Wish You Happy Forever

by Jenny Bowen

  Chenzhou, Hunan

  The old fortune-teller wore a red Nike baseball cap and at least three layers of sweaters, all with tattered sleeves. I watched her practiced fingers sort through the plastic-covered flat sticks of bamboo. She was calm. As if she saw foreigners in her tiny cement-block apartment every day. The Chenzhou orphanage director, a nervous little man with hair like unmowed grass, had told me about her the morning we arrived, and I’d begged to go see her at once.

  “She is the most famous fortune-teller in China,” said the Chenzhou director, as he lit one cigarette off another. “High-ranking officials come from Beijing to see her.”

  “Really? Fantastic.” I fanned the smoke from my face.

  “Of course, everyone knows Chenzhou is magical because it is the famous Eighteenth Blessed Land—the place that gave birth to nine immortals and two Buddhas!”

  The fortune-teller laid a handful of bamboo sticks on a red board painted with Chinese characters. Then she placed a cardboard circle over them and asked me to rotate it. Then again. At her direction, I selected some sticks. Then more.

  “It is Yijing Bagua . . . most powerful method,” ZZ said as we watched the fortune-teller sort and re-sort with endless patience.

  “She was a doctor,” said her gentle, bucktoothed husband. “I was a teacher. But in 1957, I was branded a rightist. The students turned against me. I could not teach. She could not work. So she began to study Yijing.”

  The fortune-teller smiled at me.

  “Chun. It is good,” she said, “but you must be patient. Chun means difficulty at the beginning. Rain and thunder. Don’t be intimidated by the storm. We must remain firmly centered within. Perseverance furthers. Persevere, but not too much. Know when to retreat. Small perseverance brings good fortune.”

  It poured every day we worked in Chenzhou. ZZ told me that the Chinese believe rain is lucky. The paint wouldn’t dry, but we kept on painting. Small perseverance.

  LIKE MANY ORPHAN homes in smaller towns, the Chenzhou welfare institution began as a home for old folks. In large cities, before Jiefang (China’s 1949 “Liberation”), orphanages were more often run by foreign missionaries and continued to be fairly well maintained post-revolution. This was not such a place.

  Our volunteer crew arrived at a dumpy little compound that was brimful of extremely senior senior citizens, assorted ragamuffins, and over one hundred scrawny but adorable baby girls. The place was falling apart and far too small for its swelling population. The crew fell in love, and I think it was mutual. By the end of the week, we were one big family.

  Ancient balding ladies grinned from their dark little rooms each morning as we traipsed by in the rain. “Rain is good luck,” they trilled daily.

  One toothless old gent routinely shouted instructions to the crew as they passed; he must have been a factory boss once upon a time. Nobody, not even the locals, understood a word he said.

  DESPITE THE CONSTANT downpour, each afternoon the eight Chenzhou “big girls,” eight to thirteen years old or so, splashed their way over to what would become our new preschool to practice their English on the volunteers.

  “Hello! How are you today? My name is—” And they’d fall apart with giggles. The director would come and whisk the girls away whenever he caught them with the foreigners, but the girls would dart back the moment he was gone.

  They helped paint and sometimes brought babies and toddlers for the volunteer crew to cuddle. Even though those big girls couldn’t understand a word said to them, they just couldn’t seem to get enough of the room full of foreign mommies—and vice versa.

  Shibi, a blind girl of about nine, had never been to school, and although the new preschool was designed for younger children, she adored it. It was her first chance to experience a school of any sort. She spent her days with the volunteers, making little Play-Doh figurines and textured collages from feathers and shells.

  Yaya, a quiet child, maybe thirteen, latched onto one volunteer family, a single mom and her young daughter. She spent every free moment helping the mom paint walls and assemble toys or teaching songs to the daughter. The child of itinerant scavengers who, we were told, left their daughter behind as they made their way south to Guangdong, Yaya seemed to remember what family felt like. Hungry for love, she savored each moment with the foreigners.

