tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59085057827345636472024-02-06T20:15:02.107-08:00Missions to MongoliaRomeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-30928167237529752242010-11-20T23:12:00.000-08:002010-11-20T23:14:01.062-08:00FINALLY, ON THE GROUND IN BEIJING<span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);font-size:+1;" ><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">After flying through some rain and a bit of turbulence, we finally break out of the cloud cover and see Beijing sprawled below us. We don't get to see the Great Wall, it was below the cloud cover as we passed over it. That's okay, we'll see it up close and personal later. <br /><br />After a smooth landing, we make our way through the bustling airport with relative ease. Dr. Ron is a good leader. All the guys, as always, are very helpful to the women, as we struggle with what now seems to be unnecessarily big and heavy luggage. Funny, it didn't seem that way coming over here. It all seemed so necessary then! I brought less this year than I did last year, and still I had too much stuff. Maybe next year I'll just bring a backpack, if I can find one in my hand-painted periwinkles design! We make good use of the luggage carts supplied by the airport, and with the guys always handy to load and unload them, we find we can drive them very well. <br /><br />We pass through all the requisite check points, and all sign little papers attesting to the fact that we're in the very best of health. Those who are suffering from Genghis Khan's revenge (we have a few of those) make no mention of that fact, but just smile bravely and sign the papers. <br /><br />Near the exit, we are very happy to see our guide, David Wang, waiting for us. He looks happy to see us, too. I'm sure the idea of losing 20+ Americans for whom he is at least marginally responsible is not an idea he entertains with any comfort. Those of us who were here last year remember David, and Eloise and I know it's usually a good idea to stick close to him, because he is constantly dropping little bits of information that are helpful and interesting. He tells some of us that he really enjoys working with our group, that we're one of his favorites. Awww, I'll bet he says that to all the tourists! Still, he seems sincere.<br /><br />He leads us outside, and we stay close, like sheep bunched up near a shepherd, as he challenges the traffic that is constantly circling the airport exits. There is no one directing this traffic, there are no lights or signs, it's just survival of the fittest and victory goes to the brave. David steps out in front of several cars, brakes screech as they come to a halt, drivers cast thundercloud glances our way, and we all pour across the street in David's wake. </span></span><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);font-size:+1;" ><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">There is no other way. </span></span><span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);">I'm sure the Chinese drivers are muttering something unpleasant about American tourists. The street is wide and wet, slippery with the recent rain. I clutch the handle of the luggage cart I'm pushing, grateful for its steadying presence, as my knee wobbles and threatens to give way. </span><br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"> Finally we reach the enormous bus which David has waiting for us. The driver loads our luggage underneath, with some help from our men, and we get on board. The bus is roomy, comfortable, good a/c, and the driver has a cooler with bottled water placed just inside the door. It's a welcome sight. We are all thirsty, and in spite of the attentions of the cabin staff on the flight, we are also a bit hungry. </span><br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"> We are taken directly to a restaurant for a late lunch, no stopping at the hotel yet. We are all tired, and it's late, but David wants to get as much into the day as possible, and our late arrival has made it a challenge for him. The food is decent, but from experience we know that we're going to have much better meals while we're here. I think he chose this place for speed. </span><br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"> We leave the restaurant and get back on the bus, not really sure what's coming next. David announces that we're going to the Great Wall. At this hour? It's late afternoon, and the shadows are growing long. It seems to us that it will be dark soon. I guess we're forgetting that in this part of the world, it looks like evening long before it really is. The bus makes the long drive out to the Wall with ease - traffic is lighter than usual, perhaps due to the hour. I remember the landmarks, and know that we're going to the same place we went last year. The place of smelly restrooms and hundreds of unbelievably determined vendors. Oh, mercy. Maybe my knee and I will just stay on the bus.</span><br /> <br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"> However, a pleasant surprise awaits us when we arrive. Instead of the congestion and stupefying heat and humidity I remember from last year, I see that there are very few vehicles here, very few people, and most of the vendors are closing up shop and pay little attention to us. It's also much cooler. Not cool, but not the smothering, oppressive heat from last year. I decide I can handle this, if my knee will let me. I can only imagine what the Wall looks like in this slanting, golden light, and I really want to find out. </span><br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-43882292549067835442010-03-09T17:24:00.000-08:002010-03-09T17:35:34.916-08:00WE FINALLY APPROACH BEIJINGNOTE: Remember that the "post" dates do not relate to the date of the occurences. This trip to Mongolia actually took place in 2005.<br /><br />+++++++++++++++++++++++++++<br /><br />It's 9:15, and we're still on the ground. No book, no pillow. Both are in my luggage. I had reasoned that I wouldn't need them on such a "short" flight. Somewhere in the Beijing airport, David Wang is waiting for us. David is the Chinese tour guide who shepherded us through Beijing last year, and who will do so again this year, if we ever get there. <br /><br />At 9:50, the cabin staff passes out customs forms for us to fill out. Also, a set of rolling stairs has been put in place next to the plane, and a uniformed young woman has boarded. Naturally, this makes us wonder if we'll be deplaning after all. The rumor mill works very well in a confined space like an airplane, and the rumors are flying now. The most popular one is that we will be taken to Beijing by bus, and our luggage will just get there the best way it can. <br /><br />It's 10:35, and nothing has been said or done about deplaning. The young woman left a few minutes ago, but the stairs are still next to the plane door. We are still the only plane "rerouted" here. The weather is beautiful, and the story of the storm over Beijing is beginning to smell like old bait. <br /><br />At 10:45, I dig into my camera bag and produce the box containing my medications. I rob an aspirin tablet from tomorrow's supply, and swallow it. With all this prolonged sitting, the prospect of deep vein clots comes to mind, and I want to keep my blood thinned down. I give one to Eloise, too. It can't hurt.<br /><br />Finally, at 10:55, I can stay in my seat no longer, and get up to walk around a bit and visit the lavatory. On the way back, I get into a conversation with a cabin attendant, who says we will probably be departing in about fifteen minutes. So much for the buses. I'm grateful for that. However, another plane, a small one, has landed farther down the way and people are deplaning, so who knows? Their luggage is being unloaded as well, though, so it's probably a local flight.<br /><br />At 11:00, cabin staff serves a round of cold drinks and coffee, and an announcement is made that we'll be departing in about twenty minutes. Hmmm. We've heard the "twenty minute" speech before, back in San Francisco. We shall see.<br /><br />It's 11:15. The plane's doors are closed, the stairs are moved away from the plane, and the pilot cranks up the engines. It looks like we just might leave this mysterious little place after all. You can bet we're going to be looking for wet tarmac and puddles in Beijing. There had better be some. Bright sunshine and dry ground are going to put some very big holes in the story we have been told. <br /><br />The big old aircraft lumbers down to a crossover, makes a left turn and rolls to the runway, making another left to line up for takeoff. There it sits with engines revving up, wings dipping a bit like a huge bird flexing its flight muscles. It begins to roll down the runway, but isn't gaining much speed. It veers off the main runway and makes a hard left turn onto a crossover, then another left, which takes us back almost to where we started. The plane rolls past our original position, turns left at the crossover again but this time it makes a hard right on the runway, headed opposite to the direction we were headed the first time. We roll all the way to the end of the runway. I know this is so, because when the pilot puts the big jet into a slow pirouette and turns it back around, I can see that we're within a few feet of the grass. We are now facing the same direction as we were the first time, only we're back at the very beginning of the runway. We have a lot more pavement ahead of us this time.<br /><br />We sit here, engines revved, passengers thinking light thoughts, pilot no doubt begging the big craft for every ounce of power and thrust it can produce. Finally he releases the restraints and the big jet surges forward, going faster and faster. A final run for the money, and we're in the air. Praise God. As the "lightening" sensation is felt, I'm looking out the window and see nothing but the end of the runway and a lot of grass below us. Obviously, this little airport wasn't designed to play host to a guest as large as our airplane.<br /><br />The announcement is made that we'll be in Beijing in 46 minutes. After about twenty minutes, we enter a lot of cloud cover and encounter some fairly rough air. As we get closer to Beijing, there is rain. I guess the story was true, but it really did seem strange to us, sitting out there in perfectly clear weather.Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-81699986125933860482009-08-26T10:48:00.000-07:002009-08-26T11:00:09.377-07:00TRYING TO GET TO BEIJING<span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >We have no difficulty waking up at 4 a.m. In fact, we were both awake for quite a while before the alarm went off. Who could sleep on those beds? Feeling a bit battered and bruised, we got up, grateful for release from the obligation to try to sleep any longer, since it was futile anyway. Since our suitcases were already packed, we were dressed and ready in no time at all, and downstairs well before 5 a.m., to join our group. A smiling young man from the hotel took most of the luggage downstairs, with some help from our men, bless their hearts. What would we do without them?<br /><br />The bus arrived and the luggage quickly disappeared into its underbelly. We boarded, ready and anxious to get this flight behind us. The trip to the airport was very short, and soon we found ourselves unloading again and heading into the Ulaanbaatar airport. Susan, Batsengel, Oyuka and the others saw us off, and were waving at us through the windows as we disappeared beyond the gates. We'll miss them.<br /><br />The trip through the Ulaanbaatar airport is a breeze, compared with what we know awaits us in Beijing. Since we were there very early, there was no crowd, no lines, and we were at our gate in just a few minutes. Oh no! That gives us time to shop, and I don't need to spend any more money! However, Eloise and I know this airport from last year, and know very well that there's a shop downstairs that sells some beautiful cashmere goods. I try to forget that little fact, and make a real effort to stay in my seat. Alas, one of the men mentions that he'd like to pick up something in cashmere for the lady in his life, and naturally, I can't let the poor guy fumble around alone. I offer to show him the shop. Fifteen minutes later, I have made my own purchases and am sheepishly returning to my seat upstairs. Oh well, one doesn't visit Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia very often.<br /><br />Very soon our flight was called, and we boarded, ready for the trip back into China. One of our men noticed a plane sitting off to one side, which he was very sure was Air Force Two. He's a pilot, so I'd think he would know. Since we were taxiing at the time, we only got a glimpse of the plane, but he felt sure he was right. Naturally, we wonder why Air Force Two would be here, but no one knows, so it goes into the file for Unexplained Things We Have Seen.<br /><br />The plane is in the air quickly and we settle back to enjoy the excellent breakfast served by the Miat Airlines cabin crew. As always, they're Mongolian, they're efficient and pleasant, and take very good care of us. We expect to be able to see the Great Wall this time, as there is no cloud cover visible. After a while, when we are beginning to think we might be near enough to Beijing to be able to see the wall, we feel the plane begin to slow and descend. We haven't seen the wall, and just as I'm wondering how we managed to fly over it into Beijing without seeing it, the pilot opens the intercom to make an announcement.<br /><br />It seems we are not approaching Beijing. We have been rerouted to another airport some distance away from there, due to "bad weather." We don't even see any clouds. This seems very strange. Still, there's not much we can do but ride along and see what happens. Naturally, we wonder if this has anything to do with the presence of Air Force Two in this part of the world. That would be enough to merit some pretty tight security in and around Beijing, I would think, especially if Air Force Two was headed there.<br /><br />The plane is definitely descending, and the strange, convoluted outlines of the Chinese mountains are beginning to take shape. After flying low over some farmland and a small town, we make an easy, uneventful landing at a very small airport. Easy, but I did have the impression that the pilot was using all his tricks to stop the big plane. It's 8:07 a.m. local time, wherever we are. </span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >Someone finds out that we are at the airport for a town called Hoh Hot. I will certainly be looking this up on the map when I get home! </span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >The pilot tells us that there are "very bad storms" over Beijing, which is about forty minutes flying time from here, and we can expect to be on the ground here for about two hours. Aargh. This is not a pleasant prospect, but of course, safety comes first, and if there really are storms over Beijing, then we'd prefer to be right here, safely on the ground.<br /><br />Naturally, there is a lot of conjecture as to what is really going on. For one thing, since Beijing is a busy international airport, and if all flights are being rerouted due to bad weather, we would expect that there would be several planes here with us, waiting out the storm. This is not the case. Other than one freighter, we are the only large plane on the ground. The freighter is deserted, looks like it could have been there for a while. There are two or three small ones, but no airliners. This seems very odd.<br /><br />At this point, no mention is made of deplaning, and the more experienced travelers among us explain that it will be unlikely that we will be allowed to do so, due to immigration policies. As though anyone would want to venture off into the wilderness we see around us, but still, we have to understand. We prepare for a long wait. A few people get up and move around the plane. At one point, a cabin attendant makes the announcement that everyone needs to return to his or her seat, as the plane is "unfueling." Exactly what that process is, and why people need to be seated while it is going on, we're not too sure, but everyone complies. Except one man. Why is there always one in every group?<br /><br />This particular man has drawn my notice already, and his non-compliant behavior does nothing to reassure me now. He is about fifty, tall and thin, with dark skin and long dark hair worn in a ponytail. His features are unusual, I cannot easily identify his ethnic background. There is an Asian component, but there is something of the Middle East as well. He never makes eye contact with anyone. He never stays in his seat either, but instead wanders the aisles all the time. Finally, after another announcement from the cabin staff, he sits down, stays about two minutes, and is up and off on his aisle-walking once more. The staff never confronts him. I look around for something to conk him with if anything happens, but can't find anything but my camera. It's too light. Oh, well. Telling myself I'm being melodramatic, I settle down to wait with everyone else.</span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-3610596086227601412009-07-11T12:39:00.000-07:002009-07-11T13:02:10.483-07:00IN ULAANBAATAR, OUR LAST NIGHT IN MONGOLIA<span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family: verdana;">We returned to the bus at the appointed time, and headed for the Cultural Show. This is always a highlight of our stay in Ulaanbaatar, and I'm looking forward to it. We are not as early as I'd have liked, and end up sitting in the back. Next year, if I'm along, I'm going to push for getting there very early, so as to get a front-row seat. However, Eloise and I had a pretty good perch where we were seated. We were up a bit high, and the way the benches were arranged there was no one directly in front of us. We were on the last row, so the wall behind us was a welcome backrest. Also, I had a good place to park my left foot and found a comfortable position for my knee. I managed to get a few pretty decent pictures, too.</span><br /><br /></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0a2_eFIGiHzLXVozdF-3ucVQjt0ff6AVMZoooBoRuB0WdJ7etyPvuibnF4fMIrKtmtwY22IvfZY5WJI1FMEyJKjbJnqrPP-xuS7xwsP3sVnLKxbxLwHfOeip6iJALRFaQyT8J9JyCCWM/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+444.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0a2_eFIGiHzLXVozdF-3ucVQjt0ff6AVMZoooBoRuB0WdJ7etyPvuibnF4fMIrKtmtwY22IvfZY5WJI1FMEyJKjbJnqrPP-xuS7xwsP3sVnLKxbxLwHfOeip6iJALRFaQyT8J9JyCCWM/s400/Mongolia+2005+444.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357292329430807506" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >THESE LITTLE GIRLS ARE ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE.</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />These young girls are able to twist their bodies into shapes that make your back hurt just to observe them. Their joints are so loose that I don't understand how they can even stand up. You'd think they would just collapse, like a marionette with the strings cut. They're extremely graceful, every motion is fluid and smooth. I'm sure they've trained since they were toddlers. You don't get that limber overnight.<br /><br />Some of the entertainment seems strange to Westerners. There's a type of singing that is enjoyed by Asians, but that gets on our last Western nerve. It's a high, shrill keening which is no doubt very difficult to do, but which has the effect of fingernails on a blackboard to us. As I told Eloise, just a few more minutes of that singing, and I'd have confessed to being Jack the Ripper.<br /><br />The music is different, too. Some very familiar pieces were played, some of the classics, but they sound very different when played on Asian instruments. I have to admit, I liked it. The music is strange, but pretty. There were some dance numbers, which apparently tell a story, and involve highly stylized and intricate steps and posturings, and very elaborate costumes. Then, of course, there was the throat singer.<br /><br />If you read last year's journal, I told about the throat singer then, too. Throat singing is unique to Mongolia, and I'm not sure of the origin. It's very strange, and only a few individuals have mastered it. It involves a technique whereby two tones are produced at the same time, by one voice. I compare it to the sound you get when you whistle or hum in front of a fan. You hear a double tone, something to do with the Doppler effect, as the sound you are producing is bounced back to you at the same time. That's how the throat singing sounds. Two different tones, produced at once. I don't know how they do it, but it's very interesting. They aren't able to sustain it, it sort of pops in and out as they sing, but it's interesting, nevertheless.<br /><br />After the cultural show, we went to dinner. We were ready! We've been here before, last year, and remember that the food is good. We were seated at a long table, and Eloise and I were fortunate to have Batsengel and Oyuka (Bubba and Bubbette) seated across from us. Oyuka is charming, well-educated and very nice. Her English is excellent, we had a good conversation, and enjoyed our time with them immensely.<br /><br />Dinner was good, and the highlight was dessert. An ice-cream sundae! Yep, complete with a cherry on top. It was so good! Our bus driver was seated near us, and left before we were finished, saying he didn't want dessert. Well, no problem. Batsengel wasn't about to let that sundae go to waste, so he ate it! Oyuka just looked heavenward, stating that "he eats like that all the time!" It's just delightful to see them so happy together.<br /><br />After dinner, we returned to the hotel, anticipating a good night's sleep. Big surprise! Our beds were as hard as marble. The floor couldn't have been harder, and indeed, I considered relocating, but decided against it. I found myself longing for my almost-as-hard, lumpy bed in Darkhan. At least I had learned how to conform to the lumps. This bed was just unbelievably hard. I told Eloise I was afraid to go to sleep, because I feared having a nightmare about being dead and laid out on a slab! It would be too believable. I don't recall the beds being like this when we stayed here last year. A good slab salesman must have come through!<br /><br />Finally, through an effort of will and mind, and with fatigue a very strong factor, we managed to get to sleep. We'll be up early in the morning, to catch our plane to China.</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-37607313493200466832009-07-09T09:10:00.000-07:002009-07-09T09:32:27.115-07:00PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >It's Tuesday morning. Our mission here in Mongolia is ending, and we'll be heading for home this morning. Just as it was last year, it's a bittersweet time. Certainly we're ready to go home, anxious to see our families again (and to sleep in our own beds!) but we're going to miss this place, and these people. We have been so graciously received, so kindly treated, made to feel so welcome and appreciated - well, we're just going to miss these folks!