Chasing the Dragon (13 page)

“Thank God I’m not married. Thank God I’ve been left free to have time for other people’s children.” It would have been awful to have to phone up a husband and say, “Put on the baked beans, dear; I’ve been held up.” I was sharing a flat with a girlfriend named Stephanie at this time and, mercifully, she never worried what time I came home. It was well past midnight when I climbed on to a minibus (known as a 14-man bus) on my way home to Jordan Road.

My prayers were interrupted by the sight of a pathetic figure: a boy of about 15 who looked like a living skeleton. Huge, hideous eye sockets were dark in a yellowish-grey face. This child-ghoul sat down in front of me, and I tried to think where I had seen him before. The bus lurched and grated through the small hours while I searched my memory until I remembered when I had first seen him.

It was five years earlier, when I had first begun to go to the Walled City. There was a large teahouse outside, where this small boy waited to open taxi-doors for a few cents tip. I noticed that he did not even get to keep all of this, as there was an older beggar, also in rags, who obviously controlled the pitch. The boy looked desperately sick; clearly he was sleeping in the streets. Since I could not then speak the language, I asked Chinese
friends to write me notes to him, offering to meet him at a particular place or clinic and get help for him. What I did not know was that he had been a drug addict since the age of 10, when his stepfather threw him out of his home. He had never kept any rendezvous, but I had continued to pray for him.

So here he was again; I thanked God for bringing him back. Now that I could speak Chinese, I had another chance to help him. He got off the bus in Mongkok, a busy area full of bars, ballrooms and dreary nightlife. I got off too and followed him. He was carrying a filthy red plastic tooth mug that he used for begging. I tapped him on the shoulder and introduced myself, suggesting that we go to eat the seasonal rice dumpling, which hung from the street stalls during the Dragon Boat festival. The poor boy was terribly embarrassed. He hid his tooth mug behind his back, and as we proceeded to the
daih paih dong
, the street stall, he dropped it into a pile of rubbish.

He looked more and more uncomfortable as we ate; it was clearly time for his next fix. His mind as well as his body was rotted by the amount of heroin he had consumed; he understood nothing of what I was saying. There was no point in telling this young boy named Ah Tsoi about Jesus, for he could not concentrate for long enough to take it in. I thought that if we could find help for his addiction and his mind cleared, then I could tell him.

For the next few weeks, I used to meet Ah Tsoi at all times of the day and night. He never slept in the same place, and I was frightened to lose him in case he was arrested. With track marks all down the veins on both arms, he was an easy target for arrest. Worse still, I discovered that he was holding people up daily to pay for his habit—and he was doing this while on probation, having already been in prison for drug offences. Twice I forced him to begin keeping appointments with his probation officer again.

I was obsessed with helping Ah Tsoi. The more I saw of this pathetic character, the fonder of him I grew. Finally, Pastor Chan agreed to take him into his Christian drug rehabilitation
center. I was overjoyed; this was the answer to my prayers. We were going to change Ah Tsoi’s life. As he had a little time to wait before going to the center, I began to give him money. It was not much—only HK $5 a day. I felt a little uneasy about this, but he needed that minimum amount to support his habit. If I did not give it to him, he would have been forced to mug and steal, so I convinced myself that I was acting rightly. It was only for a few days, anyhow.

At last the day came for his departure to Pastor Chan’s. I went out to the market and bought him a pair of shorts, a vest and a T-shirt, some underclothes, flip-flops and even swimming trunks, because Pastor Chan’s center was by the sea. Finally, I bought him a toothbrush, flannel pajamas, new jeans and an extra shirt. I thought this was like what a mother would feel, and I felt very tender toward Ah Tsoi as I wrapped all these into a neat parcel ready for him to collect. I had asked him to come around to my flat to have a bath before he set off.

No Ah Tsoi. It was two hours after he should have arrived and there was no sign of him. Perhaps he was having a last fix somewhere. Then, just as I was wondering whether he would come at all, he arrived. He was filthy, but by now there was no time to bathe. Stephanie had a camera, and we wanted to take a picture of him before he went. He snarled at once. “I’m not going to be one of your film stars,” he said. “No ‘before and after’ pictures of me. I’m not an exhibit.” He went off in a very surly frame of mind, but I did see him safely into Pastor Chan’s hands.

