My Singapore Misadventure, 1979In The Same Boat

Story and website design by Nam Nguyen ©2016  |  Photographs by Vincent Leduc ©1979

In The Same Boat – 1979

In The

Same

Boat

scroll

Story and website design by Nam Nguyen ©2016

Photographs by Vincent Leduc ©1979

In April 1979, at only 12 years old, I survived a terrifying boat journey in the Gulf of Thailand. Our boat was repeatedly attacked by deadly pirates and endured a violent sea storm throughout the night. So why, just one month later, did I make what was considered by others to be a “crazy” decision, to leave the relative safety of my refugee camp in Indonesia (as well as my three cousins) and travel alone on a second boat journey to Singapore?

 

#

 

The man responsible for convincing me to runaway was a “Crazy American Cowboy" named Gary Ferguson, a Vietnam veteran from Phoenix, Arizona. Gary came to Buton to help the Vietnamese refugees. At the camp, everyone loved Gary, especially the young children and kids my age.

I still vividly remember the first time I saw Gary. He was the first American I had ever seen in my life. He was dressed like a cowboy, wearing a big hat and leather boots. The communist propaganda depicted the American soldiers, the Party’s former enemies, as giant hairy monsters who eat Vietnamese babies; however, what I saw in Gary was a big and gentle man with a warm smile. He was always surrounded by the Vietnamese children, and he constantly reached out and greeted everyone.

On the first day of his visit to Buton, Gary showed off his tape player and recording equipment. His tape player was a treasure for the refugees because there was no electricity at the camp and almost no one else had any type of electronic devices. Gary demonstrated to the crowd how the tape recorder could be used to record voices, play music, and more importantly, to practice English. Since the time our boat arrived at the island of Buton, I had been told by the adults to study English every day. They suggested it would help prepare me for migrating to and immersing myself into an adopted Western culture, but I had never put too much thought into it, until I saw Gary.

 

After Gary’s first visit, I made a plan that I would approach and speak to Gary in English the next time that he returned. With the help of a Vietnamese-English dictionary, I was able to compose three greeting lines. I rewrote the English sentences on a notebook a few dozen times to help me memorize the greeting. I spent the rest of the night practicing the pronunciation.

When I woke up the next morning, I was very tired from lack of sleep. The thought of meeting Gary suddenly made me very nervous. My neck muscles stiffened and my lips were shaking so uncontrollably that I was unable to utter the English words correctly. I tried hard to practice speaking the sentences in my head over and over, while telling myself to be brave, knowing that I had only one shot at impressing Gary that day.

 

The morning of Gary’s arrival, the camp was noisy and lively with festive flares circulating in the air. A large crowd of people had already formed at the base of the monkey bridge, which served as the camp’s pier, facing our hut above the water. Everyone was eager to see Gary on his second day of visiting the refugees. The refugees erupted with loud cheers the moment Gary emerged in the distance. As he stepped out from a small canoe docked against the skinny monkey bridge, I couldn’t help giggling as I watched Gary walking slowly with both hands holding tightly onto the rail. He was looking down at the water as if he was afraid of falling. The crowd went wild and the cheers got louder as Gary came closer. Everyone was eagerly watching his every move.

When Gary passed the section of the bridge adjacent to my hut, he paused for a moment and looked up with a big smile to acknowledge the crowd, which responded to him with even louder cheers. Gary reacted by letting go of the railing with one of his hands to wave to the crowd. As he raised his hand, his feet suddenly slipped and he immediately dropped down into the water. The impact created a giant splash along with a loud popping sound. For a moment, I couldn’t see Gary because he was submerged in the water. The water started to splash in all directions as Gary struggled to stand up. The whole time he was screaming, flailing around, turning and twisting in a circle.

There was commotion from the crowd the moment Gary fell, and then everyone became quiet, seemingly in a state of shock. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Gary no longer looked like a brave and stoic cowboy. His hat was floating in the water several feet away. Black sand covered his curly hair and dripped all over his face. He looked like a madman. Gary slammed the water repeatedly with both of his arms then he reached down to free his boots from the muck. He raised the boots above his head to empty the muck from inside.

Several men ran out to assist Gary in recovering his hat, which was drifting a few feet away in the waves. Gary stomped his feet against the ground angrily as he walked up to the crowd. Soaked with wet, black sand, he was screaming and yelling at the top of his lungs at everyone. A man translated to the crowd in Vietnamese: “He (Gary) is calling us ‘stupid for building such a dangerous and useless bridge’. He said ‘how could we walk in such a stupid monkey bridge?’”

I heard some laughter from the crowd. Some elders started speaking ill of Gary, calling him “A stupid American. A crazy cowboy.”