<br /><br />As instructed, we have brought our luggage into the big anteroom outside the dining room and left it there. It will be loaded into the bus that waits for us downstairs. After a final good breakfast in the dining room, we make our way down and gather outside, chatting with our interpreters and other Mongolian friends. One of the construction workers has brought his wife and little son to see us off. He and Bobby have become good friends, and he just wanted to say goodbye. Here's a picture - did you ever see a cuter little kid?<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMwWN74twjposCrq6Kh-caTfxOCXcl9d4-KQaNkjO3Y8v4POGyXFsbnxEfqM2piXAGfsvBzQQGvH7qfMEiWl3XnVpUiXFrNB6nVz7jJUHCuZIRtkqqGDHIXPObxYQTXXI38aqxUvQgL0/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+355.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMwWN74twjposCrq6Kh-caTfxOCXcl9d4-KQaNkjO3Y8v4POGyXFsbnxEfqM2piXAGfsvBzQQGvH7qfMEiWl3XnVpUiXFrNB6nVz7jJUHCuZIRtkqqGDHIXPObxYQTXXI38aqxUvQgL0/s400/Mongolia+2005+355.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356495801836436082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >HIS DAD WEARS A HAT AND SUNGLASSES JUST LIKE HIS</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />Finally, everyone was there, and it was time to get on the bus. Omar and Pastor Alex are not with us. They left a few days ago to go back to the states. There were prior commitments they had to fulfill, and we understood. We're just grateful that they came over with us and saw us through the perils of the Beijing airport, and had the privilege of participating in the baptism at the river last week. We're now in the capable hands of Dr. Ron, who has made this trip several times, as have some of the other guys, so we know we'll be okay. Our Chinese tour guide, David Wong, will meet us in Beijing.<br /><br />We board the bus, and find comfortable seats. Again, it's a large bus, and we have plenty of room. We're accompanied by Susan Smith and Nicholas, as well as Badmaa. In addition, Batsengel, Oyuka, Mango and Goldie are along to translate for us. Of course, Badmaa translates too, but she can't be everywhere at once. As I've said many times, we are well taken care of on these trips. I have never, ever, felt unsafe, or even mildly insecure.<br /><br />The trip into Ulaanbaatar is uneventful, the highlight being the stop at the halfway point. Same old wretched outhouse, though I must admit there have been some improvements. For one thing, it has been moved over several feet, to a new location on the hillside, and apparently, the old site was covered with dirt. An excellent decision. Also, some shrubs at the edge of the gravel parking area, which were very tiny last year, have grown quite a bit, and provide a bit of a screen across the front of the little building, which serves to block the prevailing wind a little bit. The smell was present, and strong, but didn't knock you out of your shoes like last year.<br /><br />In addition, a new gas station has been built across the road. This is really progress! Now, when I say "new gas station," don't think "truck stop, mini-mart, showers, arcade, etc." Think tiny orange building about fifteen feet long, and perhaps a cold case where sodas will be kept. At home, it wouldn't attract much notice. Out here, just below the Siberian border, it will be a landmark.<br /><br />We encounter a small hitch. Our bus has a flat tire! On a car, that's no big deal. On this enormous bus, it's a very big deal. Undaunted, our driver sets about to change it. I think he was prepared to struggle through the job alone, but was very relieved when some of our men pitched in and helped him. Big, burly David and several others helped wrestle the spare from underneath the front end of the bus. Mercy, it's huge! Feeling very grateful for the fact that I'm female, and therefore not expected to get involved, I stand and watch with admiration as the guys manage to coax the flat tire off and get the replacement installed. The job is finished, everyone congratulates the workers, and we can get under way again.<br /><br />Back on the bus, and again rolling through the beautiful Mongolian countryside. I experience again the twinge of reluctance to leave, just as I did last year. This place is simply beautiful. Wild and spacious, big skies and rolling hills, animals ranging free, no fences in sight - it's lovely, and it very quickly carves a place for itself in one's heart.<br /><br />I said there were no fences. Well, that's not quite true. At some point, Eloise and I began to notice a very odd thing. Along the side of the road, there were little "fenced" areas occasionally. They were about twenty feet off the road, and were about twenty feet wide. It's hard to determine the length, because we were moving rapidly past them, but I'd guess it at about a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet. The "fences" consisted of sticks, not much more than twigs, with what looked like orange twine strung between them. At first we couldn't figure out what they were enclosing. Then we noticed that there were some baby trees planted at fairly regular intervals inside the little enclosures. Grass and weeds were growing up around them, and we missed them at first. They were only about three feet tall, so were easy to overlook. Most looked brown and dead, but a few appeared to be alive. I can't say they were thriving, but they did seem to be trying.<br /><br />There has been very little rain here recently, and the grasses are not very green. Judging by the fact that the grass around the little trees was also not very green, we concluded that no one is watering them. Someone has gone to some effort to plant the trees, and to put up the little toy fences, but without water, they'll never survive. Winter will hit here in about eight weeks, and without some well-watered, deep-reaching roots, the little trees will be lost. It's too bad. Also, the little fences, which were apparently intended to keep the free-ranging livestock from nibbling on the little trees, would be completely ineffective. I can't imagine that string keeping anything out. A cow probably wouldn't even see it, and would walk right through. Well, at least someone tried, and maybe a few of the young trees will survive.<br /><br />We made it into UB just fine, and went directly to the Tokyo Hotel. We checked in, dropped off our luggage, and got back on the bus. Lunch is on the agenda, and we're ready! We went to another hotel, reputed to have good food in their dining room. The hour is late, however, and we decide just to have a good bowl of soup and move on. I'm glad we didn't order a huge meal, because it took forever to get that bowl of soup! When it finally arrived, however, it was very good, very filling, and we enjoyed it.<br /><br />Back on the bus, interpreters close by as always. My precious Goldie stuck to me like Velcro. She was concerned about my unstable knee, and I could feel her little hand beneath my elbow at every turn. We went to the big State Department Store, for some requisite shopping. I really needed Goldie there. More than once, she whispered to me, "You don't want that, that's tourist junk." She helped me buy a few nice things, though. At the state store, you make your selection, and give it to a sales person. She writes it up and gives you a slip of paper, which you take to a central desk. That's where you pay, after which you return to the sales person and give her the receipt, and she then gives you your merchandise. An unwieldy system, but I suppose they have their reasons for doing it that way.<br /><br />We returned to the bus at the appointed time, and headed for the Cultural Show. I'll tell you more about that event next time. </span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-29560542795516269242009-07-08T14:45:00.000-07:002009-07-08T15:09:12.588-07:00<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >After the fashion show, and some visiting around, Jerry left momentarily and returned carrying the child who has become, for many of us, a symbol of the work being done in Darkhan. If you read last year's journal, you know the story of Chinzorig, or Little Nate. We named him for one of our team members, Nathan, who was with the team that found him and who took such a personal interest in him. For those of you who have just joined the journal list, here's a brief synopsis. Last year, our humanitarian aid team discovered a four-year-old boy, handicapped and developmentally very delayed, hidden in a closet by his family, with the apparent intention of letting him starve, thereby reducing the drain on their almost non-existent resources. He was rescued by Jerry and company and brought back to our hotel, where he was examined by our physicians. The consensus was that while he does have some deficits, probably from a birth injury, much of his problems at that time stemmed from lack of nutrition and little or no stimulation and basic human contact and care. He was a pitiful sight, indeed. Obviously deeply depressed, he just lay in passive resignation to whatever his fate might be. Well, things are different now, after a year of loving attention, affection and good food. He's had some basic physical therapy as well, and his progress is astounding. You be the judge:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitTTYWuAmSAjZZwwilXWq3djTiWUnVkSsX7NbHCqzLSKxiIrpK1nbFsGRB9-M1kBwNa-ZNB5DbEQ94GlchhxZBqxdch8mvhyphenhyphen9hqjv1WxEKi1XZI0b6qP3wf31lt3yjB9Zqz5TqGMt0boM/s1600-h/Nathan-Jerry.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitTTYWuAmSAjZZwwilXWq3djTiWUnVkSsX7NbHCqzLSKxiIrpK1nbFsGRB9-M1kBwNa-ZNB5DbEQ94GlchhxZBqxdch8mvhyphenhyphen9hqjv1WxEKi1XZI0b6qP3wf31lt3yjB9Zqz5TqGMt0boM/s400/Nathan-Jerry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356211829570958002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >JERRY AND LITTLE NATE, THE DAY HE WAS RESCUED</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >BY THE CTW STAFF, IN 2004.</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRvMeMvh-RLuqClPVT0aX1f0RIGTzZcqm1Vhl9NHLfkW2UhX66nRnHQihovcf5xvPSvL4kmdkgoQE1UMsTP7NNOtp6ReqT5wXQCjclo-D2_bfY8tOVHpVmt_94wb1DW7ia1Kopi_a-rok/s1600-h/Mongolia+trip+2005+077.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRvMeMvh-RLuqClPVT0aX1f0RIGTzZcqm1Vhl9NHLfkW2UhX66nRnHQihovcf5xvPSvL4kmdkgoQE1UMsTP7NNOtp6ReqT5wXQCjclo-D2_bfY8tOVHpVmt_94wb1DW7ia1Kopi_a-rok/s400/Mongolia+trip+2005+077.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356211834423725714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES! LOOK AT THAT HAPPY FACE.</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />When Little Nate was rescued last year, he could barely lift his head, and as I recall, he was unable to roll over on his own. Now, he is still unable to walk, but with a friendly hand for balance he can stand and bear his own weight. He is never without a huge smile, and the smile widens considerably whenever anyone makes eye contact with him. He is just joyful all the time! He obviously loves Jerry, and fairly wriggles with happiness when he sees him. Jerry loves him, too, and takes great fatherly pride in every little increment of improvement and accomplishment that Nate achieves.<br /><br />This little boy is what it's all about in Mongolia. Jerry tells the story of how he went to Mongolia to plant churches. That's what he thought God wanted him to do, and he was willing. Then one day, a tiny child tugged on his pant leg and asked for food. This was a first for Jerry, and it started him thinking. That's how a Christian listens for the voice of God. If your heart and mind are open, God will enter and plant the seed of what He wants you to do for Him. So, when Jerry made himself available to God's prompting, it soon became clear. He said it was a very clear mandate. God told him to feed His children, and He'd take care of the churches. And so, in the late 90's, Change The World became an active ministry in Mongolia, feeding children, taking them off the streets and out of the sewers.<br /><br />I said Little Nate is what the mission in Mongolia is all about, and that is true, because he and the other children are the passport into the whole Godless society. Through the children's home, and the feeding programs, and the medical missions, and the demonstration of God's love that the people see every day, they begin to realize that there may be something they're missing. Jerry is fond of saying that when you do something for the Mongolian people, sooner or later they will ask you why you're doing it. The answer is "because my God told me to." Naturally, someone who comes from a background that may be atheistic, polytheistic, Buddhist, animist or whatever, is going to ask "Who is your god?" At this point, Jerry fairly dances with glee, and says "I'm so glad you asked!" And he tells them. Obviously, it works. People have been baptized by the hundreds, the church ger is overflowing, local churches are springing up in the towns and in the countryside, meeting in private homes if necessary. Pastor Midor seems to be going everywhere at once, and it's all just beautiful to see.<br /><br />In a country where the land is 95% government-owned, and owned by a government that doesn't recognize or embrace Christianity, something very special has taken place. That government has deeded over some beautiful land, over a hundred acres of choice riverfront. That's unheard of. They know full well what the Change The World mission is all about, and yet they gave the land anyway. Does this sound like God is at work? I can hardly wait to see what the next ten years will bring.<br /><br />Right now, there is an urgent need for operating funds. For the past month, the CTW staff has worked without paychecks. It has been necessary to remove the children from the excellent but expensive private school they were attending, and they're now in the public school system, where they only go for a half day and the quality of education is poor. At least they're in school, not scavenging in a gutter. There will be no more new clothes, other than what the housemothers can make for them, and the supply of fabric is running low. Food is not an issue. There is plenty. Not only do they grow a lot of food in the greenhouses and fields at the CTW compound, but a whole shiphold container has arrived, filled with food from the states. No one will be hungry. Still, Jerry wants the best for his kids, including a quality education, and the staff cannot work forever without paychecks. They have personal responsibilities, too.<br /><br />So, here it comes. I included a little commercial in last year's journal, and I'm going to do it again this year. Any gift you could see your way clear to send would be appreciated, and put to very good use. Nothing is wasted in Mongolia, and that's even more true of the Change The World operation. Every penny is used wisely, and stretched beyond all reason. I would ask that you think about it, pray about it if you wish, and then send whatever you feel God would want you to send. Here's the address:<br /><br />Change The World/LifeQwest Ministries<br />P.O. Box 153029<br />Irving, TX 75015-3029<br /><br />You may wonder why an Irving address? Can you imagine the difficulties it would cause if hundreds of checks, drawn on American banks, began to arrive in Mongolia, in denominations of $500, $100, $20, $5? The logistics are staggering. So, a central post office box was established here in Irving, and some of our church staff gathers it and deposits it into the CTW account here in a local bank. This bank account can be drawn on by the mission in Mongolia. It simplifies everything, and eliminates unnecessary cost.<br /><br />I was asked by an acquaintance if I thought I should send money to a mission in Mongolia right now, in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, when so many of our own citizens are in need. I can answer that easily. Yes, I do think I should. The victims of Katrina picked the best country in the world in which to experience a disaster. There are hundreds of agencies already at work, churches and private citizens are at work, giving aid and assistance to those who need it. The government is at work also, and I am contributing to this, as is every other American, through my tax dollars. So I feel perfectly free to make the personal decision to continue to help in my small way to finance the work in Mongolia. When I remember the light in the eyes of Little Nate when I reached out to ruffle his hair, and the huge smile he gave me when I took his little hand for a minute, I have no doubt that I'm doing the right thing. I can't do much, but the reward is huge.<br /><br />Well, the fashion show is over, the children have been taken back to their homes, lots of good-natured kidding and joking has taken place this evening, I have my cherished scarf, and it's getting late. Eloise and I wander back to our room, taking about half an hour to make a 30-second walk, as we stop and chat with people who have become so dear to us. Badmaa, true to her promise, has managed to buy two bottles of the hotel's catsup for me, and refuses to let me reimburse her. She is such a joy, and has such a generous, giving spirit. I thank God that I can call her my friend.<br /><br />We have sorted and packed our belongings, leaving a few things behind for the staff. Those things will be used, we have no doubt. As we get ready for our showers, we realize that the bathroom floor has large, white globs on it, and there are some in the bathtub as well. In addition, there is a puddle, as water is steadily dripping from overhead. The water isn't particularly clear, either. Apparently someone is staying in the room above ours, and their plumbing must leak as bad or worse than ours. The water has seeped through the ceiling and loosened the plaster, which is falling in ploppy chunks, landing in the water on the floor. Hmmm. This could be a problem. Since all the plumbing leaks to some degree all the time, we wonder about just what might be growing in the floor/ceiling that the water is filtering its way through.<br /><br />Then we remember that we're missionaries in Mongolia. We are resourceful. We don't dash from the building, screaming "Black mold! Run for your lives!" Instead, we pull the heavy-duty plastic wrapper off the case of bottled water that was provided for us, and slit it down a couple of sides, so it makes a strip about three feet long and two feet wide. We attach this by means of a a piece of string and some tape, to the exposed upright pipe that extends from floor to ceiling. The pipe is just outside the bathtub, and by shaping our plastic just right we are able to catch about 90% of the dripping water and funnel it into the tub. Ha! It works! I wish I had taken a picture, but I didn't. Of course, we have to stand in the channeled stuff when we shower, but that's what soap and water are for. We just washed our feet last, before getting out of the tub.<br /><br />We make a final appraisal of our luggage, and decide that we're leaving enough in Mongolia, in one way or another, that we'll now have room for the fruits of our shopping trip in China. At least, maybe I'll get by without having to buy another bag like I did last year.<br /><br />It's getting late, and we have to be up early in the morning. Tomorrow, we go back to Ulaanbaatar, and from there on to China, and in a couple of days - home! What a beautiful word - home.<br /></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-79962347433212797712009-05-04T16:45:00.000-07:002009-05-04T17:19:46.326-07:00<span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">The big high point of the evening was the fashion show presented by the children. They modeled some of the clothing that was made for them by their own housemothers, working with our sewing team. It was beautifully organized, and the children were well-behaved and cooperative as always. <br /><br />Obviously very proud of their new garments, they stepped out on the stage with confidence and big smiles, the girls pirouetting perfectly as they showed off their pretty new plaid capes, or their sleep-over style pajamas. One might expect girls to enjoy such a production, but even the boys seemed to have a lot of fun as well. These kids are just remarkable. They have such poise and presence, it's hard to imagine that they've come from such terrible backgrounds. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> Here are a few pictures you might enjoy:</span> </span> </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeHgPgL5_t2MTAoNJVSUrCgGrbcsOawbbZjyQXQGla9HvgDPal_-1smRFr2pUSwrhYXuDI7CKS19yZCrIqzPL1KjUvEVPLQnEGN-89JUGBQCq-pFuLMDCoHE6X50yZRYGGAL8jPKXWxs/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+297.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeHgPgL5_t2MTAoNJVSUrCgGrbcsOawbbZjyQXQGla9HvgDPal_-1smRFr2pUSwrhYXuDI7CKS19yZCrIqzPL1KjUvEVPLQnEGN-89JUGBQCq-pFuLMDCoHE6X50yZRYGGAL8jPKXWxs/s400/Mongolia+2005+297.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332126893548439474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >JUST LOOK AT THE PRETTY NEW CAPES, AND HOW ABOUT THAT TWIRL?<br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhbBeYyml4WsyPk4B-2MzMJQR85Roy4b6nhNNlHzaPD05HQ7zA2OKxV8g4kTpYTRcMyZ3_TImHwr5WaCLNrlQa1g7VztmpFl8376HWmsdtiaWDXhMXvN3sbltaRhGnS1qgHY2-s6OuFc/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+290.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnhbBeYyml4WsyPk4B-2MzMJQR85Roy4b6nhNNlHzaPD05HQ7zA2OKxV8g4kTpYTRcMyZ3_TImHwr5WaCLNrlQa1g7VztmpFl8376HWmsdtiaWDXhMXvN3sbltaRhGnS1qgHY2-s6OuFc/s400/Mongolia+2005+290.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332126892735567666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >NEW DRESSES! AREN'T THEY SWEET AND PRETTY?</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />This next picture has little to do with the fashion show, other than the fact that it was taken in the sewing room. Still, I just had to let you see these two faces. Can you imagine trying to control and channel these two little guys, every day?<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLgeyAHtPvDFw7vvp8TzmrwqXdCOu97b9nhC3QlVuuia1pxuP0aqs1YlvxER1e8kk2QP2t5-WRdtmx-Oep07CR8VS4ahk4pZ36fP9K_EeTBsLp0WwxvVhmRTc5yXLs0FfyxyXt3wdk-pw/s1600-h/Mongolia+trip+2005+068.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLgeyAHtPvDFw7vvp8TzmrwqXdCOu97b9nhC3QlVuuia1pxuP0aqs1YlvxER1e8kk2QP2t5-WRdtmx-Oep07CR8VS4ahk4pZ36fP9K_EeTBsLp0WwxvVhmRTc5yXLs0FfyxyXt3wdk-pw/s400/Mongolia+trip+2005+068.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332126891358991938" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" > TROUBLE, TIMES TWO!!</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />In the next installment, you'll have a real treat. Some of you might be able to guess, but all I'll say is - Little Nate!<br /><br />Tune in tomorrow.....</span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-14301050571263760822009-04-29T22:42:00.000-07:002009-04-29T23:00:29.199-07:00OUR LAST DAY IN ORKHAN<span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family: verdana;">Monday morning. It's our last day at the Orkhan Hospital medical site. I'm still not used to the idea that our clinic is set up on the parking lot of a hospital. This just seems so bizarre to us.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> During the previous two days out here, our doctors were given the names and locations of some people who were unable to come to us, so they made plans to go to them. Think of it - making house calls in Mongolia! Without going into much detail, they told us later that they saw some really pitiful situations. I can only imagine. So many of these people are without enough food, and their living conditions are hard-scrabble to say the least. That's bad enough, but imagine being elderly and ill, in such a situation.