I went to bed and slept nearly 20 hours. For the first time in weeks, I could sleep easily. I was exhausted, but relieved. Thank God that Ah Tsoi was someone else’s problem now. Pastor Chan could teach him about Jesus and help him to grow up. Now I could go on to find the next one …

I was awakened by a telephone call. Ah Tsoi had run away. He could not stand the pain of withdrawal and had tried to smoke his blanket to ease the craving. The others tried to persuade him to pray, but he refused and slipped away into the
night. He went on to a neighboring village to steal blankets and money. The center staff tried to find him to persuade him to come back, but when they eventually caught up with him, he refused to return. There was nothing more they could do. That was the end of the matter.

It was as if a part of me had died. I felt completely shattered and lay down on the stone floor and wept. I cried all day, unable to move off the floor. As I lay there, I thought this was the end; I did not know what more I could have done. I had given Ah Tsoi everything I had. I had given him all my time, my love, my money, my food, and I had tried to tell him about Jesus. I had passed him to other Christians, but it had not worked. I had failed.

I did not feel angry at God but very disappointed and perplexed by the whole episode. I could not understand why He let me get involved with Ah Tsoi in the first place if it was not going to work out. At last I gathered strength to pray. “No more of those, please, God; no more drug addicts, because I can’t bear it. I had almost enough love for one person, and I gave him all of it. It wasn’t enough, and I don’t think I’ve got any more.”

Next morning, I got onto a bus to go to my Chinese lesson. Hong Kong buses do not allow one the luxury of choosing a seat; I was wedged in with the other 40-odd standing passengers when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a mentally handicapped boy. I did not want to look at him, so I turned around. And there I was, facing another drug addict. I could only shut my eyes and pretend that they were not there. It would not hurt if I could not see them …

“God, I’m not looking because I don’t want to go through all that pain again,” I prayed. “I did believe that You would help, but it didn’t succeed. Why not?” I thought back to the time when I was walking through the Walled City and first learning about addicts. In one street there were over 100 people openly smoking heroin; every single street seemed to have its emaciated wrecks. “It would be worth my whole life if You would use me to help just one of them,” I had prayed.

Slowly, as I recovered from the Ah Tsoi ordeal, I saw more clearly my mistakes in dealing with him. I had tried to give him everything I had; I had even prayed to God to save him, although in reality I was trying to save him myself. I wanted Ah Tsoi off drugs, but he was not desperate enough to want it for himself—especially when I subsidized his habit.

I had not dared to take Ah Tsoi off drugs and through withdrawal myself. (This was before I had seen Winson come off opium miraculously.) I was convinced that he needed expert care, and when the expert care I fixed up did not work, I was shattered.

Later, Pastor Chan took me to tea. He had bravely walked a lone path in Hong Kong by opening a farm for rehabilitating addicts in the New Territories. Without medical assistance, he brought them through withdrawal. Then they continued to heal and grow strong in Christ because he gave them 18 months of discipline with love.

Many of his graduates became church workers and counselors in government and voluntary agencies. While the government-supported drug centers had impressive statistics, I had never met any addicts who had been through them and stayed off drugs; Pastor Chan’s men were the only ones I had ever known personally who were still drug-free. He had slowly built up his program through experience and heartbreak, so it was very comforting when he said, “Miss Pullinger, you will make a very good worker because you care.”

Social workers are taught not to be involved with their cases, but I knew that had I not been so close to the people concerned, I could not have stayed. Ah Tsoi’s failure taught me that I was not brave or nice enough to take on such a job simply because it was a worthwhile project. I could not imagine how drug workers could tackle their depressing task without God and I had a deep respect for them, but I knew that my own resources had run out. Despite my prayers for no more addicts, however, it was not the end of my dealings with them, but merely the beginning. I found that I could care for them again with God’s love.