  A few months later, when she was in our Big Sisters program and doing well, our staff in Chenzhou told us that Yaya’s parents returned to claim her. The orphanage never heard from her again.

  WHEN THE TRAINING and the rooms were finished, the little ones were decked out in dress-up clothes and given new dollies and treats. We all packed into the courtyard for a farewell celebration. After speeches and the usual entertainments, the big girls stood before us in two somber little rows. They began to sing softly.

  The song was “Mama Hao.” All Chinese children learn it. It’s meant to be a song for China, the Motherland. But at the moment, Mama was all that mattered. We watched in aching silence as tears ran down the children’s faces and stung at our own eyes.

  Only Mama is the best in the world.

  When a child has a Mama, she feels treasured.

  In Mama’s arms is endless happiness.

  A child with no Mama is no more than a weed.

  With no Mama’s arms

  Where can happiness lie?

  We’d spiffed up the rooms, brought books and art supplies, and trained new mentors for the older children. But all of us—caregivers and directors and officials and volunteers—knew that there was little we could do to fix what hurt those big little girls the most.

  There’d been no need to worry about the volunteer crew we’d spirited off to the “wrong orphanage.” Once they met the children of Chenzhou, none were sorry that the winds of fate (and maybe the breath of Guanyin) had blown us there. It was the best possible outcome. It seemed to me that no obstacle was insurmountable when so many hearts were in the right place.

  Of course, my theory would be tested.

  Chapter 10

  Push One Pumpkin Under Water, Another Pops Up

  Spring 2003

  Subject: Bugs and Battles

  Dear Hunan Volunteers,

  I imagine you’ve been following the news in the last couple of days. It seems that we’re truly on the brink of war in Iraq and also that there’s a dastardly form of pneumonia raging through parts of Southeast and East Asia and possibly spreading beyond.

  I’ve posted the latest World Health Organization info below. Thus far, in Mainland China, only the southern Guangdong region has been affected and even that may not be the same disease. However, since no one seems to be able to get a handle on this outbreak, we want to pay close attention.

  You will, of course, make your own decision about whether or not this is a wise time to travel and/or whether or not this is a wise time to go to that part of the world. I just want to tell you, as you consider the options over the coming days, that if you choose to cancel, you won’t be letting anyone down. We will still go to those sites and we will hire people to do the work. Please make the decision that’s right for you and your family without further worry.

  I leave for China in the morning. Wishing you peace and good health!

  Jenny

  None among our volunteers opted to stay home. We had a full crew: twelve adults and twelve children. Our builds by now were hugely popular among adoptive families—we had to turn many away. Only our official build leaders, Terri and Daniel, declined to join us. Now that their friend Evelyn had joined the board, those three were turning into my very own Greek e-mail chorus. After the Guangdong fiasco and our last-minute trip to Chenzhou, special as it was, they were flabbergasted to see me pushing ahead with yet another build in less than perfect circumstances. As Half the Sky’s leader, the chorus sang in unison, I was “stubborn and hopeless.”

  Our bus lurched along the congested road to Shaoyang, a backwater town in Hunan Province. There was a major slowdown on the new expressway. Too
big to scoot in and out of emergency lanes and embankments as cars did, we trailed obediently behind the line of big blue trucks loaded with goods of every sort: massive steel cable coils and fragrant onions and bamboo scaffolding and not-so-fragrant pigs.

  Maya (now seven and already a veteran crew member) turned away in revulsion when she saw the pile of live pigs in the next lane, squashed in wire crates, their rumps and snouts pressed against each other and the frames of their confines.

  “I hate this place, this China!” she said, closing her eyes tight. “I’m a pig too.”

  “Sweetie, you don’t hate China,” I said. “You just feel bad for the pigs. Me too.”

  “Year of the Pig,” Dick said. “One of my two favorite years. Think we should give up spareribs?”

  “Spareribs is pig?”

