Chenzhou Story - continued
Mulling the Chinese New Year
During this long process, I have some time to reflect on last night’s conversation with the very soulful Mr. Poon. He shared with me his strong opinion that this current weather-related crisis could only happen in China and would not really be the crisis it is, if it hadn't happened on top of the Chinese New Year holiday.
"You know, this really isn't about the weather," he said.
He reasons: If this spate of bad weather happened a few weeks ago or a few weeks from now, Chinese resilience would hardly be tested. Lost water and power? A pain perhaps, but most would just throw on a few extra sweaters, hunker down, tell stories and wait it out without complaint. Supermarket out of processed food? Everyone knows your body can function just fine on only rice for a long, long time.
But, the New Year's holiday in China isn't "a holiday," in the way most of the world uses that word. In America, just imagine Thanksgiving, Christmas, Kwaanza, Passover, your 40th birthday and your mother's 100th birthday all rolled into one. In the life of a modern Chinese, it's the only time all year where your family life trumps everything else. And all over the country, every single person, not just the new China's "winners," indulge in the pursuit of that happiness.
On the outskirts of each small town and city we've passed on this trip, we've seen small groups hurrying along the side of the road, pulling those little suitcases with handles and wheels, dressed against the bitter cold in thin, cheap black leather jackets....somehow, and very improbably, making their way home. To an outsider, this urge, compulsion, instinct (or whatever it is) looks to be as hard-wired into Chinese genes as surely as similar natural wonders....the homing pigeon, the caribou, the penguin.
But it's more than even that. Part-and-parcel with modern China's economic miracle, truly massive internal migrations of people leave their families and criss-cross the country for work. For 358 days each year, modern China's economy may require millions to live apart from family, but the bargain is crystal-clear. For 7 days each year the world owes every single Chinese, rich or poor, the god-given right to get home and be with family. 358 days of separation and toil somehow balance the quality and meaning of a mere 7 days spent with family during Spring Festival. Only understood this way is it possible to make sense of the sight of a dazed crowd of 600,000 pressing itself mindlessly towards the Guangzhou train-station door. Only being deprived of something this primal would make the generally easy-going Chinese edgy enough to energize their government to mobilize all its resources, no holds-barred, in the service of their personal happiness.
I keep wondering why Mr. Poon's observation strikes me so powerfully. What is the common thread between our driver sacrificing his holiday "for the orphans," the cop who let us through his roadblock cause he "loves kids," and the blanket factory owner and balloon lady who each lowered their prices (which meant much more to them than to us) without our even asking? Birgitta and Paul wouldn't let us reimburse them for filling our Jeep with supplies in Guangzhou (which I did so that if the truck didn't make it we'd at least arrive with something). Mr. Poon took us in, fed us, sheltered us and freely offered us everything we needed to "help the orphans." 
Miranda, dead-tired from weeks on the road with Disney, hops on a plane in Shanghai, bound for Guangzhou with no promise she'll make it back in time for her family's "very traditional" New Year's Celebration.
In short, the really interesting part about this trip has been seeing how China's New Year family madness so clearly expressed itself over and over as a "beyond the call of duty" generosity. I've always found the Chinese a pretty generous people, but I've never, in all my travels and wild pursuits, ever, anywhere in the world felt my intentions were so completely supported by everyone I met as I have on this attempt to get supplies to the babies at Chenzhou.
Even in the most unlikely place of all we found this attitude at work. Our coal supplier clearly gouged us—arguably, he was getting gouged by others as well and was only responding to "market conditions" as some would say. After heavy bargaining, we never could get his price below 5 RMB per kilo (it's normally 2 RMB). His defense: "I have to feed my family and I could charge you tomorrow's price if I wanted. Tomorrow it will be 6 RMB all over town." Fearing he might be right, I tried to double my order. "Sorry that's not possible..I only have enough bagged up to take care of my best customers." But when we let him know his product was to warm babies without families, he immediately offered to double our order ("My wife and I can stay up tonight and bag more.")
I am absolutely certain that, in the reality of the lives of these random people in whose hands we found ourselves, each one was making a sacrifice they would truly feel, possibly in their stomachs, or the stomachs of their family members.
Family...orphan-hood... China....basic human instincts to do good....it's all a swirl and right now, all I can think about is a warm room and a soft bed. But first, after countless hours, we need to get off of this ice-bound parking lot that's meant to be a highway. A long wait, then we start to move.
Chenzhou!
Another 1/2 hour and eventually, lo and behold, out of the darkness looms a green reflective sign announcing Chenzhou 1KM!