I wish Gary had known what he was getting himself into by losing his temper. As soon as he wiped off the mud and sand from his hat and boots, he looked up, raised both of his arms and pointed his index fingers at two men dangling at the top of two coconut trees. At the base of the trees, there were about a dozen fresh coconuts scattered on the ground. Gary headed to one of the trees and walked in circles around it to examine the coconuts.

He looked up screaming and yelling loudly at the men above. I couldn’t understand what Gary was saying, but he looked furious.

Gary may not have known it at the time, but the two men were up in the trees cutting down fresh coconuts to serve to him, as he was our special guest. A man translated Gary’s rant into Vietnamese:

“I am very disappointed to witness what happened today. I have tried hard to create goodwill with the owner of the island. You people came here uninvited. You took over their island. You already chopped all their (rubber) trees. And now you’re doing this? Cutting their coconuts, not one, two or three coconuts, but…. without their permission. How do you expect them to like you? To help you?”

The crowd was silent. Everyone avoided eye contact with Gary as he was speaking and pointing fingers randomly at people. Some elders walked away and some were shaking their heads in disbelief. I felt sorry for Gary. He was standing there all alone. It was quite a contrast to what we saw the day before. I wished I could comfort Gary and show off my English skills, but I was no longer in the mood.

It was several days before Gary came back to Buton. By this time, everyone was talking about a small fishing boat that had just arrived and was anchored several hundred yards from our camp. The women and children on the boat were not allowed to enter our camp. Local Indonesian authorities claimed that the island could not sustain the already overcrowded refugee population.

Everyone was busy donating canned foods, rice, fish and fresh water to the people on this boat, and I was delighted to learn that Gary had also stepped in to help. Despite numerous meetings with the local Indonesian government officials, Gary still could not change their minds. The authorities gave the newly arrived refugees two days to leave the island. In desperation, Gary crafted a plan to lead the people of the small fishing boat to Singapore, where the nearest U.S. Embassy Office was located.

That afternoon, Gary invited many of the island’s refugee inhabitants to join him on his expedition to Singapore. He even promised to help those who joined him attain the right to go to the United States. He asked them to meet at the boat before midnight. This prompt departure only left us with several hours to make our decision.

Even though Gary tried his best to explain to the refugees his travel plan and how his status as an American could enable him to persuade the Singapore authorities to accept the new boat people, most of the elders at Buton Camp didn’t take him seriously. I wondered if Gary’s recent outbursts had already damaged his reputation and lost some trust from the refugees. Some people thought he was insane. But I didn’t feel that way at all about Gary. In fact, what I saw in Gary was a person passionate about helping those in need and capable of accomplishing anything.

To my dismay, no one from the family I shared the hut with believed in Gary’s plan. In addition to their unwillingness to go on another boat ride with uncertain success, the others associated joining Gary with stupidity saying: "Don't be stupid and go with that  Crazy American Cowboy!" Their warnings were of no avail, I had already made up my mind and went to sleep early.

Just after midnight, I snuck out of my hut while everyone was sleeping. Under the cover of pitch darkness, I made my way slowly and quietly through the cold and muddy beach water to board the boat and begin a new boat journey with Gary, my new found hero.

#

After getting on board, I was disappointed to learn that none of the other kids I knew in the camp came along. Other than Gary, I didn’t know anyone else on the boat. I suddenly felt very lonely and uncertain. I couldn't sleep.

I was shivering as the night breeze struck my face, arms, and legs. I could see Gary’s silhouette illuminated by the light of the moon against the dark horizon. I spent the rest of the night watching him talk with the men on the boat, hoping this would ease my worries.

#Gary

The next day, I was delighted to see the Singapore Harbor skyline appearing in the distance. A small plane came down from the sky and circled right above our boat several times before it flew away. Minutes later, a ship appeared on the horizon. What a powerful military machine! I couldn't help feeling anxious and thinking that all of us would be safely rescued. Everyone on our boat was cheering and waving their hands toward the oncoming vessel.

The mood quickly changed when the steel ship got closer. Soldiers on its deck pointed their machine guns and rifles directly at us while the ship was circling around our boat. I feared we were going to be shot. Everyone was panicking.

The soldiers eventually withdrew their guns. I believe it was because they saw Gary, who was shouting out loud in English, a language I hadn't yet understood.

After about fifteen minutes of exchanging information, I watched the Singaporean soldiers assist Gary onto their ship. What a relief. Everyone on my boat was quiet. We waited in hope for a miracle. Once again I felt relief and was glad that Gary was there to help us.

The waiting was hard. It must have been several hours before Gary finally emerged from the ship's cabin. He was calm as the soldiers were helping him get back onto our boat.