As my acquaintance with the Triads grew, it seemed as if every other one was on drugs because they were so cheap and easy to obtain. The heroin at that time was undiluted with additives and was extremely potent. In fact, the U.S. government warned its servicemen visiting Hong Kong on their “rest and recreation” trips from Vietnam that if they injected what seemed to be a normal dose, they could overdose and die.

One night, I visited a heroin den. It was in a large tin shed on the outskirts of the city, but it operated with the knowledge of the police. It was a filthy place with long low rough tables at which were seated what appeared to be effigies. I felt I had invaded a devil’s banquet, a weird and silent meal. Each table was ruled over by a
pahng-jue
, a host. For 50 cents, he provided the screws of toilet paper, the tinfoil and the cardboard funnels necessary for chasing the dragon. Few Chinese addicts injected heroin; they only did so when their physical need was greater than their resources. They were afraid of overdosing—they could remember the days when each morning the corpses of dead addicts were piled by the single toilet ready for collection …

Among the 50-odd bodies sucking in their horrid delight sat a boy in his early teens. His skin was pale and waxen, and his strength had died. His girlfriend, who looked about 14, sat beside him and supported him in her arms as he inhaled his poison. It was a peculiarly intimate pose, and I was touched until I remembered that this girl had to sell her body to support her man. I looked at the others present, knowing that every man there would have to pay for his habit this way unless he stole or pawned his family’s belongings. It was a degrading scene, but I was fascinated and attracted. I felt the pull of the drug that every potential addict knows and which defies logic. He knows it kills; he knows it leads to addiction and depravity. He knows all the arguments with his head, but he still has to try it. And having tried once, he has to continue until he is part of the mystique that drew him.

Every addict has a love-hate relationship with his drug. His mind despises it and its hold over him. His body longs for it when deprived for too long and cheats his mind into seeing it as a salvation. No one ever knows when he crosses the line from “playing” with drugs to being dependent on them. One novice vomits the first time and tries again to see whether it improves. Another feels little effect and imagines that he can take it again quite safely. He starts with a small dose, but what satisfies at first is soon not enough and he needs to take more to prevent withdrawal pains. He takes bigger doses more and more often until he is arrested or dies.

I felt the pull of the drug. It was attractive. It was demonic.

When Winson came into the Youth Club and was set free from his opium addiction, God showed me that the battle with this dragon could be won. At that moment, I believed that Winson’s experience should be possible for others if they were converted and filled with God’s power. Very soon after, Ah Ping told me that his addicted friend wanted to come to our annual summer camp, and I welcomed him readily.

Ah Ming was a powerful Triad member from Hong Kong Island, a cousin to this branch of the 14K. We met on the ferry that was taking us to Lamma Island for the camp, but Ah Ming avoided shaking hands or talking to me—he was coming on his own terms.

A couple of English students, Tim and Nick, were to join us a few days later. But for the first two days of the camp, I had no men helpers, so I prayed, “Please, God, send the right boys to the camp, and keep the wrong ones away.”

Our campsite was at the top of a mountain, serene and beautiful. The only distressing factor in our one-hour walk up the hill was the 30-pound sack of rice, which I had to carry most of the way. The boys thought this was women’s work, and anyway, they were there to play, not work. Years later they became more helpful and protective, but I was still very much on trial at this point.

The camp program was very strict, with work details and bedtimes carefully arranged, but it proved difficult to effect by myself. I slept with the few girls in tents and the boys slept in an enormous dormitory; I could not go in to search their belongings or to turn out the lights. I realized that most of those 30 were Triad members, and I began to feel uneasy. Still, I had prayed that prayer about keeping the wrong ones out …

Ah Ming appeared outside the boys’ dormitory and saw me sitting out there in the dark with my hurricane lamp. He had not expected that. “Hmm. I do—er—I do like looking at the stars,” he improvised.

“Yes,” I agreed, “so do I. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

We sat there for maybe three hours in very polite conversation. He was obviously longing to go off and take his drugs. Finally, I could not sit it out any longer. So I went to bed, and Ah Ming went to the other side of the mountain to take his heroin.