrounded by a group of little boys. I smile and wave, but a sense of discomfort comes over me. I remember that awful journey in my “ambulance.” Those little children peeping into the van. While answering my call of nature, another flashback hits me: the reddish soil, the ants, and the mosquitoes. It gives me the creeps. Again I wonder what I am setting myself up for. More than anything, I am afraid of becoming afraid.
We continue our drive through endless rice fields in silence. When we finally turn into the mountains, my heartbeat quickens in anticipation. I see the kind of peaks I stared at during those eight long days. After half an hour, we arrive in Khánh So’n. The village. First we pay a visit to the uniformed head of the People’s Committee. We sit down and have a ritual cup of tea. I let the Vietnamese language become my background music. I do the dance but feel no connection with this person. It is protocol to meet him. Then off we go to the community center. This is much more exciting. Very déjà vu. The building looks exactly like the hospital where I had first been treated thirteen years ago, though it is much better maintained. The people at the center seem to have a warm interest in us. The atmosphere is upbeat.
They take us to an office. They gesture to sit down on one of the three couches that have been arranged in a U shape. The two official-looking men across from us start planning our trip with Chris. Again everything goes over my head. At the back of the room, three giggling girls sit behind a desk. Everybody in the room seems to think that I look very young. They joke that the mountain will be a piece of cake for me. Thankfully, Chris changes the mood by telling them very seriously that I have bad feet due to the accident. A handsome man enters. He is taller than the other men and looks different. He is wearing a crisp white shirt, which accentuates his darker skin. They introduce him as the person who first found me. His name is Mr. Cao. They tell him to sit down next to me and to tell his version of the story. I recognize him vaguely, but I am not able to give his story the focus it deserves. A lot is lost in translation, and they are often all talking at the same time. I am overwhelmed by all the attention, their kindness, and the hilarity of the situation.
Finally, when everything has been discussed, one of the men takes me by the hand and leads me outside to point out the mountain. Now I am starting to get excited. I begin to build a new memory from the loose ends that have remained in my mind.
FEAR AND GRATIFICATIONS
VIETNAM
Next, Mr. Tan takes us to my “hospital,” now a school. It looks nothing like the dingy place I remember. There is electricity and the stone courtyard is freshly painted. I shake hands with the headmaster, walk around, and smile at the children. They look happy and cute in their school uniforms. Long live progress.
Afterward, the minivan drops us off at the brand-new guesthouse. It has electricity, mosquito nets, and a tiled bathroom. But the shower is not properly installed yet, and there is no hot water. Actually, there is hardly any running water. Still, my room next to the “street” is a palace compared with Chris’s quarters. His room upstairs is connected to the one Mr. Tan and his driver share. He almost has to climb over their beds to go to the bathroom. I am very grateful he does all this for my sake!
Evening is falling. Both Chris and I feel like having a drink after this long and eventful day. I have asked Chris to bring some wine so we can celebrate when we get to the top of the mountain. We decide to kill half of the bottle now and have some of my cashew nuts with it. All in style. I have fold-up plastic cocktail glasses from a hiking store in New York. We sit down on the stairs of the guesthouse, overlooking the sandy, unpaved street. We watch the sun setting behind “my mountain.” Its conelike shape is so appealing to me that I set out for a little walk to get a closer look. It is beautiful, but also quite threatening; it gives me many second and third thoughts. By the time I walk back to the guesthouse, I am practically shitting in my Patagonia pants.
We have dinner at a neon-lit restaurant where we are the only guests. The owner, an elderly woman, is very emotional when we meet. She remembers everything about me. She was at the hospital at the time and had seen me when I was brought in. She keeps on touching me whenever she serves a course, as if she can’t believe I am really here. At first I am moved by her awe,
but as the evening progresses, I feel more and more uncomfortable.
Chris’s face does not help. He cannot reach his wife on the phone and keeps redialing frantically. I suddenly have a fit. I feel stuck here. It is so dark outside. I want to go back home. Get out of here. Now! Enough already! I think in a panic. Chris notices the state I am in and suggests his personal concerns are rubbing off on me. We talk about them, and focusing on his anxieties make mine disappear.
