“Thank you for not obliging,” I say. “It wouldn’t have done my collapsed lung any good.”
Finally, we reach the top. Mr. Tan first, then Mr. Cao, then me. I take my last steps with so much anticipation that to describe me as glowing would be an understatement. An equally big disappointment follows. This cannot be it. I don’t recognize anything! The slope is even curving the wrong way.
“This is not it!” I say, feeling as disturbed as I possibly can be. “Indeed, it isn’t,” says Mr. Tan. “We are not there yet. This is the point of the first impact, where the plane lost one wing. You were there.” He points at a different mountaintop! “They found you on the next ridge, near the main wreckage.”
It is at least a mile away; that is, there is at least a mile between the two peaks. We have to go down and up to get there. And I thought we were done climbing. Chris starts to explain how when a plane loses a wing, it turns into half a missile, and how my plane continued flying after the first impact. Mr. Tan shows me where many trees burned down and never grew back. They keep on talking about the mechanics of the crash—how the plane must have lost speed and flipped over on the next ridge.
Boy talk, I think. I am more worried about going down and then up again—on my poor feet!
While Mr. Tan and Chris continue their technical speculation, I turn around and ask the other men to take me to the spot.
TRAPPED
VIETNAM, 2006
We walk down the mountain and take a mysterious left. Into the jungliest of jungles. Like in Apocalypse Now. So thick it seems to have no beginning or end. I start feeling uncomfortably closed in. We seem to have to cross a gorge to get to the other mountain. We descend carefully, step by step, until we stop dead. We have arrived at a crevasse. I think of my children. Shouldn’t I have done so before undertaking this? The men are conferring loudly in Vietnamese. They start cutting down a tree and cutting off its branches, all the while screaming loudly at one another. I get it: They are making a bridge! To get us over that frightening chasm. That gap we can disappear into forever!
They place the tree trunk across the crevasse, next to a big rock. One man put his foot out. To feel tentatively whether it will hold him. It does. He slowly starts to move along while holding on to the rock. Everyone is tense. It is like watching a tightrope walker between two buildings. I look up to the bit of sky I can make out through all the leaves, to say a little prayer. We are completely closed in! I look back at the man: he has made it safely to the other side and is already helping the second man cross over, and the third. The fourth one to go is the woman. She walks lightly across like a gymnast on the beam, no help.
I am next. I take a couple deep breaths. Mr. Cao helps me onto the “bridge.” I embrace the rock for dear life and slowly shuffle toward the helping hand stretched out on the other side. I am across in three endless minutes. “No sweat.” I laugh.
Then it is Chris’s turn. He manages, cursing all the way through. A smiling Mr. Tan is last. “Did Jack do this?” I ask him, once he is next to me. I can’t imagine anyone in his seventies even contemplating a stunt like this. Only after I get back to New York does Jack tell me he was a Himalayan mountaineer. He felt it was better not to tell me, but in mountaineering terms, they called this the worst kind of moment: “When you don’t have a rope, but you should really have one.”
So Jack had done it. But later I discover that, for some mysterious reason, he was shown a different area for the crash site than the actual site. The area is just a hundred yards short of my spot. That explains why I did not recognize anything in his photos. We actually pass the flag and picture he has left in remembrance of his son and daughter-in-law. The picture has faded, but I can still make out the features of the handsome young couple. We respectfully “think a few thoughts,” as Jack would say. He was told they died here. Why?
(ANTI) CLIMAX, 2006
When we finally arrive at the site, my initial reaction to seeing the spot I made my own during those eight days is one of huge disappointment. It is entirely closed in. There is no open view at all. The view of my mountain, the sun, the moon: it is not there. The plane must have slashed away the trees just before it crashed, creating the open view I remember. Now the trees have grown back. There is still a lot of debris scattered around. No metal, but pieces of blue carpet, plastic, chair covers, an exit sign in Russian, and even a jean jacket on a tree. I check whether it is mine. It is not, though I now recall I had one, a denim jacket with short sleeves. The whole area is much smaller than I remember. I am generally bad at estimating distance, but the bodies, the plane, the remaining wing must have been a whole lot closer together than I experienced them at the time. Also the spot where the orange man must have sat is much closer than I remembered. That’s why I was able to make out his face!