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> At the clinic, we only saw people who were given numbers and turned away on Saturday, who could not be seen due to the late hour. There were a few newcomers who would not accept that they wouldn't be seen, and just continued to hang around the tent, scuffing their feet in the dust. Naturally, they were eventually seen. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Imagine our surprise when, toward the end of the day, we realized that some of the people requesting to be seen were actually on staff at the hospital! There were two or three nurses, and one doctor, still wearing his scrubs and surgical cap. He wanted his blood pressure checked, and then wanted to see one of our doctors. We thought this extremely odd, until the doctor he saw picked up on his heart murmur, and commented to him about it. Then we understood. He knew he had a heart murmur, and was testing us, to see if our people would find it, too. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> After we had processed our last patient through triage, the Mustangs began to tear our tent down. This took about ten minutes. Those boys know what they're doing! Once our tent was gone, there just wasn't much more we could do, so we took the opportunity to walk around a bit and peek at the other groups in action. I went to the pharmacy ger to see if I could help, where things were still busy. Pharmacy is the last operation to close, of course, and since there were still people waiting in line to see the doctors, naturally there were still people arriving at the pharmacy with prescriptions in hand. Chris and company had things well-organized, and really didn't need any help from me, but I hung around anyway. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Finally I was given the job of removing some acetaminophen (think Tylenol) tablets from their blister packs and putting them in little paper envelopes, ten to a package. Since they were so nicely packaged already, I wondered why this was necessary. Chris explained. It seems that the tablets were from a Russian pharmaceutical company, and therefore were regarded with suspicion and considered inferior by the Mongols. He said if we just handed them the tablets in their original packaging, the people probably would accept them, but wouldn't take them when they got home. I guess old hurts and betrayals die hard. So, we transferred the tablets to a hand-marked envelope, and everyone was happy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> We went one last time to the little cafe on the highway, where lunch had been arranged for us and some of the senior staff from the hospital. Through the capable assistance of our faithful translators, we were able to converse with those folks and get to know a bit more about them. Their life is not easy. They do the best they can with limited resources, limited trust, and yes, limited knowledge. There is poverty and want, and physical and societal disease all around them. They battle superstition and false beliefs constantly, not only in their patients, but in themselves as well. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> When we finished up, we bade the flies a final farewell and climbed back into our vans and departed Orkhan, leaving the very capable Mustangs to dismantle the pharmacy ger and return it to the CTW compound. We were on our way back to Darkhan, and a memorable and moving experience awaited us there. We were going to have dinner together for the last time in the dining room, and then would be treated to an evening with the children! This is always the high point of the trip. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Dinner was very special, served buffet-style, with warming trays and everything! There were several meat dishes, and as always, we weren't entirely sure about the origins of the meat, but it was nicely prepared and tasty, and I've learned that when in Mongolia, it's best not to question, just eat and enjoy! Some of the dishes were chicken, which I now know is considered something of a delicacy and a treat in Mongolia. It's not like at home, where one eats chicken because it's cheaper than beef (among other reasons.) In Mongolia, chicken is not plentiful, and is not cheap. When one is served chicken in a family's home, it's an honor.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> After dinner, we had the ceremony of the hospitality scarves. I'm sure they have another name in Mongolian, but since I don't know what it is, I've given them that name in my own mind. This is a tradition in Mongolia, and is usually shared by the mission's children with visitors to their little world. When one visits a traditional home in Mongolia for the first time, a member of the family will present the visitor with a white scarf. If the visitor is invited back, they may be presented with a blue scarf on the second visit. It's likely that this custom has its roots in Buddhism. The blue scarves are in the color I call Buddha Blue, and I noticed on some of the ovoos that we saw along the highway that the blue strips of cloth tied on as prayers or offerings looked a lot like the blue scarves. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> One might wonder why, in the Christian family at CTW, anything with Buddhist overtones would be permitted. I suppose it's a lot like some of our own traditions in America. In my own home, we always colored eggs at Easter and hid them for the children to find, and then they would hide them again and again until they were too battered to eat. I think we all know that much of the trappings that surround our Easter have pagan origins, but it means nothing to us. We have given them our own spin, and enjoy the color and the fun, and the delighted cries of little children as they find another pretty egg. In the same way, I think the presentation of a scarf to a visitor in Mongolia now carries with it just one idea - hospitality and honor, nothing more. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> There is a hidden warning here, I think. It's easy to see how pagan traditions can lose their former meaning and become just something that we do as a society. Easter eggs, Christmas trees and the like all have a place of honor in our collective consciousness, and we no longer recognize the origins and the significance formerly attached to those things. We have adopted them into our Christian lives and never give a thought to what they may have meant a long time ago. <br /><br />I think we also know that one doesn't have to be a Christian to celebrate Christmas, or even Easter. Is it also possible that because of the general acceptance of these traditions by everyone, that we Christians also lose sight of the real, present-day meaning and significance of the occasions that they represent? When we sing "Joy to the World", do we really </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">feel </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">the joy, or is it just a pretty carol? Does "Christ Arose" really stir grateful emotion in our hearts, or do we just enjoy the pretty harmony? Well, those are questions for wiser theologians than I will ever be, so I'll leave it there. Anyway, I now have two scarves - one from last year and one from this year, and I value them highly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">There is much more in the original journal entry, but I'm going to break it here, and put the rest in the next blog. There will be pictures in that one, and you'll get to meet some of the Mongolian children. Tune in later...</span></span> <br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-62324679839596561392009-03-17T21:04:00.000-07:002009-03-17T21:57:07.393-07:00OF BEAUTIFUL VIEWS AND CROWDED MARKETS<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >Jerry and Susan's home, in time, will be built less than a hundred yards from where the chapel ger is situated now. There is a flat table of land there, and it's part of the bluff I mentioned earlier. There will be a dugout basement, with large windows on one side, facing the river. I know I've described this before, but here are some pictures to give you an even better idea of what their home will be like:</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><br /><br /></span> </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yBSsTX3Tr7h6nYxRJqVG-JTypHqSDmZ55IkCzURU3-JpTOplK0OMsC8Jso9O4nB4DDqtBl6L0eRWlReMOs6e7hhXhcPUcPOJMkxQ7UBfesAkqH-yNxCyOnJim9leAG_hSogk6u1mi5k/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+248.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yBSsTX3Tr7h6nYxRJqVG-JTypHqSDmZ55IkCzURU3-JpTOplK0OMsC8Jso9O4nB4DDqtBl6L0eRWlReMOs6e7hhXhcPUcPOJMkxQ7UBfesAkqH-yNxCyOnJim9leAG_hSogk6u1mi5k/s400/Mongolia+2005+248.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314379300119300562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >THIS IS WHERE THEIR HOME WILL BE LOCATED, OVER ON THE FLAT GROUND<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIvFlp3-1sYWtsFRjv8wGqyt3mPlb2BUfu92opwxfLbvNnwvZVA_vpDqlg2e_K6rWhNYI_KpqcOdiKLmdjO9c8yOgoWO-C1ZAXSZ8lDIFQFa3KOgvcVT-IRJxuRbzmisGr4OUX_86gCk/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+249.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIvFlp3-1sYWtsFRjv8wGqyt3mPlb2BUfu92opwxfLbvNnwvZVA_vpDqlg2e_K6rWhNYI_KpqcOdiKLmdjO9c8yOgoWO-C1ZAXSZ8lDIFQFa3KOgvcVT-IRJxuRbzmisGr4OUX_86gCk/s400/Mongolia+2005+249.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314379310328199474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >IMAGINE HAVING YOUR MORNING COFFEE, LOOKING AT THIS VIEW OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >After a little time of visiting and soaking up the beauty around us, we got back in the vans and returned to Darkhan. There we had a lovely lunch, and discussed our various plans for the rest of the day.<br /><br />Some of us got into a van and were driven to the Birge (phonetic) market. It's an indoor/outdoor market, and we were told one could find just about anything there. It was hot, dirty, crowded and smelly. To further enhance the experience, there had been a rain shower and we had to navigate large puddles and contend with wet people crowding against us, even inside the buildings. We had been warned by Susan to watch out for pickpockets. (Remember, we're in town, not in the country.) We pushed our way through the crowd until Eloise and Cynthia found the fabric they were wanting to buy, to make more clothing for the kids.<br /><br />With that purchase made, we ventured into the outdoor part of the market. That was interesting, to say the least. It was still drizzling rain, and the vendors had erected little plastic awnings in front of their shops. The shops, for the most part, were shipping containers, with one end open. You know what a shipping container is. They're actually pretty big, like a small room. Anyway, the rain was sluicing down off the edges of those awnings, and it was a whole new experience when one would dump about a gallon of water down the back of your neck! I didn't see much that interested me. Shoes that smelled strongly of rubber, thin t-shirts, piles of hairbows and trinkets, and lots of candy. I looked for some of the Gobi Gold, but didn't find it. Evidently it's a chocolate candy that is just marvelous. I love chocolate!!<br /><br />Suddenly, miracle of miracles, I spotted some of my catsup. Different from the catsup at the hotel, it's the kind we had last year when we ate on-site at the remote clinics. It's like a cross between catsup and Tabasco, and I love it. The kind we get at the hotel is good too, and I want some of it, but it's milder than the kind I found at the market. I bought a huge bottle, for about 85 cents. Now, I have to figure out how to get it home.<br /><br />With my catsup purchased, and the sewing team re-supplied with fabric, we head back to the vans. The rain stops, and I decide this might be a good time to visit the Internet Cafe, since the van can drop us off there. Eloise and Tammy and a couple of others got off with us, and I'm so glad we did it. I wouldn't have missed the experience for anything. <br /><br />The Internet Cafe is accessed through a little doorway at the top of some stairs on the side of a building. There is a tiny waiting area with four chairs. Inside, the computer room is about twelve feet by 25 feet. There is a row of tables along one wall, with about ten computer terminals. Rickety plastic chairs are placed at each terminal. It's very informal. When a vacancy occurs, you just sit down and log on. You don't register, or get a time ticket or anything, just go to work. I accessed my favorite website, The Front Porch on the Andy Griffith Show website, and left a message for my porch-sitter friends. That's quite a porch. It extends all the way to Mongolia!<br /><br />When I was finished, after about ten minutes, I walked over to a table where a young woman sat, with a small cashbox in front of her. She glanced at the clock on the wall, and told me I owed her the Mongolian equivalent of 33 cents. I paid her and we left. I didn't see any Starbucks coffee anywhere.<br /><br />We walked back to the hotel, a distance of about four blocks. We moved slowly and carefully, in deference to my cranky knee. I made it just fine, no mishaps. <br /><br />In what seemed a very short time, dinner was served and we joined the group in the dining room. As usual, the food was good, and we enjoyed it, as well as the fellowship. Eloise and I returned to our room, and Rhoda joined us for a while. Right after she left, we heard some dogs yelping and barking outside our window. I went out on the balcony, and saw four boys trying to make some dogs fight, and the dogs weren't interested. One boy saw me standing there, and took his dog and left. The other three remained. One had a small brown dog that he kept kicking and shoving toward a larger dog. The little dog was yelping and crying. Obviously, neither dog wanted to fight, but the boys were determined.<br /><br />Finally, unable to tolerate the abuse any longer, I yelled at the boys. Of course they couldn't understand my words, but my tone was pretty clear. They picked up their dogs and moved out of sight, but I could still hear the dogs crying. If you know me, you know I wasn't going to let that lie. I went downstairs, out the door and walked down the sidewalk until I located the boys in an over-grown garden area. They were still on hotel property, and were still abusing the helpless dogs. I found myself wishing one of the dogs would bite his tormentor, but they never did. It made me sick. I went back inside and found David Bass. I told him what was going on, and he said he'd see what he could do. He told me that they had just recently rescued a small kitten from some boys who had set some dogs on it.<br /><br />David told me later that the boys had moved off of hotel property, and had broken up their little session, so there was really nothing he could do about it. I would not expect to see something like that in the countryside, and consider this little display of callous cruelty to be just another example of the dehumanizing effects of poverty and wretched city living.<br /><br />When I returned to the room, Eloise chided me for going after the boys, pointing out the risk, but I think she knew that I just couldn't stand by and listen to those poor dogs crying for help. I also think that if I hadn't done something, she would have.<br /><br />By now, it's getting to be about bedtime, and we turn in, planning to read while there's still enough light. I wish we had thought about buying some light bulbs while we were at the market, but we didn't, so our room will be dark when the sun finally goes down. No problem, we're ready for sleep anyway, and it comes quickly, in spite of our anti-social beds.</span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-25503430427104144702009-03-14T20:25:00.000-07:002009-03-14T21:04:19.349-07:00CHURCH SERVICES IN A GER<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >It's Sunday morning in Mongolia. We slept an hour later, or rather fought with our beds for an extra hour. How an inanimate object such as a bed can cause me to feel like the loser in a prizefight, I don't know, but trust me, it can. We get up and dress, and are in the dining room by 8, for breakfast. As always, it's good. Not a lot of variety from the other days, but it's filling and certainly better than what I would eat at home, because at home I usually don't eat breakfast at all!<br /><br />At a smaller table, in one corner of the room, a group of Koreans are having their breakfast. This surprises us a bit. We so rarely see any other guests in the hotel, that we have rather a proprietary attitude, and it's always a bit disconcerting to see someone else staying there, too. A few of the Koreans smile and nod in our direction, and continue eating. We seat ourselves, laughing and talking, and enjoy our breakfast. <br /><br />After we finish, we decide to run through a rehearsal of "How Great Thou Art," as we will be singing this for our Mongolian friends at church services later on. Everyone stands up, then we begin looking at each other, waiting for someone to lead off. No one moves. Several people look at me, knowing that in years past, I sang in the church choir. Little do they know that whatever meager voice I might have had back then is now long gone. There's nothing left. We shuffle our feet, and I finally realize that the only person who just might lead off is a tenor and will start it so high that the rest of us would need ladders, so I give in. So help me, if these people don't join in and take it away from me on about the second note, I'll hunt them down like varmints.<br /><br />Very tentatively, I start out. "Oh, Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder....." Sure enough, the group picks up immediately and sings along, mercifully drowning me out. Then a wonderful thing happens. At "consider all the worlds thy hands have made", we become aware that we are not singing alone. The Koreans have joined us. They are singing in perfect unison with us, but in their language. It is absolutely beautiful, and emotionally moving beyond description. I can feel the chills in my spine, and there are tears just ready to spring forth. What a lovely moment! Two totally different cultures, different languages, one love song to the Lord. We finish the verse, and with everyone a bit choked up, we decide that one run-through is enough. I don't think we could have held up for a second one. Several of us approach the Koreans' table, smiling, and thank them. They stand and bow, and we find ourselves bowing in return!<br /><br />We load into our vans and begin the short trip out to Hongor, where we will have worship services with the Mongols in the new chapel ger that has been set up there. As more and more of the local people and the CTW children became Christians, it became obvious that a house of worship was a must. Until recently, they have met on the riverbank, sitting on benches, boards and blankets. I've heard reports of those services, and how beautiful they are, in that gorgeous natural setting. However, winter will arrive soon in Mongolia, and that will end the outdoor services. Rather than have his little flock feel displaced, Jerry envisioned a worship center, to keep everyone together as a church family. Long-range plans are for a large geodesic dome on the property, a permanent structure. However, gers have proven usable and effective for centuries, and the Mongols would see nothing wrong with using a large ger for a church until that dome becomes a reality.<br /><br />While it's true that gers (or yurts, the Russian word for ger) are plentiful in Mongolia, it's also true that word of their practicality and relatively low cost has spread to the states, and there are a couple of companies making them there now. They're being purchased in significant numbers, especially in the Pacific northwest, where people are using them for vacation homes in the mountains, for hunting camps, for storage buildings, and numerous other purposes. They're very well made, using the strong points of traditional construction, and reinforcing them with a few additional refinements. Here's a picture of the one where we had church services:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlN12NOfaFiKsup2XKhkpuH0yHr-nk6ypwNAGhbxCdvkCwZgMgkFsg2FDhl_wgESjAfT7uXL31JVq14QXlV8n3DlWvcdXPYS-lRQGXP8MaQn8VhSC2iSDrQGXTr7mRN1cPZLHv-1ZJm_c/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+256.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlN12NOfaFiKsup2XKhkpuH0yHr-nk6ypwNAGhbxCdvkCwZgMgkFsg2FDhl_wgESjAfT7uXL31JVq14QXlV8n3DlWvcdXPYS-lRQGXP8MaQn8VhSC2iSDrQGXTr7mRN1cPZLHv-1ZJm_c/s400/Mongolia+2005+256.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313255069372960418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">OUR GROUP, RIGHT AFTER WE SANG FOR OUR MONGOLIAN FRIENDS</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />This picture shows some of the refinements in the construction of a ger that the U.S. companies have incorporated. Note the sturdy vertical slats every couple of feet. They're attached in such a way that the section can still collapse like a child-gate, but they add strength when the sections are expanded. The roof poles are attached with metal plates to these uprights, instead of being tied with thongs to the V where the slats come together at the top. Also, notice the zigzag of wire that runs between the roof poles. This wire can be tightened, and certainly gives a lot of stability to the roof.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />The smiling, silver-haired man in the light blue shirt is David Bass. He's Jerry's right hand, and keeps the home fires burning when Jerry and Susan are away. He was a police officer in his "other life", but is now fully committed to the mission in Mongolia. I asked him once how long he thought he'd remain there. His answer was simple. "Until God moves me." I guess you can't do better than that.<br /><br /></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk5spKdIZT41ByPf-KcSre0zVSsXqxsvCDgPzqRmGVZKvTcOcyealRDKl_E0Yp0-VT03w4fiujaKFRjTUJnUs4Ajbvnj59xiupS08IHSDN94lwy22bxGOvCmgsitvqKNG7QO-Ld4Gm6uw/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+246.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk5spKdIZT41ByPf-KcSre0zVSsXqxsvCDgPzqRmGVZKvTcOcyealRDKl_E0Yp0-VT03w4fiujaKFRjTUJnUs4Ajbvnj59xiupS08IHSDN94lwy22bxGOvCmgsitvqKNG7QO-Ld4Gm6uw/s400/Mongolia+2005+246.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313255068149798002" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" >SOME OF OUR GROUP OUTSIDE THE NEW CHAPEL, OR CHURCH GER</span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />Another of the refinements over the traditional ger can be seen at the top of this one. All gers have a hole in the roof, which when left open and the sides raised or windows opened allows for a chimney effect and causes air circulation. This also allows combustion gases to escape, when stoves are in use - much like the smoke-hole in Native American tepees. In the traditional ger, when it rains the hole is covered by canvas, which results in a hot, dark interior. In the gers made in the U.S., the hole has a Plexiglas cap, which admits light even when closed, but can be opened a little or a lot by means of a cranking rod, to allow for air movement. It's pretty ingenious. Also, in the U.S. model, there are windows, which traditional gers don't usually have. The U.S. model has a plain jane door, though, unlike the colorful, beautifully decorated doors one sees in a traditional ger.