OUR LAST DAY IN THE FIELD

Monday, August 9

Once again, for the last time, we board our vans and head out for the remote site. After leaving the paved road, we're bouncing over the incredibly rough and rutted dirt track, when we overtake a huge dump truck. It is plowing and churning its way over the track, and its bed is crammed with people. There are more people, mostly children, running alongside. They're headed for our medical campsite, and there must be at least fifty of them.

Our vans stop, and we open the doors, and are immediately engulfed by a laughing tide of children and a few adults. Our van is loaded to the windows, quite literally, with one small boy hanging out and having the time of his life. We count 23 people in our van, including ourselves. I have two small girls in my lap. Our driver makes no complaint, but rather seems to be enjoying it as much as we are. He's a friendly sort, and is laughing right along with us. He urges the groaning van forward, and we soon arrive at the camp.

The day continues pretty much like all the others. Long lines of people, astonishing variety of clothing, very little variety in complaints. The blood pressures are, of course, horrible. At one point I notice that Toom Chris has repeated one man's pressure several times. Finally, he turns to me and says, "Will you come check this guy's pressure and tell me if I'm crazy?" I finish what I'm doing, and go around the table and sit in Chris's place. As I pump up the cuff, the beat begins. On the way up. This is not the way it should happen. You do occasionally hear a beat or two on the way up, but usually just a couple and then they stop. You keep pumping for about 20 points above that, then slowly let out the air and you'll begin hearing beats again as the needle starts downward. The point at which you hear the first beat is the top number of a blood pressure. I know I explained this earlier, but it's important to note again right now.

As I said, the beat began on the way up. I expected it to stop, but it didn't. I kept pumping, and it kept beating, and just wouldn't stop. I kept pumping. The needle reached 300, which is as high as the gauge registers, and still it was beating, loud and clear! That meant that the man's systolic pressure was 300+. I began to let the air out, and the beats stopped at 164. That's the diastolic pressure, so the man's blood pressure was 300+/164. In the US, we would have called 911, sent him to the ER by ambulance, and he would have had about five drips going in his arms by the time he arrived there, and would have gone straight to CCU. In Mongolia, the man rode in on a horse, and rode out the same way. In between, our doctors and pharmacist gave him whatever medicine they had, and prayed for him. His chief complaint? He has a little headache now and then. I would think so.

At one point, I look up to see an elderly woman approaching me, dressed in traditional Mongol clothing, very colorful and pretty. She reaches into the top of her del, and draws out a small object. Holding it in her two outstretched, cupped hands, she comes and stands in front of me, obviously presenting the object to me. I hold out my hands, cupped together as is proper, and she places the object in them. She is smiling like a sunrise, and looking very hopeful. I examine the little object, and to my surprise, I see that it's a little figurine. Not something Mongolian, as I would expect, but instead it's a figure of an American-looking child, wearing a sunhat and denim pinafore. She's talking to a little squirrel, who is perched on a tree stump. Where on earth did this woman get this little figurine? It looks like something you'd win for popping balloons with darts at a little county fair.

As I stare at the little figure, I realize that the old woman is standing there, waiting for my response. I look up at her and thank her sincerely in English, which Moogi faithfully translates. I think I have tears in my eyes. The kind little woman is obviously pleased that I like her gift. As I look at her more closely, I realize that I've seen her before. She came through here earlier, and has already seen the doctors. She has no blue card with her this time. Clearly, she went away and returned with this gift for me. No doubt she traveled on foot, and I have no idea how far. I am touched beyond words. You can be sure that the little carnival-prize figurine will have a place of honor in my living room at home.

Someone comes and tells us to go to lunch, and we do. It's more of the same as yesterday - choice of diced or shredded potatoes, MUO and onions, Mongolian catsup, and today we have some cucumbers along with the slaw. I've learned to love the catsup, wish I could take some home. I've gotten a little partial to the hard, leathery dried peaches as well. They're not like the soft, easily consumed dried fruit we get at home. These are like, well, like fruit jerky. Still, one can get used to anything, and I admit that I rather enjoyed the peaches.

We continue to see clients all afternoon, and finally it is over. The last client leaves our tent, and we realize that our adventure here is coming to an end. Toom Chris and I have become good friends and colleagues. Our interpreters have become dear to us. The Mustang boys have become our friends, as well. One young fellow, about twelve years old, saw me stretching and rubbing my tired back one afternoon, and from that point on, it became his mission in life to keep my back massaged. He nearly wore holes in my shirt, but he was so diligent and anxious to please that I couldn't stop him. Any time he had a spare minute, he was perched on the bench behind me, rubbing away. I gave him several hugs, and I thought his face would crack, he would smile so widely. These boys need love so badly.

This particular boy is named Batdortsch, or something like that. I couldn't pronounce it very well, so I nicknamed him Dutch, and he seemed to like it. Here's a picture of most of the Mustangs, along with David Sisson, a CTW staffer, on the back row, and Toom Chris, in the maroon sweatshirt. My little back-rubber, Dutch, is on the left end in front.

TOOM CHRIS, DAVID SISSON AND SOME OF THE MUSTANGS

As you can see, the ages of the Mustangs vary widely. Some are young men, but they stay on at CTW and I'm sure are a lot of help to Jerry. David Sisson is a young American who came over on a mission trip, and returned a few months later to stay indefinitely. He works mostly with the Mustangs. Some of the younger boys are only a couple of months out of the sewers of Darkhan. Jerry saves their shoes (if they have any) when they come to stay at the compound, and if they find the work too hard, or the discipline intolerable, they are given their original shoes and told they can wear them when they leave. So far, as I understand it, only one boy has actually left.

No sooner have Toom Chris and I vacated our tent, than it's torn down, rolled up and loaded on a truck by the Mustangs. We hate to see it go. Then, one by one, as the doctors finish up, their gers are dismantled. It takes five or six Mustangs about thirty minutes to tear a ger down, tie everything up and load it on the trucks. This is what a ger looks like as it is dismantled:

NOTHING LEFT BUT THE FLOOR

Once all the staff has finished their assigned tasks, we load into the vans and depart, leaving the Mustangs to finish tearing down the camp. We are supposed to get back to the hotel a little early this evening, as we have a banquet with all the children tonight. We're really looking forward to that, because we haven't gotten to see much of the CTW kids. Our days have been spent at the remote sites. The other teams have worked with them at some length, doing Bible drills, teaching them songs, just generally spending time with them and loving on them a little. We're a bit jealous, but then we've had some great experiences out in the countryside, getting to meet the herdsmen and their families. We get back to the hotel, clean up and change into "nice" clothes. Nothing fancy, just something that's clean and maybe a bit more coordinated than the jeans and scrub shirts we've been wearing every day. Eloise and I enter the dining room, and find it set very formally, with lovely linens and china. This hotel never ceases to amaze me. The carpets are threadbare, and there is no furniture in the lobby, and the elevator doesn't work, but they set a beautiful table. We decide on a place to sit, allowing for Eloise's left-handedness, and settle in. The rest of the group is coming in as well, and we begin to hear whispers about something very special and exciting that happened to the humanitarian aid team that day. We're anxious to get the details.