I look nearby and find Mr. Cao squatting on top of a rock. The sight of him there gives me a strong feeling of recognition. I become more certain when I draw away from the group and settle on my personal spot, about six yards up the hill from where we are going to have lunch. I look down at the group as they are making the preparations. And suddenly I know for sure: it is him! How can I have missed it? He is squatting the same way. Not in plasticky orange this time, but in his crisp, white, button-down shirt. It makes his face look darker. That face! That beautiful face I thought I had made up all these years. That beautiful, tender man. He saved my life!
Window from the plane, O Kha Peak, Vietnam, 2006
I don’t get a chance to tell Chris. When I come down the hill from my spot, he has already opened the wine and asks me to find the camping glasses—to make a toast. I get the glasses from my backpack and quickly screw them together. Our hosts have made a table from logs. We are having the remaining canned meat for lunch.
“To our hosts and to Annette,” Chris says, holding up his glass. A bit shy all of a sudden, I make a toast back: to him, to them, and to all who died here so prematurely.
Then Chris turns to my savior and asks, “How and where did you find her?” Of course it is him. He was next to me all along! How could I have missed it?
“It is him!” O Kha Peak, Vietnam, 2006
He starts to giggle as he speaks. He covers his mouth. He seems to look ashamed. Chris translates: “He confessed that when he first saw you, he thought you were a ghost! He had never seen a white person before and had never seen blue eyes,” Chris says. “He was just waiting for the ghost to disappear, before getting his friends to help clean up the site.” I can’t believe my ears.
“That’s why you didn’t answer,” I respond directly to my savior. “I was screaming and screaming, and you were just staring and staring!” I turn to Chris in disbelief. After all those years of speculation!
“The mystery of the orange man has been solved!” he says, solemnly.
“I can’t believe it!” I almost shout. I let it sink in a minute. Of course I had looked like a ghost. There were all those dead people and this thin, white creature in a blue poncho sitting among them. With blue—and they must have seemed to Mr. Cao extraterrestrial—eyes.
Cheers, laughter, and tears, O Kha Peak, Vietnam, 2006
The man goes on to tell us how afraid he was. He actually looks it! He says he was too afraid to act until I took my hood off. He copies the move. Then he realized I did look somewhat human, and it was only then that he decided to fetch his friends!
Now I am the one staring. So had I not taken that hood off, I would have died a ghost?
MY MOUNTAIN
VIETNAM, 2006
The spell from solving the mystery of the orange man is broken by a sudden movement. One of the guys jumps up. He starts to talk nervously to the others. They all leap. In panic. I look at Chris.
“What’s happening?” I ask. But before he can answer, I see the object of their dismay. A four-inch-long centipede is walking steadily across our “table.” One of the men crushes the poisonous sucker right before our eyes. Chris has already jumped up, but I stay dead calm.
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br /> “For you this may be nothing,” Chris laughs, “but can you see why the Vietnam Air people said it would be too dangerous to stay overnight?”
I shrug. I really would like to camp out here. Make all that climbing effort worth my while. Spend the night, see the moon. Besides, then we would have time to relax a bit. Now it is almost time to go already; otherwise we won’t get back to the van before dark. It takes at least five hours to get down the mountain. I really don’t feel like leaving yet. I climb back up to my spot while the men clean the table.
With Chris, O Kha Peak, Vietnam, 2006
“Why don’t you all go ahead and leave me here for a while?” I shout. Perhaps a bit rude of me to ask, but they give me a look of understanding. “I am very happy to make a head start,” says Chris, looking his old self, the color back in his face. It must be the victory wine and the cigarette.