We pull ahead of our truck, so we can lead him through the toll gate. We exit the toll gate, weave through a dozen under-dressed holiday makers pulling their wheeled carry-ons homeward, heading at conflicting angles across the slippery road. Silhouettes of a couple dozen more line the off ramp, headed for the darkness of Chenzhou. I tell MIranda it's time to call Mr. Shi, the director of the Chenzhou Institution, and let him know we're 30 minutes away from touchdown. I can't really explain the relief I felt, getting our cargo and ourselves safely over the mountain.
But before Miranda has finished dialing, our walkie-talkie crackles...our truck driver's voice announcing he's got engine trouble and has to pull over. Ugh. Radiator leak. We all join together and hoist the truck's cab back, revealing a sizzling, steaming engine. 
Two large bottles of soda are emptied, and our two drivers walk off into the snowy darkness to find water while I try to calculate the odds of a tow truck being available at this hour, in these conditions. My mind wanders to the 50 cases of bottled water probably bound to freeze overnight and the 600 (50 cases, 12 bottles each) of sure-to-burst bottles sure to thaw and ruin all that hard-won baby formula at dawn. I'm beyond disappointment. My mind starts to try to distract itself....how many gallons of water is that anyway?.....when there's a bang on the window....."We're ready, he thinks he can make it, we need help lifting the cab back down."
Our caravan of two roars back to life, and before we know it, we're driving through the pitch black streets of downtown Chenzhou.
Normally bustling with neon, store light, packed sidewalks, and chaotic traffic, most Chinese cities seem more alive and energy-filled at night than during the day. Not tonight. A few cars and buses creep along, the sidewalks are mostly empty, a few lit candles in windows, but mostly it’s all spooky darkness. Darkness everywhere, an absence of light that seems so normal in the countryside takes on a threatening vibe in the heart of a big city. Only the sweep of occasional car headlights reveals the contours of the blacked-out city. It's creepy, scary, sad, and the sense of wacky adventure that's driven this mission so far evaporates like an illusion... as if it never existed, as if it happened long ago.
I wonder what it's like for those babies to be in this kind of darkness. Hopefully they're sleeping.
Chenzhou SWI
Eureka, we've arrived at the small lane that leads up to the institution. Suddenly I recognize where I am...having only seen this place in the light before. Our big truck starts up the narrow road, about 6 inches of clearance on either side. A smart looking woman in a red beret runs down the alley, waving us back....trying to tell us we're going the wrong way. I give Miranda her cue, the window rolls down....."We're with Half the Sky!" 
The woman's attitude suddenly changes from caution to encouragement and she starts walking backwards uphill in the headlights, giving our driver incomprehensible hand signals.
We pull into the gates of the orphanage. Other than being totally freaked out by the darkness, the cold, the silence, I'm actually very happy. But that nagging part of my brain chatters on...."Now how the heck are we going to get this sucker unloaded?" Suddenly, as if on cue, about 40 institution staff pour from assorted doorways and form a joyous huddle around the back of the truck.
I get out of our follow vehicle, wondering how this is going to work out, when the red-capped woman and I suddenly recognize each other and she grins— it’s Half the Sky field supervisor, Zhou Dan, whose hometown is Chenzhou. Like everyone else, she’s giving up her holiday for the children. But it's so unbelievably cold that no one, especially me, is in any mood for sentiment. Let's get this stuff inside before it freezes. The huge back gates on the truck fly open, and the institution staff goes to work, as if they've been practicing this stunt for weeks.
Long story short....within about 15 minutes the entire truck is empty, with all provisions sorted and neatly stashed away in various parts of the complex.
And up walks Mr. Shi, the Director out of the dark, lighting one cigarette from the burning end of another. He's a sweet, lovable wreck. He had just gotten home to his family after a grueling day trying to get the power back on (in vain) when he got the call that we were arriving. He threw his clothes back on and came across town to greet us. He and I talk back and forth, pretending we understand each other, and basically we do.
I try to take a few pictures, knowing this is supposed to be the golden "photo-op," but the cold, the tired, the emotion have taken their toll and the evidence is in the only crummy pictures I got of the most dramatic moment of this whole adventure.
We unloaded our gear and Mr. Shi led us though the darkness from the institution to one of the few open restaurants in town. We walk past the rattling generator outside the door, over the tangle of electrical wires and slip and slide on the greasy floor to the only empty table.
What would you like?
What is there?
Not much.
I'd even eat snake if it were hot.
What kind of snake?
They all laugh.
Director Shi and I review tomorrow's plans—which we both know will certainly have to change overnight—as we have a fine meal beneath a bare, dim light bulb, and then make our way through the now totally empty streets to the hotel.