Can I Keep One?

With Kathleen's supervisor off for the day and Dr Ba spending all day in a procedure with a small incision not allowing much of interest to reach beady medical student eyes, we decided yesterday would be a good day to do something we had been intending to do since we left Vietnam in 2004 - visit the Hoi An Orphanage.

So, it was back on the rattly yellow bus with a blasting horn for us and off to Hoi An. Again.

Ten minutes into our journey, Kathleen suddenly looked at me across the aisle. Something had starled her. She squashed herself as much against the window and wall of the bus as she could manage, her feet tucked right across. Something was at her feet in a plastic bag, property of the passenger sitting next to her.

I looked at her questioningly. What is it?

She mouthed the answer.

'Chicken. A live one.'

'Two words,' I teased, 'I've got two words. Starts with a 'B' and an 'F'.'

'Yeah, I've got two words, too. An 'F' and an 'O'.'

After a few minutes the woman and her live chicken in a shopping bag moved to another seat towards the back of the bus, much to Kathleen's relief.

'At least it was a live chicken,' I consoled her, 'Can't have been that sick!'

After yet another visit to Cargo Club in the Old Town for lunch and some of their delicious sweets (upside down banana pudding - mmmmmm) we headed up away from the river towards the Orphanage.

The Orphanage is a state-run home for both orphaned and disabled children unable to be cared for by relatives. Some children have relatives nearby, but with little or no money for help, additional equipment or medical expenses it is difficult for a frail grandma to care for a severely disabled 15 year old boy who needs to be lifted out of bed each morning.

Until 4 years ago, it was reportedly beyond dismal. With little or no trained staff to care for them, many of the children remained locked in their rooms all day, many of them staying in their wooden slat beds for months on end.

Then one day a Mills and Boon editor (of all things) from the UK called Jackie saw this disgrace while she was holidaying in Vietnam. Right then and there, she decided to uproot herself, leave everything she knew and work her backside off to improve the conditions at the orphanage and most importantly lives of these children. She has worked tirelessly, without any funding from governments (neither here nor in the UK) to build and decorate a play room, bring in toys, books, clothes, mats and blankets for the children. She rasies money to pay physiotherapists, teachers and nurses to feed, treat and teach the children, and with several volunteers from Australia, Europe and the UK ensures the children recieve love, attention, playtime and medical attention.

Kathleen and I met Sarah, a prosthedist/orthodist (which has something to do with prosthetic legs) from Australia, at the gate. She held a large boy in her arms. His eyes squinting at us, his mouth open, arms and legs twisted with years of untreated cerebral palsy. He smiled at us.

'This is Hai,' she said, 'You must be Kathleen and Jessica.'

Sarah showed us through the orphanage. The first room took my breath away. Even after 4 years there are still children who cannot get out of bed. Due to years inside, for many of them a trip beyond the four walls of their room is an acutely distressing experience. They lie, muscles wasted, bodies twisted, eyes looking up at you, speaking the unspeakable. Several Vietnamese women were sitting at some of the beds. Spooning yellow mush into open mouths. My mind unable to take in that this, for these tiny bodies, was life.

Sarah explained that slowly they are making progress with many of the kids. Taking them outside for a few minutes, then a few hours at a time. However, it takes years to undo the things these children have been through. For many of them the wooden slats of their bed is all they know. They cannot speak. They cannot move independently. It is horrible, Sarah said, but our aim here is to stop it happening to anyone else. These are the ones who survived, she reminded us, they're pretty tough little cookies.

Beyond the room of horrors, lay an open court yard. The concrete stained black and brown with rust and rain. The building obviously in need of some work. Several rooms full of beds were visible, matresses and blankets neatly arranged. Sarah explained that the able-bodied children were all away at school. The crowd that must gather here after a school hours, by the number of beds, would be nothing short of chaos.

She showed us through to another room. Slipping off our shoes we followed her in. The room was set up as a classroom. Tiny tables and chairs in rows. Seated at each table was an adorable face. Some of them too young for school, others not eligible for an education - the schools here do not accommodate pupils with cognitive or physical disablities. The orphanage is the best place in Vietnam for these children - one of the children, Sarah explained, was actually only here because his father is high-ranking in the party, he is not an orphan at all - but unable to get an education locally he has been sent here. This, for disabled children in Vietnam, is apparently as good as it gets.

We were greeted with cheery hellos, the teacher looking up from her book to greet us. I handed out some chocolate coins I had brought as a little treat. The owner of every eager hand giving an enthusiatic thank you, or a smile, whichever they were best able to do.

Leaving them to their lesson we headed through to the play room, where a few Westerners sat on mats with four children, playing games and talking. One older couple, volunteers at the orphanage for the last 7 months, and a younger couple, just visiting for today, like us.

A little boy sat attentively in a child's car seat on the floor. A Vietnamese woman pointing to words on a board in front of him. He was reading the words out loud. His face looked perhaps nine years old, but his body was tiny. Thin legs and arms tangled, fingers splayed with spasticity. He grinned as his teacher praised his good reading.

Sarah explained to us that two months ago this boy could not read a word of Vietnamese. He had no English and was fairly withdrawn. He turned on cue to us and asked, in perfect English, what our names were, and then politely introduced himself.

'He's made amazing progress,' Sarah commented, somewhat unnecessarily, 'He beats me at Connect Four all the time too, he's a smart little fella.'