<br /><br />Incidentally, t</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" >hat's our Dr. Tom in the light blue pants, basking in the attention from some of the children. Just to the right, that</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" >'s Jerry, in the long green shirt with the writing on the front. Note that he is standing with his arm around the shoulder of one of the children, a very typical pose for him. I don't think I've ever seen him without a child attached, if the children are nearby. They all run directly to him when he appears. He loves them, and they instinctively know it. </span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />The worship service was impressive. We sang our one verse of "How Great Thou Art" in English, then using some song sheets painstakingly put together by David Bass, we tried to sing other hymns along with the Mongols. David had written the words out phonetically to the best of his ability, but there just aren't any phonetic spellings for some of the sounds in the Mongolian language, and we spent more time laughing at ourselves than we did singing. The Mongols, true to their kind nature, tried very hard to suppress their laughter at our efforts, but there were a lot of smiles to be seen. The "joy of the Lord", no doubt.<br /><br />Jerry then preached a brief, simple but effective sermon. He preaches through a translator. He's working on learning Mongolian, but it's an extremely difficult language to learn. Rather than confuse or mislead someone by preaching in his version of Mongolian, he just uses a trusted translator. Very wise.<br /><br />Certificates of Baptism were presented to each of the children and adults who were baptized in the river earlier in the week. No group presentation here, with one collective round of applause. No, indeed. Each individual received applause and congratulations as they accepted their certificate, and each returned to his or her seat beaming like an angel. It was just lovely.<br /><br />After a couple of hymns and a benedictory prayer, we were dismissed. We stood around on the deck outside the chapel, just absorbing the beauty around us. I wish I could describe it adequately. The deck and chapel are on top of a small bluff, above a little meadow that just sweeps down to the river. A few cows were grazing down there, and the scene was one of such grace and peace that you could just literally feel the presence of God.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" > </span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><br />I'm going to break right here, and save the rest of this installment for another blog entry. You will remember that I'm taking these entries from the original email installments that went to family and friends soon after we returned home. Some were a bit long for blog entries, so I'm dividing them. More on our church service in the next entry, and more pictures of the site as well.</span><br /></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-69608585048275616142009-03-07T18:34:00.000-08:002009-03-07T19:09:08.299-08:00THE REST OF THE DAY<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >Picking up where we left off last time, I will add a little footnote. The egg that I pushed off the top of my meatloaf was not wasted. After it had remained untouched on my plate for several minutes, the two translators who were seated at my table finally concluded that I really wasn't going to eat it, and one shyly inquired if I minded if they shared it. Of course I didn't mind, and one eagerly scooped it off my plate, gave half to the other girl and kept half for herself. A couple of bites each, and the egg was gone.<br /><br />I should also note here that at the end of our meals, any plate still containing food was passed to the table where our drivers were eating, and was swiftly consumed. In Mongolia, absolutely nothing is wasted.<br /><br />We finished eating, and returned to our vans. Back at the clinic, Bulgan told us that the line would be closed at 2:30, and that we were not to see anyone who wasn't there to receive a new number before then. This seemed simple and straightforward enough, and we knew from experience that the plan would let us finish by 4 p.m, and our doctors would then finish by around 5 p.m. At 2:30, new numbers were passed out to the people who were waiting, and anyone who came after that was given a different colored number and asked to return on Monday.<br /><br />Everything went smoothly, and at around 4 p.m. we saw our last client and were preparing to close the triage area down. Suddenly a woman appeared, brandishing a ticket and demanding to be seen. It was a ticket in the color that was used yesterday. Those people had been asked to return this morning, and would have been seen first. This woman apparently had not shown up until now, and still expected to be seen. Barb and I were perfectly willing to see her, and saw no point in making a scene about it, but Bulgan was adamant. The woman didn't follow instructions, came strolling in after we had closed for the day, and was insisting on being seen anyway. This just wasn't acceptable, according to Bulgan. <br /><br />At first, I couldn't see the point, but Bulgan soon made it clear. She very tactfully explained that some of the town people can be very pushy and will take advantage, and that it's important for us to do what we say we're going to do. She gently hinted that there are dynamics at work that we don't understand, being outsiders, and that it's best to stick with the plan and not let someone run over us. Besides, she said, what you do for one, you must do for others. We didn't see any others around, but still we moved on outside the tent, while the woman raged and stomped around, demanding that somebody see her.<br /><br />She approached one of the interpreters and began to shout and berate her. Her tone was rude and overbearing, but the interpreter just answered her softly. Finally Bulgan reappeared, confronted her and told her to settle down and move on. (Our translators were quietly keeping us informed.) Bulgan kept her voice soft and gentle, but she was unbending. The woman finally quieted down, but didn't leave. She just continued to hang around, walking around the tent, occasionally walking through, and eyeing us as we stood off to one side, as though wondering why we were just standing there doing nothing. We were feeling pretty much the same way.<br /><br />The woman approached Bulgan again, a little less belligerently, and Bulgan again explained to her that we could not send any more patients to the doctors, because the line was still long, and we had to finish up and leave soon. This gave the woman an opening that allowed her to feel she had won, while still complying with Bulgan's rules. The woman announced that she didn't need to see a doctor, that all she wanted was some eyeglasses and to have her blood pressure checked, and since we weren't doing anything, couldn't we just do that for her? The smart and tactful Bulgan knew a good compromise when she saw one. She explained that we didn't have any more eyeglasses, and it was too bad the woman hadn't come this morning while we still had some. However, she said she was sure the nurses wouldn't mind taking her blood pressure, and asked if we would do so. Of course we would, and did. We wrote it down for her, she took the paper and left. Now of course, the notion of not seeing a doctor had just occurred to the woman. If that had been in her mind all the time, I can't believe it wouldn't have come out during the heated confrontation earlier. The woman was simply determined to win in some way, and Bulgan was wise enough to let her, while not relaxing one inch on the explanation that she couldn't send anyone else to the doctors. It was a win/win situation, which is always best. Bulgan is a treasure.<br /><br />Shortly after the demanding woman left, another woman appeared. She, too, had a number from yesterday, and wondered if it was too late for her to be seen. She was so meek and polite, not at all demanding, and looked so very tired and weary, that Barb and I just quietly took her vitals, one of the translators filled out an intake paper for her, and we took her history. Then we found Bulgan and explained the situation to her, and Bulgan walked away with her. Right about then, we were told to get into the vans to return to Darkhan, so I'm not sure whether the woman was allowed to go to the doctors' line or not, though I rather suspect that she was. Bulgan plays by the rules, but she has a big and tender heart.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >It rained on us on the trip back to town, and I got some good pictures. You can see the rain falling on the road ahead of us, and we drove through it when we reached that point. It was a downpour, and the dry and thirsty earth was soaking it up like a sponge.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxMyAVCVzM5L4s8kV87E2RwQ3SYpfg3Or7uln0ZUQ7yEsAVRcuRsXyYy7_wt16QgemUwyjT6AqHL5TR2gJmJajwSKSNctsYWatKdomVnklY7SXak5jQjSiEBdc85lx_-SeOVXPU0qhaw/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+203.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxMyAVCVzM5L4s8kV87E2RwQ3SYpfg3Or7uln0ZUQ7yEsAVRcuRsXyYy7_wt16QgemUwyjT6AqHL5TR2gJmJajwSKSNctsYWatKdomVnklY7SXak5jQjSiEBdc85lx_-SeOVXPU0qhaw/s400/Mongolia+2005+203.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310644830058129762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">RAIN ON THE HIGHWAY AHEAD OF US, ON THE WAY BACK TO DARKHAN.<br /><br />The highway pictured here is "the" highway in Mongolia. There is only one main road that gives some access to the country, and this is part of it. In the U.S., this patched and often cracked two-lane road would likely bear "county road" or "farm-to-market road" status, it certainly would not be a "super highway", though it is the largest, in fact the only highway in the country.<br /><br />At long intervals, smaller roads veer off to go to a small town or settlement. They're usually roughly black-topped, though not always. In addition, there are numerous dirt lanes, or tracks, that head off into the unknown. In a sense, it's fortunate that rainstorms are infrequent, because after a heavy rain, those lanes are almost impassable, with washouts, potholes and mudslides you wouldn't believe. I'm sure they aren't mapped, but the locals know where they go, and seem to have no trouble finding their way around. Of course, the condition of the roads would have little impact on the local population, since they travel mainly on foot or by horseback anyway. Our vans have bumped and clambered through those holes and slides at times, and it's quite an experience. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Finally, we got back to the hotel, cleaned up a bit and went immediately in to dinner. It was good, and we had some of that wonderful creamy ice cream, with the delicious blueberry sauce. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Ray is improving a lot. He returned my little wrist braces, saying that his wrists were feeling better. They're still swollen and bruised, and he winces when he tries to use them, though he doesn't admit it. He still has a 12-hour gap in his memory that may or may not ever return, but his current short-term memory is functioning. He remembers everything that led up to that 12-hour period, and almost everything that has happened since, but he just doesn't remember anything about the camel. Probably a good thing!</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />It has rained here in town, too. Windows and doors are open, the air is fresh and clean, and smells just wonderful. Everything looks greener already, as we look out at the open fields behind the hotel. This is such a wild and impressive land. It's so hard to believe that the beautiful prairies and mountains, and the squalid, depressing towns are part of the same country. The towns are like open sores on an otherwise lovely face.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />It's only 8 p.m. now, and some of the group is planning to walk to town to the "Wal-Mart", or to the Internet cafe. There are no vans available to drive us, and I'm a little reluctant to walk that far on my gimpy knee. Where there are sidewalks, they're broken and uneven, and now they're wet and slippery as well, after the rain. It would be about an eight-block walk, round trip, and I just don't think it would be too smart. Eloise isn't too keen on going either, so we decide to stay in the hotel. A couple of the other women come down for a while and we visit, have a few laughs as we recall some of the things that have happened, and then our visitors leave. We read for a little while, and as the light begins to fade, so do we. We fall asleep quickly, anticipating the church service we're going to attend in the morning, out in Hongor.</span> </span> <br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-79495184226907438802009-02-27T16:33:00.000-08:002009-02-27T17:01:19.800-08:00AT THE HOSPITAL SITE AGAIN<span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >It's Saturday morning, and we're gathered in the dining room for breakfast. I enjoy catching bits of conversation here and there, as people discuss what they've been doing, and what they'll do today. Ray is feeling better, still no memory of the accident and his wrists are still very sore, but he's better. Bobby has been staying with him, but Ray says he's ready to go with one of the groups and be useful. Besides, he says, he doesn't think he wants to spend another day with his "mean nurse." This produces a round of laughter from those who heard him, and a grumbled retort from Bobby, which I didn't understand. Probably just as well. Those two are the best of friends, and the good-natured digs that fly between them are hilarious.<br /><br />After breakfast, we're back in our vans and headed out for another day of work, each team going to their respective area of service. The construction team will do some more work on the buildings at Hongor, the humanitarian aid and elder care teams will visit more of the sick and needy in Darkhan, and our team is returning to the hospital grounds in Orkhan. We know there will be a large crowd waiting for us, because many people were given numbers yesterday, and asked to return today. We have no doubt that they will do so.<br /><br />Sure enough, there is a long line of people waiting when we arrive. We go straight to our tent and begin. Things go pretty much the same as yesterday. We see several people who arrive wearing pajamas and robes. Obviously, they're patients from the hospital, who have left their rooms and come down to get in our line to be seen by the American doctors! This never ceases to amaze me. It's pretty humbling, too. These people trust us, and have such high hopes. They have no idea how limited our resources are, and how little we're actually equipped to do for them. I'm not sure there is a lot that we could do for many of them, even if we had them with us in America. A lifetime of wear-and-tear is not something that can be easily fixed. Still, they seem to go away happy. Perhaps just having someone to show some interest in them, and listen to them for even a moment, is enough to make them feel better.<br /><br />It's hot. It's humid. The line is endless. Still, most of the people are so patient. Babies are well-behaved, and they are so very cute. Here's one little charmer whose mom had dressed her appropriately (no sweater):<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlY52GUYvrAKL5KRZbw-5X56ASRVIISUiEHvPPLVK6WS6dZ7ep2xoWu_nPO1nwLL9j0V6NnuFqrmH0LUA14lTd4eOzFh7dNNt1VKI_JditJe0jIXNKhXEtKavN-S4TUgX2013xMDTvFI/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+111.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYlY52GUYvrAKL5KRZbw-5X56ASRVIISUiEHvPPLVK6WS6dZ7ep2xoWu_nPO1nwLL9j0V6NnuFqrmH0LUA14lTd4eOzFh7dNNt1VKI_JditJe0jIXNKhXEtKavN-S4TUgX2013xMDTvFI/s400/Mongolia+2005+111.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307642545922823650" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >SWEET LITTLE MONGOLIAN BABY GIRL</span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />We continued seeing people, most of them with the same monotonous complaints, but occasionally we'd see something a bit different. There was a young girl, about 12, who had multiple warts on her hands. Probably fifty or more. She was very embarrassed about them, and tried to keep her hands hidden. Her mom was very concerned. We learned later that she was told by the doctor who saw her to just be patient, that in time they would disappear, being of a self-limiting variety.<br /><br />Then there was the young deaf boy, about sixteen years old. He didn't speak, just sat and watched, eyes darting from one face to another, as though trying to gain some sense of what was happening around him. His mother said he could hear when he was a baby, and had begun to try to talk, when he lost his hearing. She wasn't quite sure what caused the loss, and said he never learned to talk after that. I had the impression that his attempts may have been discouraged, as they would have been largely unintelligible, and might have been embarrassing to his family. He did make a couple of guttural sounds at one point, and was waved into silence by his mother. No one seemed to speak to him, so he had little chance to learn lip-reading. They just made simple hand gestures to him, which he seemed to understand, and obeyed. Sit down, get up, come along. He gave the impression of mild retardation, though I'm not at all sure of that. There was also an air of confusion and bewilderment about him, that made me wonder just how much more intelligent and "connected" he would seem if he could hear and understand.<br /><br />I've noticed that the people we're seeing here in the town are much less likely to be dressed in traditional Mongolian attire than those in the countryside. In fact, only the elderly seem to wear dels, and not very many of them do so. Everyone else dresses in a confusing mishmash of Western clothing. Here's an example:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzSqq9Q1FZm7KEI4LHSIdY5dTlnKuyJ9umWeih2YRRMyge1S7HH_oN3bX5JcSzg-ixK47yUKm5rzlyIYBp0_wnd5YJ8qcTpu8TP4bIq7hyphenhypheni3Gm9SuvZiaZXlvuQeHnUmxOptcz_oVNLg/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+215.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzSqq9Q1FZm7KEI4LHSIdY5dTlnKuyJ9umWeih2YRRMyge1S7HH_oN3bX5JcSzg-ixK47yUKm5rzlyIYBp0_wnd5YJ8qcTpu8TP4bIq7hyphenhypheni3Gm9SuvZiaZXlvuQeHnUmxOptcz_oVNLg/s400/Mongolia+2005+215.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307641631115440658" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >THIS OLDER WOMAN IS WEARING A TRADITIONAL DEL.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >HER DAUGHTER IS IN WESTERN ATTIRE.</span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />Actually, this division in wearing apparel exists in the countryside as well, but there are some cross-overs. In the country, some younger people do wear the traditional attire, especially among the men, but I don't recall seeing anyone under the age of 40 or so in traditional clothing in town. It's really too bad, because the traditional garb is charming.<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" > We continued seeing people, and funneling them to the line waiting to get into the hospital building where they would see our doctors. The line was mostly outside, as it was so warm inside. At least outdoors, a vagrant breeze would pass by now and then. Here's a scene from inside one of the exam rooms:<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZiKRauQEFN6FXf_ftB7gtnQXfo0JRyEftjFyRLF_RcHc_1P-agn-OlbW9PYtloDX-uuGwAMFQtgXFe0eJOP9oKfEdx6nxJPURwLFGcoJD3e3Olpted0nSMfyE8eO57MAl6Wu-1QNy8M/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+178.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFZiKRauQEFN6FXf_ftB7gtnQXfo0JRyEftjFyRLF_RcHc_1P-agn-OlbW9PYtloDX-uuGwAMFQtgXFe0eJOP9oKfEdx6nxJPURwLFGcoJD3e3Olpted0nSMfyE8eO57MAl6Wu-1QNy8M/s400/Mongolia+2005+178.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307643530011931618" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" > DR. TOM, SEEING A PATIENT. DO YOU THINK IT WAS WARM</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" > IN THE ROOM??</span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />The picture above was taken by Barb, using my camera. She wanted to walk a few kinks out, and took the opportunity to get a few candid shots of our operation. I was glad she did. However, I wished for the camera at one point while she was gone, as a curious pig wandered into our triage tent, looked around at the people seated on the benches there, then turned and sauntered out again. My translators and I were about the only ones who seemed surprised by this. The waiting clients took little or no notice of the critter, and seemed mildly amused by the fact that I apparently found it to be unusual, to say the least. To my credit, I didn't jump up and shoo the pig away, but I did suspend my activity during its visit. At home, pigs just don't walk into a triage area unchallenged!<br /><br />Lunch was at the little roadside cafe again. We had a sort of goulash of noodles and meat, and it was quite good. Hearty and well-seasoned, and I enjoyed it. I'm glad we didn't have what we had yesterday. That meal consisted of a slice of meatloaf (MUO, of course - meat of unknown origin), which would have been pretty good, except for the fact that an undercooked fried egg was plopped on top of it, covering the entire slice. I imagine that eggs are not plentiful in Mongolia, and that this was a choice tidbit, but after a couple of bites, I just couldn't eat any more of it. Had it been cooked thoroughly, it would have been a lot better, but not only was the yolk runny, the white was runny also. I like everything, and can eat almost anything, but runny egg white is just not something I choose to eat. Soft yolk, okay, but not clear whites. So I pushed the egg aside and ate the meat. I noticed the translators exchanging glances, like they couldn't believe I wasn't going to eat a treat such as that. Anyway, today the noodles and meat were really very good, and I went away well-fed.</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">In the original email installments, there is much more to this one, but as a blog, it grows too long. Therefore, I'm dividing it and the rest will appear later.</span><br /></span><br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-54013637791600894462009-02-07T09:08:00.000-08:002009-02-07T09:41:27.654-08:00OUR FIRST DAY AT THE HOSPITAL SITE<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">Friday morning - today we will be going to a different site. We have our usual good breakfast - tea, bread and jam, boiled eggs, scrambled eggs, fried wieners, and potatoes. Also the good catsup. It occurs to me that perhaps the hotel would sell me some. I mention this in Badmaa's presence, and her face lights up in a huge smile as she tells me I am not to worry, that she will fix it! I don't doubt it for a moment. If anyone can make it happen, she can.