Gary explained we were not welcome in Singapore. The news was shocking to all of us waiting anxiously on the boat. He said he made many attempts to negotiate with the Singaporean government and the U.S. embassy officials, but he was unsuccessful. Our boat was not allowed to enter Singapore and we were required to leave.

The Singaporean soldiers wasted no time following their orders as giant ropes emerged from their ship onto our boat. An amplified voice ordered our men to secure the ropes tightly against the frame of our boat. Water poured from the back of the ship as it began to pull our tiny wooden boat away from the Singaporean coast. It was a very frightening experience. The waves behind the ship were so large and powerful that our boat was jerking and shaking violently. I worried our small boat full of people was going to capsize or break into pieces. After dragging our boat for about an hour toward the open ocean, the military vessel came to a stop and the soldiers ordered us to cut the ropes, then the ship sped away.

For the second time in my young life I found myself stranded in a boat with strangers. All the men, women, and children were quiet. No one said a word. We didn't know what to do or where to go. Everyone was in tears. I was devastated. I couldn't believe Gary had failed us. I was hoping for another option-- any option other than going back to Buton Camp.

The voyage back to Buton was dreadful. In the chill and darkness of the night, I had never felt more alone and invisible. I was lost and deeply hurt. There was no one I could talk to, nor was there anyone I could count on.

Staring out at the glossy black water moving along the boat, I contemplated jumping into the ocean. I tried to imagine what it would be like the moment my face, hands, and my whole body touched the water, I wondered if I would feel cold. I also envisioned myself diving deep down into the dark ocean. Then I thought about the possibility that I might change my mind and decide to swim back to the boat after jumping in, and considered how long it would take to catch it. I tried not to think of the big fish that I might encounter. I imagined closing my lips tightly and holding my breath for a long time, or opening my mouth and tasting the salty water. I asked myself, what if I regret the jump?

Suddenly, I was shivering uncontrollably. I became weak, tired and gradually lost interest in the idea. I tried not to think further by staring blankly at the moving water along the side of the boat for the rest of the night until I felt asleep.

. . . .

For the past 36 years, I’ve been busy with my new life in the United States, my adopted homeland. Occasionally I recall this unforgettable boat journey, and wonder about the chain of events that took place which led me to that painful circumstance. After all, I ran away from my cousins in Buton without hesitation. In my escape for freedom, I ran away from the very people who were supposed to protect and take care of me in my parents’ absence.

I’ve asked myself many times, why did I run away?

The story is long and complicated but the answer I have found is simple: I was a different kid. I was different than the other refugees and didn’t feel comfortable with the environment I was in. I was a lone North Vietnamese trying to hide my true identity while surrounded by South Vietnamese refugees. I probably felt unsettled subconsciously, and I was looking for a solution.

…..

In the early 1950s, my father left his home, first wife, and son, in South Vietnam to assist the Viet Minh guerrillas fight against the French for Vietnamese independence. After the French were defeated at the battle of Dien Bien Phu in 1954, Vietnam was divided into two countries: Democratic Republic of Vietnam (Soviet-backed Communist) in the North and Republic of Vietnam (United States-backed) in the South. This was the beginning of the long war against the United States. Trapped in the North, my father could no longer return to his family in the South. After 10 years of forced separation from his first wife and son, he met a Northern Vietnamese woman in Hanoi (my mother). They fell in love and started a family of their own, which eventually included my three brothers, a sister, and me.

A product of love, war, ideology, and geography, I was born and grew up during the midst of the War with the Americans in a town just outside of Hanoi, the Capital of Communist North Vietnam. In late April 1975, after the fall of Saigon and the end of the war, my father was finally able to travel back to Southern Vietnam to look for his long lost family, after having been stranded in the North for more than a quarter of a century. I accompanied my father on this memorable journey to Saigon. About a year later my mother was able to move with my brothers and sister to join us.

. . . .

After the fall of South Vietnam in 1975, many Southerners harbored a deep hatred towards the Northerners for their oppression, and for taking away their homes and businesses. Many wealthy families in the South were forced from their homes to live in new economic resettlements in the remote jungles. They were forced to abandon their livelihoods and work as farmers or construction laborers. Former Southern Vietnamese soldiers and officers (including my father’s first wife and their only son, my step brother) were taken to prisons or re-education camps to be tortured and and to perform debilitating daily labor. Many people refused to leave their homes and committed suicide. Families and relatives of South Vietnam’s government officials or military officers were put on North Vietnam’s communist blacklist. Many fearful families escaped on boats, risking their lives against dangerous sea storms and deadly pirate attacks. They eventually landed in refugee camps in neighboring countries such as the Philippines, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia.