  He nodded. Maya squirmed off his lap.

  “I’m gonna play with my friends.”

  “Careful!” I reached but couldn’t grab her as she scooted toward the back of the bus. Anya, who’d just turned five, was sprawled across my chest, sound asleep.

  “You can worry all you want about that flu bug,” Dick said, twisting to watch his daughter go. “What scares me is the traffic in this country. And no seat belts. Maya, sit down!”

  Carol Kemble, an enthusiastic regular volunteer on our builds, was Terri’s designated substitute crew leader. It was our good fortune. Her ebullience and energy (and her curly white-blond hair!) were magnets for little children; they’d never seen anyone like her. She loved them right back. And her delight was infectious. Few on the crew failed to respond to Carol’s warmth. Many remained pals even years later, when she became our chief fundraiser.

  Now her two daughters, Tai and Ava, were giggling in the rear of the bus with a little flock of new friends, all born in China. Maya put the pigs out of mind and joined the party.

  I used the break to catch up on unread e-mails from home. Most of the notes were from supporters wishing they could be with us and cheering us on. I saved the board mail for last.

  “Do you think I’m patently inadequate?” I asked Dick.

  “It never occurred to me,” he said. “Why?”

  “That’s what Terri says.”

  “Well, I love you anyway.”

  It all was unfortunate and confusing and felt contrary to the spirit of Half the Sky and our undeniable progress and impact. But it was not going to slow us down.

  “WELCOME TO SHAOYANG!”

  Mrs. Gu, an owlish Civil Affairs representative, climbed into our bus outside the city gate. Two men in dark glasses, windbreakers, and matching crew cuts followed her and hunkered into the front seats. They didn’t smile. They didn’t say a word. Mrs. Gu didn’t introduce them, but we were used to that.

  Mrs. Gu barked an order at all of us and then perched on the jump seat beside the driver, waiting for something.

  “She says everyone must close their window shades,” said ZZ.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “She just says that. Close the shades.”

  “But could she tell us why?”

  The two crew-cut men stood up and turned toward the volunteers.

  “Carol, please tell the volunteers to close their window shades,” I said.

  Ever agreeable, Carol (bless her heart for that attitude!) raised her eyebrows with an anticipatory grin. Here comes a China moment. Our builds were full of them.

  “Okay . . . sure.”

  She moved along the aisle. The passengers pulled their shades. They looked at one another and at Carol, puzzled. She shrugged.

  “I’m not sure we should tell the rest to the families,” ZZ said to me.

  “What rest?”

  She whispered what Mrs. Gu had just passed along.

  “Okay, folks,” I said, standing in the aisle, holding on to a seat with one hand. “There’s been a change of plans. Here’s the story—as much as I think I understand.

  “You all know that the U.S. has just invaded Iraq. Well, it seems Shaoyang City is composed of nine counties. Two of them are Muslim, with a total population of over one million. There are one hundred thousand young Muslim men between eighteen and thirty-five. They all want to go to Iraq to fight the Americans.

  “Yesterday, twenty of their representatives marched on the city government building and demanded passports and permission to go. The permission was denied. So now they’ve gone to the highest Muslim cleric in China, and he is petitioning Beijing on their behalf. They are very determined and very angry.

  “We are the only foreigners in town. And, of course, the only Americans.

  “The city government is concerned about our safety. They want to keep our presence quiet—hence the window shades. And instead of the hotel, we’re going to be honored guests at a special government compound.”

  “All right!” said one of the volunteers. “This should be great.”

  “It should be interesting,” said Dick.

  Now, as our blindfolded bus bumped along, Mrs. Gu recited the history of Shaoyang. ZZ didn’t bother to translate for the volunteers. Most were dozing now—nothing to look at—and anyway she knew they’d inevitably hear the same spiel later on.

  “What’s Shaoyang famous for, Mrs. Gu?” I asked to be polite.