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Stuffing ourselves into our vans, we settle in for the ride. We're going to the village of Orkhan, and will actually set up on the grounds of the little hospital there! This seems very odd. I try to picture a situation where a bunch of doctors and nurses from France, for example, would come and set up a clinic on the parking lot of one of our hospitals. Somehow, I just can't imagine it. Still, that's where we're going. It should be interesting.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When we arrive in the little town, before we even see the hospital, the idea seems a bit more believable. The town looks like a Mexico City barrio. Deplorable living conditions. Squalid buildings, corrugated tin shacks, rutted roads. Livestock roaming freely everywhere. Not a blade of grass to be seen. I'm amazed to even think that there could be a hospital here.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">We arrive at the hospital, following a narrow, rutted road behind some buildings to get there. Through a gate, and we're on the hospital grounds. So are a couple of cows, but no one seems to notice. No driving around looking for a parking space here. Our vehicles are the only ones in sight, and have all of the half-acre or so of space in which to park.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">We climb out of the vans and walk toward our big tent which has been set up just about thirty yards from the entrance to the hospital. One of our gers has been set up on a concrete patio area nearby. The Mustangs have worked during the night to get everything ready for us. Bless their little hearts! The ger will be the pharmacist's domain, and also contains our supplies of water. Bottled water, as usual, will be available to us in abundance. All we have to do is look a bit dry, and a Mustang appears with a bottle in his hand. What would we do without them?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">There is a long line of people waiting for us outside our tent. We quickly set up an intake table, and the Mustangs begin to escort people in to get their registration card filled out. The clients are then seated on benches inside the tent, to be seen by Barb and/or myself. We resume our routine from the preceding days, with Barb mostly doing vital signs and me mostly getting histories, but sometimes we switch off, or sometimes we each do both processes to keep the lines moving. As soon as these things are done, a Mustang appears to escort the client over to another line, just outside the hospital entrance.</span></span><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpxCGEoka4nDKYrpwG2kBcULi4PvLS4sSAqKZ92uByhETqxmesHcTLjtnC0B4pMnrV-caQ8qpAuvHXDsRr7aEx4BtVGRXfqdez5swxws4bNgAmVsO1_AKgGm8fnzWFAB8rMdDdJbw-IM/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+182.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpxCGEoka4nDKYrpwG2kBcULi4PvLS4sSAqKZ92uByhETqxmesHcTLjtnC0B4pMnrV-caQ8qpAuvHXDsRr7aEx4BtVGRXfqdez5swxws4bNgAmVsO1_AKgGm8fnzWFAB8rMdDdJbw-IM/s400/Mongolia+2005+182.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300105242352983314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"></span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >THIS IS THE LINE THAT GREETED US WHEN WE ARRIVED</span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />Our doctors are inside the building. Rooms have been made available to them, and their exams will be done there. No gers this time, except for the pharmacy. The rooms are reasonably clean, and they are large enough, but there doesn't seem to be any a/c, and open windows allow flies in. The hallway is full of people and flies, probably at least forty men, women and children (I didn't count the flies), all seated on the floor or on the few chairs that are provided. They are not our clients, but instead are waiting to be seen by the clinic staff of the hospital. Interestingly, we learn later that many of these same people will come through our clinic as well.</span><br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGijeAMuDJIV2EwW3rAmuseHw3icQ7qr_0S__s8N4-Pr6EZ7OmEpdKXFRZr5tpuL-9UQryIi6gpMS-BFC0RGl8iFx8zkBJW4SsHdlJIXPHmL9VHWAS7qnKR12F8V3Lo4GXxy62Yt9B9Y/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+181.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGijeAMuDJIV2EwW3rAmuseHw3icQ7qr_0S__s8N4-Pr6EZ7OmEpdKXFRZr5tpuL-9UQryIi6gpMS-BFC0RGl8iFx8zkBJW4SsHdlJIXPHmL9VHWAS7qnKR12F8V3Lo4GXxy62Yt9B9Y/s400/Mongolia+2005+181.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300105244514443554" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >PEOPLE WAITING TO SEE OUR DOCTORS - OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL ENTRANCE<br /><br />We have no little gray tent this time, but instead are permitted to use the restrooms in the building. One visit there, and I'm wishing for our little tent. I cannot believe that the stinking, filthy little closet in which I found myself was actually a hospital restroom. The floor was wet - just water, I hope - and there was no commode seat. No matter, I can't imagine anyone using it anyway. The sink was equipped with a faucet, but the broken handle lay nearby and there was no way to turn the water on. No paper towels, either, so if I had washed my hands I would have had to dry them on my jeans. Thank heaven for our liquid hand sanitizer.<br /><br />A few hours later, on another visit to a restroom, an officious, uniformed staffer led me to another bathroom, and used a key from a string around her neck to unlock it. Apparently it's reserved for staff only, and I understood that it was a gesture of professional courtesy that I was taken there and permitted to use the facility. Inside, conditions were perhaps a little better than in the other restroom. At least the floor was mostly dry, and the faucet worked, but there were no towels. No matter, jeans work well when they have to. The staffer waited outside for me, and locked it again when I exited. I thanked her, and she smiled and nodded in a friendly manner. Pretty remarkable, really, when you think about it. She could have resented our presence, could have considered our visit to be a criticism of her hospital's services. Instead, in her way, she made me feel welcome.<br /><br />For the most part, the folks we see are much the same as the country folks we've seen in the past three days. Most of these people are residents of the town, though not all. Some country people arrive as well - we see a few horses tied to the fence now and then. The complaints are much the same, though there is more evidence of the influence of the Chinese herbalists with these townfolk. I suppose the herbalists find it more profitable to hit the towns, where they can see a lot of people at once, instead of traveling from ger to ger in the country.<br /><br />The efficient Bulgan, who seems to be everywhere at once - assisting and translating in the pharmacist's ger, serving as liaison between the hospital staff and our group, organizing our lunch plans - has decided to give the waiting people a number, so that they can come and go with a bit of freedom, yet not risk losing their place in line. This wasn't necessary at the river site, but seems to be a good idea here in town. The Mustangs are very good at using the numbers to help keep the line flowing in proper order.<br /><br />In the early afternoon, as we're seeing people and getting them processed through as quickly as possible, we hear a minor commotion outside, and a large elderly man comes striding into the tent, via the side flap, rather than the door. There is a Mustang in hot pursuit, and the old man brushes him away as he would a fly. </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">Our translators are quick to keep Barb and me informed of what's being said. </span></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >The Mustang is pleading with him, explaining that he must have a number. The old man replies, "These are all the numbers I need!" and lifts the lapel of his frayed suit coat, displaying several shiny medals. One of the Mustangs examines the medals, and announces that they are medals of commendation from various military battles, that the old man is evidently a veteran of one of Mongolia's wars. He apparently considers himself a hero, though Goldie, my translator, tells me that some of the medals are of a kind that can be bought if one knows where to look for them.<br /><br />At any rate, the old man seems to consider himself due a measure of extra respect, and since he's harmless, we decide to play along. The Mustang takes him to the registration table, and he is moved right on through. The folks outside the tent, who have been watching through the door, don't seem to mind. I would imagine the old man is well known to most of them, and in this country where age is held in great esteem, I'm convinced it would have been a mistake to try to make him conform to our procedures. We would have lost the respect and trust of the people waiting there.<br /><br />When he removes his coat to have his blood pressure checked, I can see that he would have had a very good build in his youth. He has the remains of well-developed muscles, and the set of his shoulders is still square, his bearing proud. It was a pleasure to show this old fellow some extra respect, and he enjoyed it tremendously.</span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIIMv3lazxIUEfMdxjHiMUiioBNNeNsL7mAqF4aRGSi5mQjPTj450XYe2PgLMdu4CgJXFgF8dqyGTQsDPM2DR_PGkNdWooCTmov69dFqMfnjoJNGxSd-bmngdWeOHOaqKUsslPJw_InI/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+224.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbIIMv3lazxIUEfMdxjHiMUiioBNNeNsL7mAqF4aRGSi5mQjPTj450XYe2PgLMdu4CgJXFgF8dqyGTQsDPM2DR_PGkNdWooCTmov69dFqMfnjoJNGxSd-bmngdWeOHOaqKUsslPJw_InI/s400/Mongolia+2005+224.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300105241148541410" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">OLD MAN WITH MEDALS</span></span></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">This grows too long, so will be continued in another blog, another day.<br /></span></span></span></div></div><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-50558509115543455362009-02-01T21:27:00.000-08:002009-02-01T21:44:01.929-08:00WE BID FAREWELL TO THE RIVER<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >Our vans bounce and jolt over the track out to the remote river site one more time. By now, even our first-timers have learned the "rhythm of the road" and are able to converse freely, or just enjoy the scenery, in spite of the sometimes bone-jarring motion of the vans. Of course, it helps that the ride is just not as rough as it was last year.<br /><br />Arriving at the site, we see that there are already long lines of people, waiting to see the American doctors. The complaints are much the same as yesterday and the day before, and we soon settle into our routine. Translators at our sides, Barb and I extract as much information as we can, and get vital signs before sending the client on to wait in a line by one of the gers where the doctors are working. We have discovered that we can do things a bit faster if one of us does the vital signs and the other asks the questions about the client's history. Usually Barb does the vitals, and I ask the questions. We watch each other's line, and if one is getting an overload, the other will perform both functions until things even out again. It works well for us.<br /><br />The complaints are much the same. High blood pressures, kidney pain, back pain, liver pain, heart pain, joint pain. A few more kids with "hot spots" on their heads. Drat those Chinese herbalists! Many folks complain of headaches, and almost without exception, they also have with high blood pressure. I know I've mentioned this before, but it's so prevalent with these people, and so dangerous, that I just can't forget it. So many of them do admit to having medication, but as I've said, they only take it when they think they need it, and their criteria for need is a splitting headache. We try to educate them in the brief moment of time that we have, but we can tell by their facial expression that they aren't listening. Well, at least we try.<br /><br />If these folk survive their blood pressures long enough, their eyesight becomes a problem, just as it does for the 50-somethings at home. Near vision just deteriorates and they can't read or do any fine work up close. This could be a problem for a herdsman who needs to mend a harness or repair a hole in a ger. So, as we did last year, we have brought a supply of reading glasses with us, in various strengths. These can be obtained at the dollar stores back home, and for such a small price, they can make a big difference in the quality of life for these folks.<br /><br />The doctors take great delight in supplying these glasses to the folks who need them. There are no eye charts or any other fancy equipment to determine the needed prescription. They simply hand the client a few pair of glasses, and let them try them on. They know they have the right prescription when the client's face lights up in a huge smile, and their voice rises in excited chatter. Dr. Ron fitted one gentleman with some glasses, and the man was so thrilled, he wanted his picture taken with his benefactor. To make it doubly gratifying for Dr. Ron, the man confided that he was a Christian, too. Here's the picture:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzD796xgLj5EorTv4HdfbiS6wMt47Pt9cDNECsRsJKbqpZvc8UmqB9vPf_zsL2d57QUeEE7QAq0vBnOC2ec75gjp-eFmJKZqCiuCprpibX8K9mqLtcAUZ6FPQMC8zf0lQNhbzwKZN_FOQ/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+173.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzD796xgLj5EorTv4HdfbiS6wMt47Pt9cDNECsRsJKbqpZvc8UmqB9vPf_zsL2d57QUeEE7QAq0vBnOC2ec75gjp-eFmJKZqCiuCprpibX8K9mqLtcAUZ6FPQMC8zf0lQNhbzwKZN_FOQ/s400/Mongolia+2005+173.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298068531834819522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >DR. RON AND MAN WITH NEW GLASSES</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />The people continue to arrive, on foot, on horses, in horse-drawn wagons, on motorcycles, by jeep, truck or car. The only conveyance I don't recall seeing is a boat, and with us being camped on the riverbank, I'm surprised that none came.<br /><br />I'm always amazed at the nature of these people. Kind, considerate and unfailingly patient, they wait in the interminable lines without even a murmur of complaint. For the most part, they're waiting out in the sun. Our tent will only hold so many, so the others must wait outside until their turn comes. Still, they don't complain. Even the children are well-behaved and pleasant. They sit patiently on a lap, or on a bench beside their parent when there is room. Tiny infants who get hungry are casually but discreetly nursed, and rarely does one hear a baby cry. Diapers don't seem to be a concern. Often the babies are warmly dressed (too warmly, in many cases) but will be bare-bottomed. If they do have trousers on, there is usually no diaper underneath. Their caregivers seem to know when a disaster is about to strike, and simply hold the baby out at arm's length and the child does what Nature prompts. Any resulting moisture is quickly soaked up by the dry earth. If necessary, a little dirt is kicked over the deposit, and life goes on.<br /><br />I can't stress enough the innate courtesy and patience of these country people. I cannot recall one argument, one flare-up of temper, or a single incident of anyone making any demands on us. They simply wait their turn, follow instructions given by the translators or the Mustangs, and offer their very gracious thanks when they leave our area. Some have been turned away in the late afternoon and asked to return the next day, and they simply smile and agree, and come back as requested. We have no way of knowing how inconvenient this may be for them, but I'm sure it's not easy. Still, they do not complain or argue, they just do it.<br /><br />It's true, they are receiving free services, and I'm sure that fact isn't lost on them, but I'm still impressed. Where I work back home, a lot of our patients are receiving free care, too, and I wish I could say their attitude is as gracious as that of the Mongolians, but it's not, in most cases. Some of the crankiest, most demanding, and heaviest abusers of our resources are those who are receiving free care. I have literally been cursed out by a new mother because her room was too small to suit her, and because we didn't have a free carseat to give her in which to take her new baby home. Here in Mongolia, we receive profuse thanks for a $1 pair of reading glasses. The contrast is glaringly obvious.<br /><br />Toward the end of the day, as we were preparing to leave, a woman reappeared and sought me out. She had come through earlier in the day, and had returned, or perhaps waited somewhere on the site, to contact me when I was not otherwise occupied. Her request was simple. She wanted her picture taken with me. Imagine that! Naturally, I was glad to oblige, and handed my camera off to someone else to take the picture. After this was done, the woman very shyly took my hand, and in halting, careful English, she said, "Thank you. I want you to know, I am a Christian, too." Well, of course, this generated some excitement in me, and grabbing a translator, I managed to get more information. It seems she has been a Christian since 1996, and attends a small church located somewhere in the area. I never cease to be amazed at the golden thread of Christianity that is woven throughout this primarily Buddhist or atheist country.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGNllr0pZFWBpZQOhO85yU1gt7rbf3yiGFQuOj2vOrridQjIu95iApAzLHblt_fll58P6rh67iMwT3wqLKAUJ-Vv3z0-9rEzk5QUY4lQDZ7qr6wRAF7kj4v6ykWcVlfAib4Xcsw_EAMQ/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+153.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGNllr0pZFWBpZQOhO85yU1gt7rbf3yiGFQuOj2vOrridQjIu95iApAzLHblt_fll58P6rh67iMwT3wqLKAUJ-Vv3z0-9rEzk5QUY4lQDZ7qr6wRAF7kj4v6ykWcVlfAib4Xcsw_EAMQ/s400/Mongolia+2005+153.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298068532823264002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >LANNI AND THE WOMAN WHO HAS BEEN A CHRISTIAN SINCE 1996</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />The afternoon has ended, and the Mustangs are starting to tear down our camp. I really hate to see things dismantled, because we have been very happy here. Tomorrow, we will go to a different place, and I know by the nature of the location that it will not be as pleasant as our river camp has been.<br /><br />We return to the hotel, and enjoy a good dinner. We have ice cream for dessert, and it's so good. The ice cream served here is creamy and delicious, and they put some sort of berry topping on it that's just delightful. Sweet and tart at the same time, and a wonderful contrasting taste to the ice cream. I wish I could get a jar of the topping to take home.<br /><br />After dinner, a group of us gathers to go shopping. David Bass drives us in a van, dropping some off at the internet cafe, and taking the rest of us to the market. This market proves to be quite an experience. Affectionately referred to as "The Wal-Mart" by the Americans who live here, it's a big square building more or less in the center of town, and evidently is the only place to go other than the open market, which is another thing entirely. The building is about the size of a small Kroger store at home. There are a couple of swing sets and some resin chairs for sale outside the front entrance. Inside, there is a little bit of everything. The key phrase here is "a little bit." The linen department offers about six towels, a small stack of washcloths, and a few rugs. There are also several blankets, two of which are 100% cashmere, and appear to be of very good quality. They are not inexpensive, though probably much cheaper than they would be in the states. I considered one, but it was heavy, would take up a whole suitcase, and it was bright red. Okay, I'll pass on that.<br /><br />Eloise and I continue to wander through the store, and we are very much impressed by the wide variety of things that are condensed into such a small space. There is everything from furniture to food, washing machines to jewelry. I'm looking for the Mongolian catsup I've learned to like so much, but can't find it. They have catsup, but it's Heinz! I can get that at home, for heaven's sake! Perhaps I'll try the tiny grocery near the hotel tomorrow. We do decide to buy a small package of washcloths - six in the package. They will come in handy back in our room, as only towels are supplied, and they're only replaced every other day, and then only by request! Eloise bought us each an extra towel earlier in the week. We plan to use them as backup, and then to leave them for the hotel at the end of our stay.<br /><br />We meet David back at the front of the store, and get in the vans for the return drive to the hotel. It's really only a few blocks, and some of our folks have walked it. However, with my battered knee, I'm grateful for the ride. We go to our room, clean up and visit with other people for a little while, then head for our beds. As always, it's still light outside but we're used to it, and soon fall asleep.<br /><br /></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-30633646302723632252009-01-27T13:17:00.000-08:002009-01-27T13:38:00.088-08:00SEWING THE PIECES TOGETHER<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >It's Thursday morning, and we are up early, anticipating our last day at the remote river site. Tomorrow we will be in a different place. We rather dread the idea of moving, because our present site is so beautiful, and from what we've been told, our next site will be considerably less pleasant.<br /><br />After a good breakfast, we all load into our respective vans, to be driven to our areas of service. Most of the men go out to Hongor and the CTW compound, to do more construction. Bobby decides to stay behind with Ray, and there's a grin on Bobby's face that tells us he will bedevil poor Ray all day. Although he's improving a lot, Ray still isn't up to a day in the heat out there on that construction site. His memory is gradually coming back in bits and pieces, but he still doesn't remember anything about the camel. Perhaps he never will. His hands are still swollen and his wrists are painful. I had brought along my little carpal tunnel wrist braces in case I had a flare-up while over here, and we found that by loosening the laces completely and tugging a bit, we were able to get them over Ray's hands and into place to support his wrists. Not ideal, but it works.<br /><br />I think we'll suggest that a few wrist braces and knee and ankle supports in various sizes be sent over in the next container from the states. It has become painfully obvious that they could come in handy. Greg had brought a knee brace along, because he has a bad knee and sometimes needs it for security, and he graciously offered it to me. It had some rigid support, and probably would have worked very well, but it was too big. I couldn't get it fastened tightly enough to be of any help. So, </span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >I'm still wearing Bobby's knee wrap, and appreciate it very much. It's not a true brace, but it does afford some measure of stability, and keeps me reminded not to put stress on the knee.