I can hear the crew retreating. Their sounds are gradually taken over by the noises of the jungle. I remember that cacophony. Only now do I realize how loud and intense it is. I guess you have to be truly alone to notice.
TWO ROADS DIVERGED
VIETNAM, 2006
I sit down on the leaves. And the twigs. How uncomfortable! I look down the mountain through the trees. So many trees. It is so much more claustrophobic than I remember! And not as green. Not as pretty.
I try to look at the leaves for a second, but my eyes are drawn to the bigger picture. Different mind-set then than now, I think. It doesn’t help that I am surrounded by all those little pieces of debris. Like September 11. I reach for a blue piece of carpet and examine it between my fingers. Too many thoughts are fighting for attention. And those sounds!
I look behind me and try to imagine the fuselage. With Pasje in it. I can think of him now. I should think of him. Here is where his life ended. I have gone on. Moved on. Though never really without him. Strange that I don’t feel his presence here. Not stronger than usual, at least. The thirty-six-year-old man who died here was his cocoon. A nice one. Including his personality, which I loved and I liked. And have mourned and missed. Still miss. The personality I admired and got along with so well. What has stayed with me is something else. Something extra. Something more essential. His love. Our love.
I work my way farther up the mountain and stop at a rock. I search in my backpack for the small wooden dolphin and the little white seal I have brought. I place them on the rock.
“Bye, Pasje.” I leave them for about a minute. Then I grab the seal and put it back in my pocket. He won’t need it. I do. In its place I put down a little Buddha statue. For Hamish and Sylvie. I am glad I can do this for them, for Jack. At the right spot. This is where they really died. How strange they didn’t bring Jack here. Is there something they did not want him to find here?
Suddenly I hear buzzing. Is it a bee?
“Pappie?” I say out loud. “How nice of you to come.” I know the others can’t be too far away, but I am feeling quite lonely.
I study my surroundings. There is no doubt I must have been in an altered state of mind, consciousness, awareness—whatever—thirteen years ago. Stuck here for eight bloody days! I take a sip of water. It still helps.
A Buddha for Hamish and Sylvie, O Kha Peak, Vietnam, 2006
I have to pee. I check around. No one. And no painfully broken hips this time. I squat down and see the jungle floor up close again. And the red ants. Like good old neighbors. Charming.
Time to go back. I walk in the direction we came from. Hey, it doesn’t lead anywhere! I look at the other path, leading down the mountain.
“Two roads diverged in a wood and—oopsie!—there I stood!” I recite while stepping over the knee-high plants between them. Neither path has been much traveled. No, this one leads too steeply down the mountain: I will fall if I go any farther! Back up. To the other trail. I walk a few yards, but again I only bump into trees. I am lost!
“Yoo-hoo! Is anyone there?”
No answer. Only the jungle sounds. That is just great. “Hello? I am lost!” I can hear the catch in my voice.
I hear rustling, and there is Mr. Tan. Thank God. He has stayed behind while the others went ahead. He has been so discreet to remain at shouting distance. What a hero. I turn back to the site. Take one last look. Bye, Pasje. Bye, mountain.
DOWN TO THE RIVER
VIETNAM, 2006
Going down the mountain is much more challenging than I expected. The mountain seems much steeper, and there are trees everywhere. Were they that close to one another on the way up too? The men must have done some serious slalom when they carried me down on that big stick! The rain must have made it just as slippery as it is now. I am pondering that when I slip and slide down a few yards on my bottom. And slip again some moments later. And again. By the time we catch up to the others, Mr. Tan has pulled me up at least four times.