When we get back to the guesthouse, there is a crowd waiting for us. It looks like the whole village has come out to meet us. The entire rescue crew who carried me on bare feet down the mountain and the nurses who peeled off my trousers and cleaned my wounds in the little hospital. Even the doctor who cared for me, the very first one. They are all here! And what a cheery and buoyant ambience.
My rescuers, all seven of them, line up before me as if ready for a military inspection. They look very different from one another. Some look Vietnamese, others more like Native Americans, like Mr. Cao. I recognize some of them, but it is dark outside. We pose for a picture. I am about a head taller than the tallest of them; the smallest comes up to my navel.
“I must have been quite a load for you,” I say. Chris translates. They laugh and shake their heads. They show with their hands how skinny I was. I thank them over and over again for carrying me down the way they did. I still have no idea of the enormous effort involved.
When I sit down on the stairs of the guesthouse, everyone crowds around me. The children stare at me from a distance, with big brown eyes. One of the older nurses sits at my feet. She goes straight for my scars; she grabs my ankle and strokes my chin. She remembers exactly where my wounds were. With an intimate gesture, her hand glides under my sleeve and cups my elbow. She turns it toward her and inspects the skin graft. I suddenly remember her touch, and she gives me a toothless smile.
They all have stories to tell. They look truly thrilled to see me. As it turns out, they thought I had died. That I did not make it after all. That was the persistent rumor in Vietnam: I had died in Singapore. Their faces are full of wonder when they pass around photographs of Joosje and Maxi. According to their belief system, to save a life during one’s lifetime is a major accomplishment. And then for that saved life to give birth to two more . . . I can’t remember how long this blissful reunion lasts, but suddenly they leave, all at the same time, as if by agreement. I am alone again with Chris, Mr. Tan, and his driver. They go upstairs to their room, leaving me in my room at ground level. As I close the wooden shutters and look into the deserted street, it almost feels as if I have dreamt it all.
DARK NIGHT
VIETNAM
The wooden shutters dim the streetlight, but not the noise. I wake up at one thirty in the morning to the sound of a barking dog. It is sitting right under my window. My nerves take over.
Thankfully, this time around, I can call Jaime and my mother, my dear mental coaches. Jaime says now I should treat it like an exam, that the adrenaline will take over. My mother tells me not to worry about my lack of sleep and just let my body rest. I try, but at three o’clock I switch on the light to find a column of ants in my bed. They have formed a path all the way to the bathroom. That’s it; I won’t try to sleep any longer. Better start preparing myself. I “shower” with a bucket of cold water, while balancing on top of the toilet to keep the ants from running up my legs.
While putting on my jungle outfit, I study the scars on my legs and feet, wondering how they will hold up.
I tuck all the provisions and extra clothes into my backpack. I spray my socks with antimosquito spray and get my camera and camcorders ready to roll.
When Mr. Tan knocks on my door at four a.m., I am all geared up. Fifteen minutes later a white van appears in front of the guesthouse. Lit by the dim lanterns in the sandy street, Mr. Tan introduces us to the driver, who drives to the community center in the dark. There we pick up three men of the original crew, two army officials, and a lady to accompany me. Chris notes how cute she is and admires her nice smile. I am impressed that he can be aware of that at this wee hour. I just notice the fast beating of my heart. I am incredibly nervous when we drive off in that little van, now crowded with people, into what I know is going to be that jungle. It is pitch-black outside. No more streetlights. No more streets.
I panic.
“I haven’t even had breakfast yet!” I say, sounding whiny to my own ears. Chris reminds me of the energy bars I brought from home. Though I am dying to turn around, I focus on unwrapping and eating the funny-tasting chocolate. I drink from the water bottle I am holding on to for dear life, as I have done through every dire circumstance of the last thirteen years. Chris assures me everything will be much better once dawn breaks. He is right. The moment light appears, everything feels like a “home game” to me. The ferns, the trees glowing in a purple light—it is so achingly beautiful. It has all been worth it. Even without having made it up the mountain yet. Just being here.