  “Shaoyang? Shaoyang is most famous for garbage,” Mrs. Gu said.

  “Really?”

  “There’s no place for it. It just piles up.”

  I peeked through the window shades. She was right.

  Besides the usual piles of dirt, trenches, dust, and little kids peeing on the side of the road like in every small rural town in China, there was garbage everywhere—plastic bags and food containers and plastic soda bottles and dented cooking-oil tins. Most places I’d been, outside of the big cities, had a litter problem. But this place was a giant landfill.

  “China wasn’t like this before Liberation,” ZZ said, taking a peek and clucking at the mess. “The whole country was spotless. Now everyone pays attention to other things.”

  Just ahead, in the rubble of the road, lay a strange, lumpy black bundle. Traffic was weaving around it, and as the bus got closer, I saw the bundle move. A hand and arm, black with filth, reached up. An old woman stepped into the street, approached the bundle . . . and into the extended hand dropped a piece of bread.

  The bus moved on. I turned quickly to make sure the children hadn’t seen. That hand belonged to a human being, a beggar, lying in the dirt. I closed my eyes. “I hate this place,” I whispered to no one.

  I think, just for a second, I meant the whole country, not just Shaoyang. I knew I sounded just like my seven-year-old.

  ON THE FAR side of town, we stopped in front of a lushly landscaped gated compound. Six military guards stood out front, assault rifles poised, but thankfully not aimed, in both hands. While our bus waited for clearance, I inspected the troops. Scrawny country boys, really—their uniforms too big, their trousers bunched around slender waists. Still, I figured they knew how to use those guns. We were probably safe from any angry Muslim uprising. They saluted when we passed through the gates.

  Inside, the compound looked like all other government retreat-hotels in China. Places where officials went for cadre school and conferences and could drink baijiu, smoke, and play mahjong into the wee hours. I’d stayed in quite a few such places run by provincial Civil Affairs Bureaus. They were okay. The beds were always like rocks, though.

  We all climbed from the bus, eager to shake off the road and settle in to our new digs. Carol slung her backpack onto her shoulder with a jaunty grin, grabbed a huge duffel bag with her remaining hand, and—kids and volunteers trailing—followed the hotel manager to the residence unit to dole out our assigned rooms.

  The place must have been used as some sort of detention center in the past, judging by the room the girls and I had been assigned. There were mold splotches and, I’m pretty sure, bloodstains on the walls. The carpets were slightly damp with something that may have backed up from a drain somewhe
re. I feared that our room might be the best of the bunch.

  Within five minutes, Carol appeared in the doorway, distraught. This was not our ever-jolly girl. “I can’t do this!” she wailed. “I have my kids with me. How can I let them get under those covers? And I can’t bring myself to walk into the bathroom. This is the most horrific place I’ve ever been!”

  We looked at our four little daughters now merrily jumping off the wooden ledge of a bed onto the squishy rug. For them it was all an adventure. I put my arm around Carol’s shoulder.

  “Let’s see how your crew is doing,” I suggested. “Maybe we can scout out some better rooms.”

  We walked down the gloomy hallway, lit only by the occasional blue fluorescent.

  “Carol, we can do this,” I said.

  “Okay . . . I know,” she said. She took a breath, dug deep. “Sure we can. Just another China moment, right?”

  And she flashed that electric grin. I gave her a hug. “Thank you.”

  We gathered the volunteers and led them toward the dining hall. They were amazingly upbeat about the accommodations. They’d never been on a build before. They were delighted with everything. They were exactly where they wanted to be, doing what they wanted to do.

  Mrs. Gu anxiously watched us approach.

  “Will the rooms be all right?”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Gu,” I said. “They’re just fine. Our volunteer families are extremely grateful for your concern.”

  Dear Board,

  We’ve arrived and had our first day of work here at Shaoyang. Teacher and nanny training have both begun. The city officials and orphanage staff are wonderful. However, there is a war-related situation here that I want to share with you. . . .