I ask them to take a break. I need to change my shoes. My feet really hurt. I have a pair of sneakers in the backpack that Mr. Cao, “the orange man,” is still carrying for me. He walks over to me, turns around, and gestures to get them from his back. He waits dutifully while I am digging for the shoes. He does not have to bend his knees, as I am much taller. I change into my sneakers and put my hiking boots in the backpack. All the while, he is standing close by with his back toward me. I suddenly feel a surge of emotion. It is a strange intimacy, as if we are the only two people on that mountain. Again. From then on, he does not leave my side. He makes me a new walking stick and shows me how to go from tree to tree, using them as aids in our descent. He keeps on looking at me with those intense eyes, in which I now discern a warmth I did not notice before.
After four hours of straight descent we come to a flatter area when we are back at the beautiful spot where we had breakfast that morning. I am both exhausted and exhilarated.
I am sitting on the same large stone I sat on at six in the morning. Was that only eleven hours ago? It seems like a lifetime. Again I let the Vietnamese chatter become background music. I let the river run over my scarred and blistered feet. The water comes down rapidly. It is the same river as eleven hours ago, but different water. Like Siddhartha’s river—ever changing and ever the same. Like it was different thirteen years ago, but in essence the same as today. The difference in my perspective between this morning—when I was fearing fear more than anything, not knowing what to expect—and now. Different but somehow the same, as I always knew it would be.
With the crew at the bottom of O Kha Mountain, Vietnam, 2006
I think of the writer’s question: “How is going back to Vietnam going to change your life?” It won’t and it will. It indeed has been an opening: it has opened up more than I could have hoped for. It fortified my drive to share my story, and now I also want to include Vietnam and these kind people I have connected to into my future.
Wading through the cold water of the six rivers is now bliss for our tired feet. What a relief to finally make out the little van with Mr. Tan’s driver leaning against it. We’ve made it! And it is still light, just about.
We drive back to the community center with the last rays of the afternoon sun painting the countryside orange. I am already nostalgic, filled with emotions and parting from the crew with regret. I do an extra thank-you round to the original crew members, ending with the orange man. “You saved my life,” I say.
He smiles, showing me his teeth. For the first time.
FINALLY, NHA TRANG
VIETNAM, 2006
We drive back through the mountains in silence. It is dark. We are exhausted. We turn onto Route One to Nha Trang, a road Jack has described as “sheer terror.” I don’t notice or care. I am finally going to see that jinxed destination, beautifully bordered by jungle and the South China Sea, where Pasje planned our romantic getaway.
At first sight, Nha Trang looks like a typical beach resort. We stop at a rather shoddy-looking hotel, near an intersection filled with rushing cars. Chris immediately protests to Mr. Tan. “This is way too noisy,” he says. �
�It is kind of Vietnam Airlines to invite us, and I appreciate the hospitality, but I could really do with a good night’s sleep.”
Mr. Tan smiles his customary smile. “No problem,” he says, and he drives us to a more upmarket hotel. It has a pool. We check in, enjoy our showers—very much—and meet in the lobby afterward.
We cross the boulevard to the beach. There is a long row of restaurants. The European way. We have dinner in a trendy pizzeria where we can enjoy the sound of the sea on one side and the latest music on the other. We let the cold beer soothe our sore muscles. We talk like both good friends and business associates. The kind of relationship I enjoy and am used to having with men.
But I also feel a bit awkward and guilty to finally be here without Pasje. It is just his kind of place. Instead I am here with a stranger whom I met only through his death.
When we get back to the hotel, Chris can hardly make it up the stairs. I nastily show off by skipping three steps at a time. We are both happy it is over. We say good night. Like shipmates back on shore. Or like two investment bankers who have just closed the biggest deal ever. Both happy and relieved.
It is eerie to see the relics I brought from the mountain when I get back to my room: the pieces of carpet, the exit sign in Russian. The visit to the site already feels like a dream. I wrap up the relics, pack them out of sight in my bag, and go to bed.
I can’t sleep. After being awake for twenty hours, eleven of which were brutal physical exercise, I somehow feel too energized. The adrenaline Jaime promised me is still running. Jaime . . . I call him again to say all is well. And that Chris is totally the hero he described. Maxi and Joosje are at school. All is well there too.
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