7
* * *
MY MOUNTAIN
BOUNCING UP
VIETNAM, 2006
We start out slowly. We have to cross six rivers before beginning our ascent. I feel slightly pathetic wearing my special gear, and with my backpack filled with more. The rest of the crew is dressed as if we are going for a stroll in a park. Two men are wearing flip-flops, and everyone is wearing jeans. Chris keeps on making fun of me because I am so overly geared up. I answer jokingly that I have to be prepared because he is not; he smokes and has not trained at all for the climb.“You might get a heart attack on that mountain. Good manners would have me stay with you after all you have done for me, and I am not going to get caught ill-equipped on that mountain again!” Or dead, for that matter.
Mr. Cao is carrying my backpack, another man the triple load of bottled water I have begged them to bring. Just in case. The man carries this load in a woven basket with improvised cotton straps. I feel guilty. I secretly agree with Chris: what an entitled princess I am.
We don’t use the ski poles I have brought all the way from New York. They seemed such a good idea when my friends urged me to get them, but the bamboo sticks the men make for us are much more effective. The men swiftly cut the twigs and leaves off the stalks with a knife, then they show us how easy it is to adjust the height of our grip on the strong bamboo. Very strong indeed. I must have been tied to a stick like this when I was carried down the mountain.
We have breakfast at the beautiful shore of the sixth and final river. I am able to make my last phone calls to my mental coaches. Our Vietnamese companions prepare sandwiches of canned meat, sliced cucumber, and tomatoes. I am not really hungry, but I think of my previous stay in this jungle and have two of them. As we sit and eat, I marvel at both the beauty and bizarreness of my surroundings.
I specifically study Mr. Cao, who is wearing a green jacket with a bright orange lining. I like watching him. He seems comfortingly familiar. That face. Those particular, strong features, framed by the leaves of the jungle. The way he is sitting . . .
Mr. Tan tells us about his life: he grew up in the countryside and married his high school sweetheart. She is a lawyer now. They have a son and a daughter. He likes his job at Vietnam Airlines, but he is passionate about the jungle. He is extremely worried for its demise and points at the many logs we pass. “That is the beginning of a change in habitat we won’t be able to reverse,” he says. “And that plastic over there,” he adds, pointing at some litter, “it will survive us all.” I look at the perfection of the nature around me and sigh.
We walk steadily up the steep mountain. I walk with my senses wide open. I can’t believe I am not getting tired.
“The angels will carry you up,” my yoga teacher promised. I don’t know about angels, but I am definitely bouncing up. Perhaps I am being propelled forward by the thoughts of all my dear ones. Or by the strength of their many amulets. Perhaps I am getting energy from the trees again. I still wonder whether I will be able to make it to the top, bu
t I am thoroughly enjoying my surroundings. And the company. My rescuers are constantly pointing out where and how they carried me thirteen years ago. Mr. Tan is also staying near me, sticking out a helping hand before I know I need it.
The Vietnam Airlines officials and Jack did not exaggerate. The climb is steep and the jungle becomes denser and denser as we proceed. And steaming hot. But somehow five hours pass by without too much sweat on my part. Even when they say we are close to the top, I am still light on my feet and breathing evenly.
It is Chris who seems to be in real distress. He is bathed in sweat and looks ten years older. He is breathing so heavily that I am afraid he will collapse. We have to stop more and more often. I am becoming seriously concerned and insist he eat or drink something. After my fifth suggestion, he spits at me, “I told you! I’ll have something at the top!”
I decide it is best to stay clear of him for the moment and quickly move to the front of our group. Mr. Tan stays with Chris, and I find myself climbing with just my original rescuers. Like thirteen years ago, they don’t speak a word of English. Just like thirteen years ago, I try to read their hand motions.
Suddenly, we stop. Three of them are talking and gesturing at the same time. Anxiety creeps up. Are we lost? They signal for us to wait.
They sit down in silence until an exhausted Chris and a still-fresh-looking Mr. Tan finally catch up to us.
They converse in Vietnamese, and Mr. Tan explains to me this is the very place where we camped that eighth night. I laugh, relieved. Of course they are not lost.
Halfway there, O Kha Mountain, Vietnam, 2006
“Can you show me how you managed to put me on that stick to sleep?” I ask. They willingly oblige. They hold a bamboo stick on their shoulders and gesture toward the space underneath. Exactly as I remember it: like a roasting pig. They also joke how I kept on begging for a cigarette, moving two fingers in front of their mouths.
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