</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />Some of the group, both men and women, head into town to visit the apartment families and deliver whatever humanitarian aid they can. This can be in the form of bags of food, perhaps some clothing. It can also mean that the CTW staffer who accompanies the group can make notes of the areas of greatest need, and action can be taken to try to help the family in whatever way seems most expedient. The need everywhere is great, but some are worse than others. Unemployment runs about 80% in the towns, and alcoholism is rampant. The Russians, during their tenure in the country, introduced the populace to vodka, and it's the beverage of choice for a very large percentage of the adults, women as well as men. It seems incredible, to think that when there are hungry children in a family, the "responsible" adult will spend whatever meager income there might be on alcohol, but it definitely happens, and happens quite often. But of course, the same thing happens in America, so why should one be surprised? Besides, all you have to do is look around the little towns to understand the despair and hopelessness that pervades these people's lives.<br /><br />As I've said before, everything is gray. There is very little color. Paint, apparently, is not an option. First of all, it would be expensive and there is no money for such non-essentials. Also, it probably wouldn't survive the winter weather, but instead would very likely just freeze and flake off. So, everything is concrete-gray. There is no grass. There are no lawns. Now and then one sees a tiny patch of struggling little flowers, but they don't seem to survive very well. No one is going to waste precious water on such as that, and the rainfall is negligible, so ornamental vegetation just doesn't make it. Even if a few blades of grass do happen to sprout, they're quickly cropped off by the livestock that roams freely everywhere. There are a few poplar trees along the roadside as one enters Darkhan, obviously planted and maintained in an effort to improve the first impression one gets upon entering the town. How they have escaped the attention of the livestock, I don't know. Their trunks are painted white, which I thought was a decorative effort, but perhaps it's something that discourages nibbling by animals.<br /><br />In short, there is very little beauty to be found in the towns. The countryside is magnificent, but the towns are just plain depressing. If I had to live there, and didn't have the light and beauty of God in my life, I think I might be pretty depressed too, and the escape to be found in a bottle of vodka just might entice me, as it has done so many of the town-dwelling Mongolians.<br /><br />Eloise is on the sewing team, and along with a couple of the other women, they go each day to the special sewing room that has been set up for their use. By the way, for those of you who don't know, Eloise and I are not only very good friends, but we share our grandchildren! I feel doubly blessed. My son is married to her sweet daughter, and we have all known each other for about thirty years, being members of the same church all that time.<br /><br />The sewing team had expected to be teaching the Mongol housemothers how to sew, so they could make clothing for the children. Well, Eloise says they quickly found out that there wasn't a whole lot to be taught. Apparently, once the sewing machines arrived and were set up, the Mongol women became proficient on them in record time. Also, they seem to have an eye for cutting out pieces to be sewn together into a garment, and a pattern is just an annoyance. Eloise says the women will just look at a piece of fabric and start cutting, and before you know it, they have cut out the pieces for a pair of pajama pants, or a little shirt, or whatever.<br /><br />They waste nothing. Scraps of fabric too small to be cut into a piece of a garment are cut into smaller pieces and used to stuff pillows. They don't throw the scraps away and then go buy a bag of fluff, like we would do in the states. They use what they have. Here are a couple of pictures from the sewing room:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYnJcsz5XdoC2h8Ny4o2PhKRva9B2xXX9ZR63YETIgZ97szgYFFzGMmji_cnKF_Gm4ztRaIqRWdCmTxsoarZUlwYhjHA9s3zxyXyirxS9JhQLo9LyVVdFEsXF-U08LImNfRdvnXcxWpM/s1600-h/Mongolia+trip+2005+058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYnJcsz5XdoC2h8Ny4o2PhKRva9B2xXX9ZR63YETIgZ97szgYFFzGMmji_cnKF_Gm4ztRaIqRWdCmTxsoarZUlwYhjHA9s3zxyXyirxS9JhQLo9LyVVdFEsXF-U08LImNfRdvnXcxWpM/s400/Mongolia+trip+2005+058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296088178929263954" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family: verdana;">BUSY LITTLE BLANKET MAKERS</span></span><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDg4oSRsLB5ym1QX89z8puWKA_f3y9IYqIE1lYlLU2lyDJv-ZDDpaFFxTmz76CXDRGpiWSGJojtfW93SWVWh161cWmSc5nHPqi7qjZJSUCHgTDL-eK9CDwNu9DZH-i0lf_ZQgzQRxekc/s1600-h/Mongolia+trip+2005+099.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDg4oSRsLB5ym1QX89z8puWKA_f3y9IYqIE1lYlLU2lyDJv-ZDDpaFFxTmz76CXDRGpiWSGJojtfW93SWVWh161cWmSc5nHPqi7qjZJSUCHgTDL-eK9CDwNu9DZH-i0lf_ZQgzQRxekc/s400/Mongolia+trip+2005+099.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296087841203915042" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family: verdana;">IMAGINE TRYING TO SEW WITH ALL THOSE LITTLE FINGERS PRYING INTO EVERYTHING!</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" > Eloise is not in any of these pictures, because she was the photographer! I was so glad she did it, because I would never have had pictures of what her team was doing if she hadn't taken them.<br /><br />The little blanket-makers worked hard all day, cutting the fringe and knotting it to keep it from fraying. When our team arrived, they found that the kids were using double-edged razor blades to cut the fringe! When Jerry was informed of this, he was horrified, of course, but couldn't suppress a smile at the same time. True to Mongolian nature, the </span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >ever-resourceful housemothers had simply used what they had, which happened to be razor blades. Jerry saw to it that some scissors were obtained and given to the children to use, which was obviously much safer, but to my knowledge, none of the little fingers had been cut while they were using the razor blades. Guardian angels, I suppose.<br /><br />Well, this installment grows lengthy, so I'll leave the account of our last day at the river for the next one. Tune in again tomorrow!<br /></span><span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-63592907651151129172009-01-10T12:15:00.000-08:002009-01-10T12:34:45.369-08:00A WONDERFUL, SATISFYING DAY!<span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >Wednesday morning -- we awaken early, dress quickly and assemble in the dining room for breakfast. This is a pretty predictable meal here at the Darkhan Hotel, but it's good. There are usually some boiled eggs, sliced bread, fried potatoes, sliced cheese, and butter and jam on the tables when we arrive. We start with that, and soon other things are brought in. Sometimes there are plates of wieners which have been sliced and lightly sauteed - they're actually pretty good. Then there may be scrambled eggs and once in a while, a little crepe-like packet with chopped meat inside. All in all, there is no need for anyone to leave the table hungry.<br /><br />Of course, the main topic of conversation is Ray, and how he fared during the night. The word is that he's about the same, though no worse, which is in itself encouraging. His long-term memory is fine, but his short-term memory just doesn't exist, as it relates to the accident and the events for several hours beforehand. He does seem to be able to retain current happenings, however, and that's good. Dr. Tom elects to stay behind with him, and everyone else disperses to their assigned places.</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br /><br />We load into our vans and again make the bruising ride out to the riverside. People are waiting when we arrive, and we immediately set to work. Barb, my partner in the triage tent, is a joy to work with. A Canadian, she has the direct, open manner that is typical of most Canadians, and is very knowledgeable and capable as well. Factor in her sense of humor and adjustable, resilient nature, and you have a recipe for a very enjoyable working environment. We soon find that we laugh at the same things, and as we work with our sweet and pleasant translators, we just generally have a very good time.<br /><br />The benches upon which we are perched are narrow and hard, and we soon become somewhat "saddle-sore", but by getting up now and then and changing our position frequently, we are able to minimize the discomfort. After all, we're not the only ones who are sitting on benches, and many people who are standing in line would probably love to be able to sit down somewhere, anywhere.<br /><br />Indeed, many of them do. They simply squat on their heels, or sit down directly on the ground. One doesn't have to observe these country people for very long to realize that they are completely in tune with nature, with the natural world, and are very comfortable with it. I would think twice before sitting directly on the ground, wondering about the presence of ants or ticks, or worse. They don't appear to worry, they just sit down, and nothing ever seems to attack them, so I guess it's all right.<br /><br />A little gray tent with a zippered door has been provided for our convenience, enclosing a freshly-dug hole in the ground, and a little seat placed above the hole. We Westerners, as well as our translators and other CTW folks, can all be seen making occasional visits to the little tent. The Mongols, on the other hand, simply disappear into the brush around the camp for a few minutes, then reappear just as casually and go on about their business. They seem quite comfortable and unconcerned, and one can only assume that this is a fact of life to them, not worthy of a second thought. Obviously, there is no water tap for washing one's hands, but Barb and I have bottles of liquid hand sanitizer, and wouldn't think of resuming contact with our patients without first using some of it, but no one else seems to bother. One exception would be our translators. These girls are not from herdsmen families, they're "city girls", so perhaps that explains it, or they may have been emulating Barb and me, but I did notice that they always used the sanitizer when they returned from a visit to the little gray tent.<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />The morning seemed to pass quickly, and before we knew it, it was time to go back to the little roadside cafe for lunch. The pre-set lunch today was a very hearty vegetable soup, and it was delicious. The flies are there to greet us, but we're trying not to notice them. The management has set up a fan in one corner of the room, and the circulating air seems to help just a little. The flies have to spend more time in the air, trying to make some headway before they can reach our tables and land. I consider offering to buy the management a second fan.<br /><br />We return to the riverside camp, and resume seeing patients. The line seems just as long now as it did this morning, but the people are remarkably patient. Again, these are country people, and they seem to take everything in stride. It's as though they know there is a rhythm to life, that things happen when and as they should, and they don't get bent out of shape when they have to wait a while. They treat us with a respectful deference that I find to be very humbling.<br /><br />Another thing that impresses me is the respect that the young people show for their elders. It's not at all unusual to see an elder approach our tent, leaning on and assisted by a child, probably a grandchild. These children are very solicitous of the elders, and take great pains to see to their comfort. Several times I've seen a child rubbing the stooped shoulders of some older person.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5TBv2BQXV_16lDYiqOpjnCzguL47s9JTNYNKdfW39EopJ_CxVDtSe607FDf17d9hn1rHGHAimbvjADu-X-vmNVvDxegL0HafhblC2D18ld4imilfkejI01AghixIacWXg4qNGDDTiR7U/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+176.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5TBv2BQXV_16lDYiqOpjnCzguL47s9JTNYNKdfW39EopJ_CxVDtSe607FDf17d9hn1rHGHAimbvjADu-X-vmNVvDxegL0HafhblC2D18ld4imilfkejI01AghixIacWXg4qNGDDTiR7U/s400/Mongolia+2005+176.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289764867571765234" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" > YOUNG GIRL ASSISTING HER GRANDMOTHER</span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />In this picture, note the heavy satin coat, or "del", worn by the older woman. The temperature is in the 80s, but still a lot of the older folk are dressed in this manner. This is truly a coat, she has other clothing on underneath. The riding boots come up to her knees. I would think she would be melting under all that, but she doesn't seem uncomfortable at all.<br /><br />Here's a scene from our "parking lot." Note that saddle!<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt19pryS8serFc_XcGpIh0qn49afQk0a-dPpFTmkxGnStNEgsJRWNPnEjcDqAA4ucWVbitiVcXwq9w5YOg7_RgzxeuMWwmuijpLx5eO0-_tPJgFQS0k9340VcqSzrI09TntEsE8NWjKrE/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+142.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt19pryS8serFc_XcGpIh0qn49afQk0a-dPpFTmkxGnStNEgsJRWNPnEjcDqAA4ucWVbitiVcXwq9w5YOg7_RgzxeuMWwmuijpLx5eO0-_tPJgFQS0k9340VcqSzrI09TntEsE8NWjKrE/s400/Mongolia+2005+142.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289764665911828178" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >A MONGOLIAN PARKING LOT! THE YEARLING SEEMS TO BE LOOKING FOR LUNCH.<br /><br />After my experience riding a Mongol horse last year, I can assure you that those saddles do not inspire confidence in someone used to a Western roping saddle. They are uncomfortable, you feel as though you are very precariously perched (you are), and that you could go flying over the horse's head without warning (you could!) I made it a point this year to observe riders in action, however, and I learned a lot. We Westerners are accustomed to sitting back in the saddle, resting against the cantle (the part that sticks up in the back.) Mongols ride literally standing in the stirrups and leaning forward against that high board in the front. I'm sure that structure has a name, but I don't know what it is. I did a bit of Google research but was unable to find any specific information. Try running a search on "Mongolian+saddle", however, and you'll find a wealth of related articles about Mongolia. Very interesting.<br /><br />Finally we see the last of the folks in our line, and have a little time to spend just walking around the camp, enjoying the view of the river and the mountains. It's truly a beautiful, awesome sight. The mountains have a timeless, majestic beauty, as most mountains do, but there is a sense of wildness and freedom out here that just leaves one breathless. I try to analyze the impression in my mind, but it's hard to say what inspires it. Perhaps it's the earthiness and simplicity of the people. Maybe it's the proximity of the swiftly-flowing river, with the mountains beyond it. It could be the presence of the horses that seem to appear about this time every evening, swimming the river a few hundred yards upstream. It could be all of these things together. Whatever it is, it's a feeling that I know I'll carry in my heart forever, my impression of the soul of Mongolia.<br /><br />We pack ourselves into our vans and head back for town, tired but happy. We're delighted to learn that Ray is improving. He still has some big holes in his memory, but some things have come back. He's eating, and seems to be feeling better. Dinner is ready for us almost as soon as we arrive, and while we're almost too tired to eat, we manage to do so! I can't remember what we were served, but I'd be willing to bet it included fried potatoes. That's okay with me. I love the Mongolian catsup, and the potatoes are a good excuse to eat it. I'm planning to take some home with me.<br /><br />Eloise and I return to our room, and find to our relief that the water is running clear today, and we're able to get good showers and wash our hair. I wash about a pound of dust and grit out of mine. Grateful for a short haircut, I just comb it back and go to bed. It will dry. Eloise and I converse only briefly, exchanging a few experiences of the day, and soon we're asleep. It's nearly ten o'clock, and it's not yet dark outside.<br /></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-35127922060541535682009-01-05T11:01:00.000-08:002009-01-05T11:23:52.241-08:00<span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" >Before I tell you what happened in Hongor, let me take you back to Darkhan for a moment. After we left the remote medical site, we returned to Darkhan briefly, and received some very disturbing news. You will remember that Ray and Jay and Pastor Midor left this morning, riding camels and horses, to journey through the steppes and witness to herdsmen families along the way. Well, it seems that shortly after their departure, Ray had somehow fallen from his camel, landing on his head and hands. No one was quite sure how it happened. Pastor Midor left Jay with the animals and supplies, and had somehow gotten Ray to the road where he was able to flag down a passing car. Given the scarcity of motor vehicles in Mongolia, this was a miracle in itself. The driver agreed to take them back to Darkhan, and upon arrival at the hotel, Pastor Midor had delivered Ray into the care of the CTW staff there and returned to catch up with Jay.<br /><br />When our group arrived, our Dr. Ron and Dr. Tom were immediately made aware of the situation, and went to see about Ray. What they found was both reassuring and frightening. He knew who he was, he knew the people around him, he could give his wife's name and those of his children, but he had no idea what had happened, where he was or why, or how he had gotten there. He had no memory of having been on a camel, let alone falling off of it. In fact, he had very little memory of the trip at all. He would ask the same questions every few minutes - what happened, how he got there, what he was doing on a camel.<br /><br />In addition to the obvious concussion he had sustained, he had injured his wrists as well. Both were swollen and painful, and beginning to bruise. Our doctors wrapped his wrists securely to limit motion in them, and mainly focused their attention on his head injury. There was no way to determine the degree or type of injury. In the states, he would have been in the ER immediately, with CT or MRI scans being done, but remember, we are in Mongolia. Not just in Mongolia, but in a very small town there. Had we been in Ulaanbaatar, more than four hours away, things would have been a little bit better, though still nowhere near the level of care that would have been available for him at home. So, the decision was made to just watch him, make sure he remained alert, and see if he improved. Any hint of worsening of his condition and he would be put in a car and taken to Ulaanbaatar as quickly as possible. The doctors stayed with him, and the rest of us departed for Hongor and the CTW compound.<br /><br />When we arrived there, we followed a path down to the river, where a crowd had gathered on the banks. There were dozens of children in the water, splashing and playing, churning up the muddy bottom and having a wonderful time. No one wore a swimsuit, they were just in their shorts and t-shirts. They were, we knew, "Jerry's kids", children from the orphanage. Incidentally, I don't like that word - "orphanage." It conjures up too many negative images, probably drawn from <i>Oliver Twist</i> and other novels, and from old movies. It sounds much too institutional. I think I prefer "children's home" and will use that term from now on.<br /><br />After all, a home is exactly what Jerry and company have provided for the kids. Until the construction is completed at the compound, only the Mustangs live out there. The rest of the children live in small groups in apartments in Darkhan. Each group has a houseparent, and every effort is made to keep their environment as home-like as possible. Visitors are discouraged from going to their apartments, lest the children feel they're "on display." Instead, when groups such as ours are there, the children are brought to us. They enjoy the outing, and their sense of place and privacy are preserved.<br /><br />Back to the riverbanks! While the children were playing a few yards downstream from where we were standing, a beautiful and dramatic event was taking place a few yards upstream. People were being baptized! Jerry and Pastor Alex were in the water, and one by one, people would walk across the shallow side of the river to where they were standing, in water that was about waist-deep. Smaller children were escorted across. There, they were given scriptural baptism, by immersion. For the benefit of anyone reading this who may not know, we Baptists do not believe that baptism saves us. Many non-Baptists think that we do, but that's simply not true. We are not saved because we've been baptized, we accept baptism because we are saved. Salvation comes through faith in Christ, and acceptance of the fact that He died for the sole purpose of paying the penalty for our sins. Baptism is a picture of his death, burial and resurrection. By being baptized, we portray our death to our old life, burial with him, and resurrection to a new life. It is a picture, a witness, nothing more. It does not save.<br /><br />Still, it is a precious and emotional moment for every new Christian. Many of those being baptized were children, and how sweet it is when a little child comes, in simple faith, and accepts Jesus as their Lord. They have their whole lifetime to live for Him. Not all were children, however. Many of those being baptized were older.<br /><br />Imagine my joy to see my friend from last year, Batsengel (BatBubba) as he walked across the river and presented himself for baptism. The joy radiating from Jerry's face was a picture in itself. Batsengel was one of my translators last year, and has been a mainstay for Jerry and his ministry all this time, but was not a Christian. Jerry described him as a "seeker." Well, this year he found what he had been seeking, believed it, and was baptized. I cannot describe my joy as I watched that beautiful scene. Later, I discovered to my dismay that in my emotional state I had failed to focus my camera, and the picture was a blurry loss. No matter. I have it stored in my own memory. Here's another picture, though, of the newly-baptized Batsengel, helping Jerry and Pastor Alex to baptize another of Jerry's kids.<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXltvHggInrE5F9aGcWM8uJdzzI8DJkGsaMScJltwoaFMcAXngY9xJFOKay6iuwBaYAvrH2YdFY5bHR1tIWeSE_zlIEH7tEm5Hjuay2ypZKIfGus5NHhucYr9yQefDzZa85tDgjugokA/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+115.