My cousins were born and raised in South Vietnam by a wealthy family. Their father, my father’s youngest brother, was a well-known and respected doctor in Saigon. Feeling fearful and uncertain of what might happen to his family, my uncle sent his children on a boat to escape the country’s turmoil in the hope they would find better and safer lives. My uncle also did a great favor to his older brother, my father, by paying the exorbitant fees, that could range from five to twelve bars of gold, for me to join his three children.

Leaving my family behind in Vietnam, I had to readjust my identity to blend in with my cousins and other Southern Vietnamese. I was technically a Northern Vietnamese. To protect myself from hostility, I tried not to speak freely with anyone so that no one would notice my heavy Northern accent. I didn’t want to be treated like an outsider, or in some cases, as the enemy. One of my cousins, who was bigger, stronger and several years older than me, always stared at me strangely, and often called me a “Viet Cong.” However, I felt relatively safe among the other refugees and the family that I shared a hut with at Buton.

. . . .

#

This is a personal account of one of the chapters of my life that I call “My 1979 Boat Journey From Vietnam,” a misadventure that I embarked on as a pre-teen. It was a formative experience that I documented years ago in school journals and occasionally told to loved ones. This story has lived in my heart for more than three decades. Until recently, the only images that existed were those that I created through my artwork, all based on the memory of these life changing events.

On September 23, 2013, I connected via Facebook with Vincent Leduc, a French photographer. I learned that during the time of my misadventure, Vincent was working as a photojournalist with Food for the Hungry International, a community service group offering relief to refugees. From this Facebook connection, Vincent shared with me his work and uploaded a series of photographs he took of the Vietnamese refugee experience. As I was browsing through all of the photos, images of a particular young boy with a look of despair on his face started to emerge. To my shock and disbelief, I suddenly realized that this boy was me . . .

These are Vincent Leduc’s original images of the people from this Singapore bound boat and me, as a young boy during this unforgettable journey more than 36 years ago. I am the boy wearing a dark brown striped T-shirt (marked with a ‘#’).

To discover these extraordinary photographs by Vincent, a man whom I had no recollection of seeing in the same boat as me, was a dream-like experience.

What a nice surprise and what a beautiful dream!

     - Nam Nguyen, February 2016

 

#

The Runaway Teen: Having a hard time facing the reality of the misadventure, the journey back to the refugee camp was a dreadful experience.

 

The Photographer: Vincent Leduc on the Akuna ship in June 1979, during an operation to rescue the Vietnamese boat people in South China Sea, funded by Food for the Hungry International.

 

 

#

Where Our Paths Crossed

Map shows the approximate route from Buton Refugee Camp in Indonesia to Singapore. Unbeknownst to us, this boat is where Vincent’s journey crossed paths with mine in May 1979.

 

"We went on that boat for almost that night and the next day we were very closed to Singapore harbors. Many of the great ship were around us, some come out on board greeting, some staring and some ship even didn’t show us if there were any people on their ship. We though maybe they were afraid of our boat, a strange boat."

"We chose to sail north in order to escape the risk of being spotted and arrested by the Indonesian authorities. We went north, then west to Singapore. On the way back we took the same road. The Singapore Navy was towing us toward the open sea, not heading Riau's Indonesia. We crossed the ship highway on the way back, the same way from where we came from. I recall it very precisely. Open sea, then the ship highway: container ships, oil ships, cargo ships, etc... in a line, following each other with a 3 or 4 miles gap, on their approach to Singapore (it was the fourth commercial port of the world at that time). We decided to paint a wooden board, about 1 by 1 meter with this words: SOS, VIETNAMESE REFUGEES (or boat people). Not any ships stopped, not any ship came to our rescue (confirming all the boat people accounts on this matter). And we came back to Pulau Buton from the north."

 

NEXT

"A Dream-Like Experience"

Thirty-four years had passed before Vincent and I connected on Facebook and learned of our crossed paths. Seeing Vincent’s photographs of our journey was a dream-like experience which I will never forget.

VINCENT LEDUC'S PHOTOGRAPHS–1979

In The

Same Boat

READ FOREWORD

 

"Biển Nhớ (Sea of Memory)" - by Khánh Ly

 

                My Singapore Misadventure, 1979   |   singapore79.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Songs about the Refugee Experience

"Sea of Memory

(Biển Nhớ")

- Mỹ Hạnh, 2011

"Sea of Memory

(Biển Nhớ")

- Khánh Ly, 1980s

"Refugee"

- Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers, 1979

Photographs by Vincent Leduc ©1979  |  Story and Website by Nam Nguyen ©2016

LANGUAGE:

Lire en français Tiếng Việt
Read in English