Just needed some attention it seems. All kids do.

As I sat down on the mat to play with a tiny girl, I watched as the boy flogged both Sarah and the younger male visitor at Connect Four - and they were really trying! He clapped in delight.

The girl in my lap was three years old, but didn't speak a word and looked perhaps two years younger than she was. Her face held in an expression of dispondance, I worked hard to get a giggle out of her. She was unable to walk, but bum-shuffled quite expertly around the floor after the wooden rings we were busy stacking and knocking over. One of the volunteers from the orphanage explained that it was only in the last 6 months that they had been able to take this girl out of her bed without her screaming hysterically. In the last six months she had gone from being a withdrawn, constantly crying child bum-shuffling around her bed, to quite an engaging little girl. Eventually, she gave me a smile or two, and clapped (with great concentration, working her muscles in a way she had only learnt to in the last few weeks) slowly to the bright music that played each time she pressed a yellow button on one of the toys.

After perhaps 30 minutes playing on the mat, we all headed back into the classroom. It was time for the weekly music lesson.

This is great, Sarah assured us, they go mental over it.

Bells, rattles, maracas and recorders were handed out excitedly by one of three young boys, who all seemed to be buddies. All about the same age, and dressed identically in clothes donated and bought in bulk, these three boys were simply divine. Cheeky grins and a glint of rascal in their eyes, they sat down in the rapidly forming circle, one of them shuffling closer to sit by Kathleen.

I sat next to an older boy, perhaps twelve, with cerebral palsy that rendered him mute. His ability to communicate, however, was in no way limited. He smiled, pointed, nodded and gestured enthusiastically. He eveidently wanted to start with the song being suggested by the cheekiest of the three little boys, Jingle Bells.

The young male visitor, having been well and truly done in the Connect Four challenge, decided to prove his talents with the recorder. To squeals of delight he played out the familiar tune. Bells rang, rattles shook and the most amazingly out-of-tune racket erupted around us...

'Jingle bells! Jingle bells! Jingle all the way!'

Everyone knew the words. Even the children unable to get their muscles to form the words sang along in something much more enthusiastic than a hum. Grins from ear to ear on everyone, volunteers and visitors included. The little girl from the play room, her face still drooping into what could be wrongly interpreted as a lack of comprehension, clapped along, slowly and carefully ensuring her arms guided her hands to connect with each clap.

After Twinkle Twinkle Little Star (actions and all) and few Vietnamese songs (the boy next to me thinking it sublime that I could still join in the actions even though I didn't know the words, and thinking it even better when I got them wrong) everyone took turns doing a solo performance in the middle of the circle. Singing with actions, dancing and grinning if they could not sing. Every one applauded enthusiastically by their peers. One couldn't help but grin with them. The peeling paint, the crowded bedrooms and the dark hours when the volunteers are not permitted in the orphanage were all forgotten - this was simply too much fun.

Music started up and suddenly I was on my feet, everyone twisting and shouting to the music. The three boys delighting in ramming into each other and practising handstands and cartwheels on the floor.

A slower song follwed and each child ran around to find a partner. A tiny girl, who Sarah had said would soon be on her way to America to be adopted, with an adorably perfect bob and the sweetest smile took to my legs as though they were a dancing partner. One arm around behind my knees and her cheek against my thigh. I took her hand and we waltzed to the music, spinning and dipping. As the backs of every visitor and volunteer tired from bending, the children were soon hitched up onto hips. The dance continuing as the three boys took their outstretched arms to represent pistols and began to punctuate the slow music with spurts of gunfire and laughter.

After the slow song, us older folk, sweating and exhausted, took to the sidelines as the children marched around the tables and chairs, hands at their brows in a salute as some military sounding music piped from the player. The order lasting only a few laps and eventually degenerating into play fighting and gunfire again - boys will be boys, no matter what.

The song complete, the children ran to the cupboards at the back of the room and pulled out a pile of tracksuits. Most of them managing themselves, a few needed a quick hand to get changed and soon they were all rugged up and ready for bed.

What an afternoon! I could have done with a nap, too, I reckon!

After saying our farewells, we headed outside for a quick chat with Sarah and Liz (another prosthedist from Oz - also a volunteer at the home) before heading back towards the bus.

It really was a horrible place in many respects. Crowded. Old. Run down. But these people, ordinary people, were making such a huge difference. Four years ago, these children were locked in their rooms. Prisoners. Now, they were dancing, playing, squealing, reading, clapping and playing Connect Four. There are still so many things to be done. So much money to be raised. Matresses to be bought. Surgery to be done. Medicines to be given. Physiotherapy. Teaching. But it is so good to see someone doing it. And it is near impossible not to want to help them.

Kathleen and I were already talking as we walked back towards the bus. Sharing ideas and planning. This is certainly not the last time we will be at the Hoi An Orphanage.

It is impossible to see all of that and then to walk away.

Jess
xx

PS These pictures (and more) plus info on the Kianh Foundation (the people doing heaps of good things at the Hoi An Orphanage) can be found at http://www.kianh.org.uk
(These pictures are of one of the three cheeky boys (both photos of boy in 'TinTin in Vietnam' t-shirt) and also the boy who sat next to me during music lesson (white tee with brown sleeves & collar))