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMXltvHggInrE5F9aGcWM8uJdzzI8DJkGsaMScJltwoaFMcAXngY9xJFOKay6iuwBaYAvrH2YdFY5bHR1tIWeSE_zlIEH7tEm5Hjuay2ypZKIfGus5NHhucYr9yQefDzZa85tDgjugokA/s400/Mongolia+2005+115.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287887866339883954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">JERRY, BATSENGEL AND PASTOR ALEX, BAPTIZING ONE OF JERRY'S KIDS</span></span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">An additional pleasure was to see Batsengel's lovely fiancee, Oyuka, as she was baptized also. What a joy to think of the two of them, as they marry and establish a Christian home there in Mongolia. What will they accomplish for the Lord in their lifetime? The opportunities and possibilities are immeasurable.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> I can't remember the exact number of baptisms that day, but I think it was at least 30. What a blessing that this took place, and how privileged we were to witness it. Standing on that riverbank in the sunshine, with the beautiful mountains all around us, and the almost Biblical scene unfolding before our eyes, I just felt like it doesn't get any better than this!</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"> Finally, the last child was baptized and emerged, dripping, from the river, to be hugged by the adults and congratulated by friends. I never saw so many big, broad smiles in one place in my whole life. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Soon the crowd began to drift up the slopes and down another path to an area where benches and chairs had been set up under some trees. We knew we had been invited to a true Mongolian barbecue, and we gathered there in eager anticipation of the meal. Now, most of us have eaten at restaurants that feature Mongolian barbecue, and we have a pretty good idea what to expect there. Well, let me tell you, it's not the same in Mongolia. Those Mongolians don't know the first thing about how to do Mongolian barbecue, if you ask me! </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />First of all, the meat to be barbecued is goat meat. It's not bought at the local supermarket, either. A goat is selected and brought to the area and killed on the spot. Anyone who knows me at all knows just about how much I liked that idea. I'm the world's biggest hypocrite when it comes to eating meat. I'll buy chicken and steak and pork chops at the store, in nice neat little packages, and never give a second thought to how that meat got in those packages. I'll eat venison, too, but I could never pull the trigger and shoot a deer. So, I was struggling with the notion of the poor goat being so freshly killed, just over a little rise, barely out of our sight. Then one of my friends, Angela, put it into words that just stopped me cold. She said she saw them leading the frolicking little goat over the rise, and "he thought he was going to the party, and then ggkkkkk" and she made a slicing motion across her throat. Well, that did it for me. No way was I going to be able to eat that little goat.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />The meat is prepared in a strange fashion. It's basically just cut into chunks, placed into a metal container and more or less buried in hot coals. It cooks very quickly. In no time at all, one of Jerry's kids was standing in front of me with a plate and a big anticipatory smile. Obviously, this was a real treat in her eyes, and she was anxious for me to enjoy it, too. I took the plate, eyed the chunk of gristly meat and the rib bone sticking out, and wondered if I could actually eat it. Pulling a shred of the meat off, I put it in my mouth and managed to choke it down. It had a gamey taste, which I usually don't find objectionable. As I said, I like venison, and I've eaten wild turkey as well, and liked it. Somehow, though, this was different. I think it was mostly an emotional thing, but I just couldn't get past the mental picture of the little goat, prancing along on his way to the party, and then his untimely, totally unexpected demise. I pushed the food around on my plate for a few minutes, then managed to put it down a few feet away from where I was sitting, and hoped no one noticed. If they did, they were kind enough not to say anything. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />After the barbecue, as we were walking back to the vans, I happened to be walking beside Batsengel, and congratulated him on his baptism. His friendly face broke into a huge smile, and the joy of the Lord just fairly radiated from him. He said it was just so amazing to him, that he could have gone so long, thinking he was fine and needed nothing, hearing the Word but not really listening, and then suddenly everything became so clear, and he understood. He said he cannot describe the joy in his heart now, and how it is made doubly precious by the salvation of his fiancee as well. I gave him a big hug, and told him how happy I am for him, and how certain I am that God has big plans for him. He's really a treasure!</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Arriving at our hotel, we were all eager for word on Ray's condition. We were told that he was about the same, still no memory of falling off the camel, but no sign of worsening of his condition, either. His closest friends were sticking very near, and Bobby, as always, was teasing and picking at him. To everyone's joy and relief, Ray was responding with his usual sharp wit and humor, and that was encouraging.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Eloise and I went to our room, tired and about ready for bed. To our horror, we realized that we had left the door to our little balcony open, and squadrons of opportunistic flies had come in. They were everywhere. Much to our surprise, we had noticed earlier that there was a flyswatter in our room, so we employed it and went to work. We swatted flies for about half an hour, and finally got all but a couple that were on the ceiling in the bathroom and we couldn't reach them. We just closed the bathroom door and went to bed, vowing to buy a can of spray tomorrow. </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Sleep always comes quickly for me in Mongolia. I don't know whether it's fatigue, the fresh air, the distance from the concerns of daily life at home, or just what the reason, but tonight was no exception. In spite of the miserable bed, I was asleep in just a few minutes, after a quick silent prayer for Ray. I'm sure there were many of those prayers hammering on Heaven's gates that night.</span> </span> <br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-40757669937997721312009-01-02T22:04:00.000-08:002009-01-02T22:27:41.805-08:00HOME ON THE RANGE<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">When we first arrived at the remote site, there were no people waiting, which was a blessing. This gave our staff time to devote their attention to Smiley's knee, and gave Barb and me time to set up the benches and tables in our tent to our liking. As I've said, our location is beautiful, with the swift river flowing nearby, and the mountains in the distance, seeming to smile their approval of what we're doing. The free-ranging livestock makes an occasional appearance, with a few cows wandering by now and then. In the distance, a herd of horses can be seen, fording the river.</span><br /></span><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3CfGViMtg4ESXtGiSd4B2CVC8CucLidJqHqWz-Ns5A_4SfE0MqHaKpeu-biapF7brnMMkARaFyCYd3wPju1Ywc_lkhkMRRVcmo1s6XRPBop-KH_SNkAj138AJPF7mfYAmxMgWAmDUDiY/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+131.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3CfGViMtg4ESXtGiSd4B2CVC8CucLidJqHqWz-Ns5A_4SfE0MqHaKpeu-biapF7brnMMkARaFyCYd3wPju1Ywc_lkhkMRRVcmo1s6XRPBop-KH_SNkAj138AJPF7mfYAmxMgWAmDUDiY/s400/Mongolia+2005+131.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286945623196463202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">HORSES FORDING THE RIVER</span></span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The scene reminds me of an event from last year, one that will be in my memory forever. Toom Chris and I were sitting in our tent, taking vital signs on our patients, when we became aware of a thundering sound. It had started softly, as though in the distance, but we quickly became aware that it was coming closer, and we weren't sure just what it was. Then it dawned on us - it was hoofbeats. Many hoofbeats, and they were now very near. We jumped up and ran to the side of our tent, just in time to see a herd of 30 or 40 beautiful horses as they crested a nearby ridge, flowed over the top and came sweeping down the hillside off to our right, headed straight for our tent. At the last instant, or so it seemed to us, they veered off and continued their charge, straight up the hill behind the tent, over the top and they were gone, as suddenly as they had appeared. I didn't even have time to think about my camera, much less focus and shoot. I will always regret that, because it was a beautiful sight, albeit a bit frightening, and I'm sorry that I was unable to record it. The picture is there in my memory, though, and I'm grateful for that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After a little while, a few people appeared, and then more, and more, and soon we had a long line waiting outside our tent. The Mustangs had placed a few benches inside the tent for the convenience of those who had been by the intake table and had received their registration card. There were a few more benches outside the tent, for those waiting to come inside. Those benches filled quickly, and soon there was a line of people standing as well. True to Mongolian nature, they waited quietly, maintained their place in line according to the order of their arrival, and things went smoothly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">There were no surprises. Based on my experiences last year, I was pretty sure I knew what to expect, and had filled Barb in as well, and sure enough, nothing had changed. A very high percentage of the people are hypertensive, many of them alarmingly so. Blood pressures of 200/120 are not unusual. Some of them admit to having been given medication for their blood pressure, but almost all will tell you that they "only take it when I need it." Need, apparently, is determined by the severity of their headache. Barb and I quickly teach our interpreters the little speech about taking the medicine all the time to keep their pressure from going up, and the girls faithfully repeat it to the patients when we say "tell them the blood pressure story", but we can tell from the expression on the people's faces that they aren't buying it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">There are a lot of factors at work here. Poverty is a big one. Most of these people can't afford to buy the medicines they need, and when they do manage to fill a prescription, they want to make it last as long as possible. They'll cut pills in half, or skip doses, or as so many do, only take it when they think they really need it. Another factor is distance. Remember how far we drove to get out here? Well, it's just as far for them to get into town to get medicine, and they don't make that trip very often. Many of them have no motorized transportation, and are miles from a road anyway. These folks live on the land, out on the steppes, at bare subsistence level. They raise and herd animals for food, using the milk and the meat to stay alive. A few have tiny gardens, and I suppose they buy a few groceries when someone makes a trip to town, but those trips are few and far between. Blood pressure pills just aren't on the top of their priority list.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Another big complaint is kidney pain. High blood pressure will beat up one's kidneys, and these people are chronically dehydrated, of course, so probably their kidneys aren't in very good shape. Clean water must be brought in, in many cases, and they just don't drink enough of it. There are some wells, and the nomadic families move from well to well, and I suppose there are some springs, but water doesn't just flow from a tap at someone's whim. The Mongolian word for "kidney" sounds like "poorrrr", with the r's rolled. It's one of the few words I learned in the language, and when a patient was telling Goldie (my interpreter) about his or her complaints, I could pick out that word and would write down "kidney pain" on their card before Goldie even translated it. Actually, we could almost have just written it down for everyone, because nearly all complain of kidney pain.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It's probably true that many of their kidney complaints are really something else, like back pain from their hard-working lifestyle. Also, the Chinese herbalist "doctors" come through periodically, and tell them they have kidney problems. They then proceed to sell them some concoction of herbs at outrageous prices. These herbalists offer all sorts of diagnoses, most of which sound ludicrous to us, but the uneducated country folk believe them, and will bankrupt themselves buying the "cures" the herbalists offer. Several women presented babies for our examination, telling us that the baby had "hot spots" on their head, and inviting us to feel them. Yes, in 85 degree weather, when the baby is wearing a sweater and a knitted hat, I would imagine his or her head would have some hot spots. We were also told by some mothers that their baby had a "sweating disease." Again, too much clothing in warm weather, but the herbalists had given their diagnosis, and the mothers believe them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Tammy, in her role as doctor, met one patient who complained of kidney pain, and who showed her some large brown circles on his back, like brown bruises. Further questioning revealed that the Chinese "doctor" had applied hot cups to his back. They put fire in a specially designed cup, and place the mouth of the cup over the kidney area, and the resulting heat is supposed to draw out the bad spirits, along with the pain. Naturally, this burns the skin, even producing blisters, but the patient is convinced that he's being helped. I suppose the discoloration and blisters are evidence that the bad spirits have left. It's hard to believe that people can be fooled by such quackery, but they take it very seriously.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It's hard for me to accept that a country as technologically advanced as China can produce people like these herbalists, but it's true. Of course, money is the prime motivator, but there's something else. The Chinese still hold captive bears in tiny cages, and implant tubes into their gall bladders to drain the bile to be used as medicine. They traffick in all sorts of animal body parts - rhino horn, tiger paws and testes, and other things equally horrific. All these things are truly believed to provide strength, virility and health. So, I guess it's not surprising that they combine those shamanistic beliefs with the opportunity for financial gain, and the poor Mongolian herdsmen are the losers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After a few hours of taking vital signs and hearing complaints of kidney pain, back pain, joint pain, heart pain and headaches, Barb and I began to turn our thoughts toward lunch! I had noticed that there was no food/supply ger like last year, and was wondering just how lunch was going to arrive, when someone came and told us we would be going off-site. We got in vans and traveled the rutted road back to the highway, and then stopped at a small restaurant about a quarter-mile from our turnoff. When I say "restaurant", don't envision Denny's or Outback. This was a small structure that looked more like a little house, with parking space for about six cars. The ubiquitous outhouse could be seen about fifty yards away, at the end of a little path.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">We entered, and chose a couple of the ten or so tables inside. We quickly learned that we were going to share the tables with a legion of flies, and no one seemed to pay any attention, so we tried to ignore them, too. Now, this is not easy for me. My mother followed me around with a flyswatter when I was a child in the 40's, the polio years. She taught me to despise them, and I still do. It took an effort of will for me to overlook the fact that the flies which swarmed in the dining area had most likely visited the kitchen as well. However, the only thing I would hate more than flies, would be to offend my gentle Mongolian friends, so I just ate what was brought to me and kept quiet. The food was hearty and good, and I'm sure my mom would be surprised to know that I didn't sicken and die after eating food which had first been prayed over by the flies.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After lunch, we returned to the site and saw more patients. Same song, second verse. A constant litany of the same complaints, punctuated by the occasional arrival of some of the cutest little kids I ever saw. Here's one:<br /><br /></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuYa_GgUF_95atg6GQntOvVlhJH2iY1jrzlaxL71Lmm0b5p4kzFIpw4co4OojjIxW9wyOFh1-6lAAt9ZGfFolNeLMbwWoQ97H9LPKbKZOHvE9Hj3m0_FZf4VZ1usopA1iiMGippZm8DE/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+226.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuYa_GgUF_95atg6GQntOvVlhJH2iY1jrzlaxL71Lmm0b5p4kzFIpw4co4OojjIxW9wyOFh1-6lAAt9ZGfFolNeLMbwWoQ97H9LPKbKZOHvE9Hj3m0_FZf4VZ1usopA1iiMGippZm8DE/s400/Mongolia+2005+226.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286946000234319778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"> <span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">CAN YOU BELIEVE THOSE CHEEKS?</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br /></span></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br />After a couple of hours, the line had dwindled, and soon we learned why. At some point, the word was put out that we would be leaving early, and people stopped coming, planning to come tomorrow instead. I don't know how the message is communicated, but they manage. I never heard drums or saw any smoke signals, but they still get it done.<br /><br />We finished up, loaded into the vans, and returned to town. We went out to Hongor, the little village near Darkhan that is the site of the CTW compound. They told us that something special was going to happen that evening, and believe me, it did.<br /><br />More tomorrow.....</span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-18988512690497018442008-12-30T16:26:00.000-08:002008-12-30T16:45:28.120-08:00LET THE WORK BEGIN!<span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's Tuesday morning, and we're up early, full of anticipation. It is our first day "on the job" in Mongolia, and we're anxious to get started. The emotional impact of the events of the previous evening have made us more eager than ever to get into our assigned places and go to work. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Eloise and I didn't get to shower last night, so we're hoping to be able to do so this morning. Why didn't we shower last night? Well, I'll tell you. One problem - the water. The cold water was okay, but the hot water was running a rich red color. I tried to convince myself that it was just a little rust in the lines, but it didn't work. I just couldn't make myself shower in water that looked like that. I can accept, even cherish, the metaphor in the hymns about being "washed in the blood of the Lamb", but this is here on earth and just looked a bit too real for me. So, a cold water wash-up had to do. We were hoping the situation would improve by this morning. It has, and we manage to get a fairly decent shower.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Later, we learn that the hot water comes from lines that travel throughout the city, from a central heating point somewhere. So, the hot water that comes through our bathroom, if not diverted by our tap, goes right back out and on to another location. This seems very strange, until one stops to realize that the same thing happens at home with the cold water that circulates through the city water lines. The only difference is that we heat it ourselves at the point of use. Still, circulating hot water doesn't seem to me to be a very efficient plan. One would think there would be a lot of heat loss as the water travels through miles of lines. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">After a good breakfast in the dining room, and a motivating pep talk from our leaders, we break up and proceed downstairs to join our respective groups. Two of our guys, Ray and Jay (now there's a combination!) are going with Pastor Midor on a journey through the steppes, to visit individual families in their gers and witness to them. Pastor Midor is a Mongolian, a very committed Christian with a true evangelist's heart. He has been described, accurately I think, as a modern-day Paul. The love of God shines in his eyes, the fervor of his calling resonates around him like an aura, and one feels blessed just being in his presence.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Pastor Midor and Ray and Jay plan to spend the next week on this journey, riding camels and/or horses, and leading some pack animals as well, with the supplies they will need. It sounds exciting! I wish I could go along, but of course, a woman on a trip such as this wouldn't be proper, and probably not terribly practical. Here's a picture of the three guys:</span></span><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7qfE4E4hfzOLFeyp34lCg89Jt4ve0t2xFRpgjFxSsY9Fe5NbN8lb4NGOmR61Tg912clEeJu4_Du91aKVJCNnj9CuMGzkX7AyRYjVLh4nr5Ug9za0YwphWjcldot7cKWtarSCcZzXLXg/s1600-h/Mongolia+2005+352.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG7qfE4E4hfzOLFeyp34lCg89Jt4ve0t2xFRpgjFxSsY9Fe5NbN8lb4NGOmR61Tg912clEeJu4_Du91aKVJCNnj9CuMGzkX7AyRYjVLh4nr5Ug9za0YwphWjcldot7cKWtarSCcZzXLXg/s400/Mongolia+2005+352.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285747904893867570" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" >RAY, PASTOR MIDOR, AND JAY<br /></span></div><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:+1;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" > The trio of traveling evangelists leaves the hotel to go find their animals, and the rest of us gather, preparing to depart for our areas of service. Eloise is going to the sewing center, along with others. There they expect to be teaching the Mongol women how to sew, and helping them make clothing and blankets and quilts for the children. Eloise is armed with her special left-handed scissors and a lot of expertise. I can only dream of sewing as well as she does.<br /><br />Another group is going out into the town, to visit ill and needy elders in the apartment buildings. I was originally scheduled for this duty, but since the apartments can have five stories or more and of course, there are no working elevators, there is no way I can navigate all those stairs with my damaged knee. One of our men, Bobby, has generously loaned me an Ace knee wrap, and it helps some, but it's not a brace. It serves more to give me a more secure feeling and to remind me not to put any stress on the knee. Stairs at this point are simply not an option. So, I'm reassigned to join the team going out to the remote medical site. This is what I did last year, and so I know that I'll spend most of the day sitting on a bench. I can just about handle that.