Saturday, August 7.

We are up bright and early, have a quick breakfast and by 8am, we are in the vans headed back for another day at the remote site. When we arrive, there are a lot of people already there, waiting for us. Word has spread, apparently. They smile and nod at us, not at all out of patience at having to wait. I have never met kinder or more gracious people.

We set up shop, Toom Chris and I, and after a few minutes, the intake team starts sending us clients. One old granny lady hobbles in, carrying a bowl of the ever-present dried milk curd pieces. These are a bit different, as a white substance has been spooned over them. It looks like cottage cheese, but it doesn't taste like it, unfortunately. She presents the bowl to us using both hands, Mongol style, and we accept it with both hands. She stands expectantly, so we each take a piece of it and nibble away. She is very pleased, her weather-beaten face crinkling as she smiles. The large gaps in her stained teeth somehow do not detract from the joy that shines in her eyes as we partake of her gift.

She sits down on the bench in front of me, and I take her vital signs. Naturally, her blood pressure is terrible. Through sweet Biamba, my interpreter, she begins to recite her litany of aches and pains. She describes them in detail, and places a gnarled hand over each location as she speaks. Pain of kidney, pain of bile (gallbladder), pain of heart, pain of stomach, pain of head, pain of knees. She rubs her knees with wrinkled, knobby hands. Arthritis, of course. I glance at the old woman's card. She is 62. Dear Lord. I'm 65.

Lunch is more of the little meat pies and the cabbage, this time accompanied by chopped tomatoes, no doubt from the greenhouses back at the CTW compound. They're delicious. There is also more of the hard dry bread, and I find that I've changed my opinion since yesterday. I eat a slice. We eat and enjoy the food, exchange war stories with other team members who are present, laugh a lot, and return to work, chewing on some of the leathery dried peaches along the way. I'm having the time of my life.

We continue to see people all afternoon, and again, I'm amazed at the toughness and resiliency of these people. Their blood pressures are horrible. Americans with blood pressures like these would be on six different medications, and would probably still stroke before they reach 40. Yet these small, tough people keep going. How do they do it?

One family comes in, a man and wife and small baby. The baby is adorable, wearing a little knitted cap with mousy ears on it, just as an American baby might wear. The mother is wearing jeans and a sweater, and leather riding boots, while the father is in traditional Mongol dress. It crosses my mind that there is no stroller, no diaper bag, none of the elaborate accoutrements that American parents think they must have when traveling more than a hundred yards with their baby. Guess what, there isn't even a car seat! They don't need one. This becomes evident as the family leaves, because the father goes into the bushes and comes out leading two horses. He mounts one, the mother hands him the baby and then mounts her own horse. The father jams the infant down into the saddle in front of him, and with a slap of the reins, they gallop away, with the baby's little head bobbing to the rhythm of the horse's hooves.

MONGOL FAMILY, ABOUT TO MOUNT HORSES AND RIDE AWAY

Back at the hotel, I find Eloise and we go to dinner. She has been working with another team, preparing food at one of the feeding stations, helping to feed babies that are brought in for what is probably the only meal they'll get that day. I think that her job is much more difficult than mine, because she's seeing people in real, dire need, especially the little children. The people I'm seeing may be poor by most standards, but they do have their livestock, and they're not underfed. Their life is rugged, and they work very hard, but they don't go hungry.

After dinner, we return to our room and try to wash off the day's accumulation of dirt. I say "try", because there's always that ridiculous faucet arrangement to contend with, and after all the leaks are supplied, the flow from the actual shower head itself isn't much to brag about. Still, it's water, it's wet, and eventually we get clean. Clean enough, anyway. We get into our beds, and I lie awake for a few minutes, wondering what tomorrow will bring. The medical team will be going to another site, even farther out into the countryside than we've been for the last three days. I think I'm going to miss our old camp, I've gotten used to it.