<br /><br />We get into our assigned vans and the journey begins. To our surprise, the vans are not the beat-up, bedraggled and suffering Russian vans we rode in last year. We are in relatively new vehicles, with doors that actually close and are not tied on with bits of rope. The windows open and close, a real novelty. The vans are roomy and the seats are comfortable. We are told that the Russian vans were otherwise engaged, and they were not able to get them for us. I'm not sure whether this is a tongue-in-cheek statement, or the truth. I'm sure the Russian vans would cost less to rent than the ones we're enjoying this year, and while those old vans will beat you to death, still I can respect the need for good stewardship of the ministry's funds. Our bruises might be painful, but a big dent in the budget would hurt a lot more.<br /><br />Besides, the old Russian vans were fun. I'm a little disappointed that our first-timers will miss that experience. Still, even in the newer, more modern vans, the trip over the countryside is no walk in the park. It's not as rough as last year, due in part to better suspension in the vans, but also due in large part to the fact that it has not been raining. Last year, there had been a lot of rain, and the track (no way can it be called a road) was rutted and slippery, with a lot of wash-outs and deep gullies that had to be traversed. Still, we made it, and we had fun. We'll make it this year, too, but it won't be quite as much fun.<br /><br />When we arrive at the site, it looks much like it did last year. We're in the same beautiful location, on the bend of a swiftly-flowing river. Our triage tent has been set up by the industrious Mustangs, and there are gers for the doctors and the pharmacist. Dr. Tom will be in one ger, Dr. Ron in another, and Tammy, an RN with a lot of field experience as a Navy nurse, will function as a doctor this year, in a third ger. She's savvy enough to send anything she feels is beyond her expertise over to one of the MD's, so it's okay.<br /><br />At this point, let me explain who the Mustangs are, for those of you who didn't read last year's journal. They're the older teenage boys from the ministry, and they live and function in a sort of "boot camp" situation. They chose the name "Mustangs" for themselves, and it's great to watch the spirit of pride and almost military discipline under which they live. They're capable and hard-working, and very obliging. If you need something done, and done quickly, ask a Mustang. They're eager to help and to please.<br /><br />They live at the main compound, near the village of Hongor. This compound is located on the land that was deeded over to the ministry by the Mongolian government, and it's beautiful. It's situated on a lovely section of the river, and would be prime land in any country. The greenhouses, the warehouses and the Mustangs' dormitories are located there. As you will see later, the new "church ger" is located there as well. In time, Jerry and Susan will build their home there, next door to the church. It will be lovely, a roomy ger built over a dugout basement, which will have one wall of windows with a beautiful view of the river. If ever anyone deserved such a home, they do.<br /><br />Back to the Mustangs. There are twelve of them, I think. They wear their fatigue-style clothes, and various styles of hats, so they're very identifiable. I recall many of them from last year's trip, and am happy to see them again. They come over for hugs, and to demonstrate the improvements in their English. I remember one young man in particular. He's never without a smile on his face, and we nicknamed him Smiley last year. They are so sweet, it's hard to imagine that they have all come from situations of abuse, abandonment, poverty and want. Most are now Christians, but I must stress that this is not pushed on them, it's a free and willing choice.<br /><br />When a team such as ours is visiting, it's the Mustangs that do the very important work of setting up and breaking down our camps. Those boys can set a ger up in less than two hours, and can tear one down in twenty minutes. They can take our tent down in about five minutes. I don't know how long it takes them to set it up, but I imagine it's not very long.<br /><br />Once we arrive and start seeing patients, the boys function as escorts for the patients, helping them get through the intake area where they are given a registration card, and then they keep them in proper order of arrival as they go through our triage area. Once we have seen the patient, gotten their vital signs and a brief history of their complaints, there is always a Mustang standing ready to escort them to the benches outside the doctors' gers. They're careful to keep the waiting lines at about the same length, always taking their patient to the shortest line. There are usually two or three who just circulate around the camp, running errands, fetching bottles of water for us when we run dry, and holding babies while moms are being seen by the nurses.<br /><br />When we arrived this first morning, it was immediately noticed that one of the young Mustangs had a serious problem. He was barely walking, just hobbling along, with his knee bent and obviously painful. Investigation revealed a badly infected, hugely swollen knee. He had fallen from his bicycle a few days back, sustaining an abrasion and possibly a puncture wound to the knee. It had become infected and abscessed, and needed immediate attention. He, in true teenage boy fashion, had just gone about his business and had not reported it to anyone.<br /><br />Dr. Ron immediately set to work. The knee needed to be incised and drained, but we weren't prepared for surgery and had no scalpels in our supplies. Not to worry - Dr. Ron is resourceful. He used the largest-bore needle he could find, and more or less perforated a line across the abscess until it opened on its own. Once it was cleaned out, the wound was packed and bandaged, and the boy was started on a course of strong antibiotics. None of this came a moment too soon. An infection like that could have easily invaded the joint and it's not inconceivable that it could have cost the boy his leg. However, with the improvised but effective treatment, and the antibiotics, Smiley was walking much better by the next day. Yep, it was my happy-faced little friend. The pain subsided rapidly, healing started immediately, and by the end of our visit his knee was fine.<br /><br />We went right to work seeing patients, and my companion in triage this time was Barb, a nurse from Canada. She and her husband have joined our group, will be working with us for our entire stay, and then they will continue on and travel in Mongolia for a few weeks after we leave. I miss my colleague from last year, Toom Chris, but soon find that Barb is fun, friendly and very capable. I know we're going to be friends, and will have a great time working together.<br /><br />This grows lengthy, so I'm going to stop here and pick up today's events in another installment.</span><br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-57929450382103956802008-12-16T08:19:00.000-08:002008-12-16T13:47:30.827-08:00<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >Finally, we are on the ground in Beijing. I know what you're thinking right now - "This is the third installment and we're still traveling? We aren't in Mongolia yet?" Well, if you think you're tired of reading about it, imagine how we were feeling as we were living it! <br /><br />As I said, we're now in Beijing, and after deplaning, we follow Omar through the challenging maze of the airport. We are to collect our luggage which, by no small miracle, has made it to Beijing with us. I can't imagine what it took to get it off our broken plane and reloaded onto the one that actually brought us here. Transferring the luggage for about 500 people would be a monumental task, but they did it.<br /><br />We complete all the formalities in the airport - and they are legion - and gather at a staging point designated by Omar. He is deep in negotiations with United Airlines, as our Miat Airlines flight to Ulaanbaatar has long since departed without us, and there is nothing else until tomorrow. It is Omar's opinion that since it was United's fault that we are going to be stranded here overnight, they should pay for hotel accommodations for us. Naturally, United sees it differently, but implacable as always, Omar finally convinces them and they agree. <br /><br />Omar manages to get enough rooms for us at the Sino-Swiss hotel, where we stayed last year, and the hotel sends vans to pick us up. Our luggage is loaded in with us, with large pieces in the aisles and smaller pieces in our laps, and away we go!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >Arrival at the Sino-Swiss feels like coming home, weary as we are. Those of us who are veterans of last year's trip remember the hotel very well. It's nice - not overly luxurious, but very comfortable. After the heat and humidity outside, our room is cool, the beds are comfortable, and there is a shower that willing delivers a generous supply of hot water. At least it does after we remember that we are in China and the hot water tap is on the right! We wash away a layer or two of travel grime, and with grateful sighs, we settle into the clean beds and very quickly fall asleep. <br /><br />Five a.m. comes with astonishing speed, and we are up, dressed and in the lobby well before six. The group assembles, and soon we're back on the vans, heading for the airport. Due to the very early hour, the traffic is quite light, and we oldtimers are mildly disappointed, because we had been anticipating the expressions on the faces of the newcomers when they saw Beijing's traffic for the first time. Consoling ourselves that we'll have that bit of fun on our return trip, we give way to gratitude that we're going to make it to the airport in record time. <br /><br />Indeed, the vans deliver us to the airport in just a few minutes, and we follow Omar inside. There is a delay, while our group assembles and Omar goes off to begin negotiations to get us on a Miat flight. For some reason, United needs to be involved - probably to confirm why we missed yesterday's flight and therefore need to get on one today. Finally, the appropriate officials show up, Asian amenities are observed and we can see Omar smiling. That's a very good sign, and sure enough, in a few minutes the Miat ticket counter is opened and the agents begin issuing boarding passes to our group.<br /><br />Once this is done, Omar again leads us through the various phases of approval required by China. We visit Customs, fill out and turn in our health questionnaire (as though anyone with an ounce of smart would admit to being ill and risk being quarantined in China) and complete our exit cards. All documents ask for essentially the same information, all are collected by an unsmiling Chinese and put into a large pile of similar forms. I feel so certain that each of these are carefully read and processed at some point, probably sometime within the next two years. What is the point? Still, we do it.<br /><br />We make our way to our gate and soon are boarding a plane bound for Ulaanbaatar, in Mongolia. The Miat staff, as always, are friendly, charming, efficient and make us feel welcome. The two young female attendants are lovely, very beautiful women. As soon as we're in the air, cabin service begins and is almost non-stop thereafter. At this rate, we'll all soon be too large to fit in our seats! <br /><br />There is some cloud cover, and we're not able to see the Great Wall. I couldn't have seen much anyway, from my aisle seat. Too bad. It's truly a sight to behold from the air, but I have to content myself with memories of last year's flight. In what seems a very short time by comparison to the last flights, we feel the plane start to throttle down and before we know it, we're on the ground in Ulaanbaatar.<br /><br />In the jetway after leaving the plane, I stop to attach my carry-on bag to the little wheels I bought. Taking a step backward for a more stable position, I suddenly find myself flat on my back. My first thought is that I've somehow fallen off the jetway, but immediately, reason tells me that this isn't possible. It's enclosed, for heaven's sake! All I can remember is stepping back, and the odd impression that either my leg wasn't there, or there was nothing beneath it to stand on. Obviously, neither of those options can be true. I become aware that my knee, the one I twisted on the United flight, is hurting. OK, that explains it. The knee simply gave way. <br /><br />Immediately, I see faces above me, and hands are reaching to help me up. Dr. Tom and others soon have me on my feet, my carry-on is retrieved and I'm assured it will be taken care of, and I have a tall, strong man on either side, practically carrying me through the jetway. I have probably been this embarrassed at some other point in my life, but right now, I can't think when it was. Feeling like the world's biggest klutz, I gratefully allow the guys to assist me.<br /><br />Fortunately, the airport in Ulaanbaatar is small and informal. There is only one luggage carousel (maybe two?) and the guys find a chair nearby, deposit me there and go off to retrieve my luggage. That's not a problem. Everyone on the trip knows my blue and white flowered luggage. In fact, it's used as a signal to let us know when we're at the right carousel. If my "hand-painted periwinkles" bag appears, then this must be the place!<br /><br />All the luggage is collected, and Dr. Tom - ever the gentleman - insists on helping me outside to the bus which is waiting for us, to take us to Darkhan. Others of the guys are nearby, as well. I feel safe. I'm walking okay, though the knee is tender and feels very unstable. Of course, I thought I was walking okay before I fell in the jetway, too. It's a bit disconcerting to realize that I can't depend on my knee to hold me up, but it's encouraging to know that I won't be left stranded, like a turtle on its back.<br /><br />Again let me say, the only reason I'm recounting this personal situation is to underscore the spirit of unity, of helpfulness, of support for each other that is woven through our group like a golden thread. I can't see my bags anywhere, but I'm not worried. I know that someone has taken care of them. I know that Eloise has the bag containing my cameras, and my passport is secured in a little leather pouch which hangs around my neck. As I attempt to board the bus and find that I cannot use my left leg to lift myself up the steps, hands are there to support and assist, and I'm quickly settled into a comfortable seat. The bus is large, and there are empty seats, so Eloise is seated behind me and we each have a whole seat to ourselves. I'm glad, because now we can both see the beautiful Mongolian countryside as we travel toward Darkhan. I get myself situated, camera ready, and prepare to watch for remembered landmarks.<br /><br />This has been a long and arduous journey, but for those of us who have been here before, the stressful journey fades in our memories, no longer important. We know the joys and rewards of a period of service in this beautiful land, as we try to show the love of God to the remarkable people who live here. The first-timers in the group are fun to watch, as their anticipation and excitement overcome their fatigue. Of course, the same thing is happening to us old-timers as well.<br /><br />Finally, we're all on board and settled, and our driver shepherds the big vehicle out of the airport and onto the highway. We are on our way to Darkhan!<br /><br />As I watch the landscape unfold as we pass, I'm once again struck by the stark beauty of the place. I begin to recognize those landmarks I mentioned - a particularly spectacular group of hills, or a rocky outcropping. We pass many ovoos, but I don't see the one I photographed last year. I'm sure it has been added to by now, and would no longer look the same. An ovoo is a pile of stones, sticks, trinkets and other things that are piled together by travelers, as an offering to the spirits of the mountains. Often poles are stuck into the top of the heap, and strips of cloth are attached like banners. The cloth is always in the color I call "Buddha Blue". The same shade of blue, always. I learned from my translators last year that the color is often used by Buddhists, who believe it to be a sacred color to the Buddha. So, while established to pay homage to elemental spirits such as wind and rain, and to animal spirits as well, there is a strong overlay of Buddhism in the piles of debris known as ovoos. <br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >As we approach the halfway point, memories of the infamous restroom (read: outhouse) come to mind, and I'm thankful that I'll be able to pass up a visit there. The bus stops, however, and a few brave and/or desperate souls do enter the dark portals. Not I!<br /><br />We finally arrive in Darkhan, and are taken to the Darkhan Hotel, the same place we stayed last year. Still shabby, still crumbling, still struggling, but not seedy. Somehow, the woman who runs it manages to put in little touches that just break one's heart. Her daughter is one of our translators, and in the course of this visit, we learn about her struggles to extract operating funds from the owner. She usually can't even get enough for daily operation, much less repairs and upgrades. In the journal of our last trip, I described our room. Rickety furniture, threadbare carpet, unbelievable plumbing and broken bathroom tiles, but we had sheer curtains at the windows that bore lovely embroidery work. This time, everything is the same, but we find a pair of complimentary disposable slippers by each bed, and in the bathroom, on the sagging shelf above the cracked, leaky sink, we find a new toothbrush and some packets of shampoo. Later we are to learn that not every room had these little amenities. I guess the woman just does what she can, with the pittance the owner allows her for operating expenses. You have to give her credit for trying.<br /><br />After a little time for cleaning up and settling in, we gather in the dining room for dinner. The food, as usual, is good. Fried potatoes that quickly become everyone's favorite, which is a good thing, because we receive them three times a day. With some of that good Mongolian catsup on them, they're great! I don't recall what else we had, but it must have been good, because I do remember that I didn't go away hungry.</span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-74184035856674945542008-12-12T10:10:00.000-08:002008-12-12T10:20:02.974-08:00AN UNBELIEVABLY LONG FLIGHT<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">Our section is called, and we join the line of people boarding the huge airliner. We find our row and discover that we are in a 3-seat section again, but this time we are not alone. Eloise takes the window seat (I think she wants as far away from the aisle as she can get this time), I'm in the middle, and a very nice young man is seated by the aisle. He has a ready smile, and is very quick to help us stow our bags.<br /><br />We settle in and prepare to depart San Francisco. It is 1:15 p.m., our scheduled departure time. We wait, expecting to feel the gentle motion of the jet as it is pushed away from the gate, but nothing happens. The plane does not move. Minutes tick by, and it's getting warm and stuffy inside the airplane. People begin to speculate on the reason for the delay. We can see no empty seats that would indicate a delay to allow someone to make their connection, but then the plane is huge and we can't see the whole thing. It's getting very warm, and people are getting restless.<br /><br />Finally, after about half an hour, the pilot's voice comes over the intercom and announces that there is a problem with the ventilation system in one of the lavatories, and it will take about twenty minutes to repair it. There is an audible collective sigh as we settle down for a longer wait.<br /><br />Another half hour passes. We are now one hour late in departing. The pilot announces that a part is needed to complete the repair and it is being sent over by courier - another twenty minute delay. Apparently someone has asked the obvious question - why can't that lavatory just be locked and not used, and let us get on our way? The pilot explains that the ventilation in the lavatories is part of the overall smoke ventilation system for the entire aircraft, so it must be repaired and functional. Sigh. By now it is quite warm in the plane and several hundred people are getting hungry and restless.<br /><br />The twenty-minute explanation is repeated once more, and this time no one believes him. Our disbelief is justified, as we wait, and then wait some more. Finally, at about 4:30, the announcement is made that the problem cannot be corrected (apparently not in our lifetime, anyway) and we are going to deplane and wait for another aircraft to be made available. We can expect to depart San Francisco at 6:45 p.m. This does not bode well for us to make our connection with Miat Airlines in Beijing.<br /><br />Everyone gathers their belongings once again, and we leave the plane. Inside the terminal, we are given vouchers for food service and told from which gate our flight will eventually depart. Eloise and I hook up with three other women from our group and go in search of a restaurant. We don't find much. We finally end up at something that describes itself as a "deli". The sign should have read "Clip Joint". I spend $19.83 for a fair-to-middlin' sandwich, a tiny fruit cup, two cookies and a bottle of water. The voucher covers $15 of that, so I guess it was okay.<br /><br />After we've finished eating, I decide I'm tired of lugging my carry-on bag, which seems to be getting heavier by the minute. In a little luggage shop, I find a set of wheels with some bungee cords for securing things. The whole device collapses into a flat, easily-stored form, but expands to hold my bag, my little pillow and my camera case. The thing costs $30, but as I drop my heavy bag onto the base and secure everything, I think that this just may be the best $30 I've ever spent! Hooray, it rolls!<br /><br />We move on to the waiting area for our flight, and at about 6:45 (the time we were told we would be departing) we are called to board the plane. Everyone gets settled, expecting a rapid departure, but no - again we are waiting. After about half an hour, the explanation is given that because our original crew is now in overtime, the FAA requires that there be four pilots on board and they are waiting for the fourth one to arrive. We can understand that this is a safety issue, and we have no quarrel with it, but seems like the airline should have thought about that earlier and had the pilot already on the scene. At 7:30, an attendant tells us that the pilot is here and we will be departing shortly.<br /><br />Finally, at 7:50 the plane moves away from the gate, and now at this moment, 8:05, we are sitting on the tarmac, not moving. Needless to say, we're all a bit edgy, wondering just what has gone wrong now. At 8:15, an hour and a half after we boarded, the plane finally begins its lumbering, ponderous journey down the runway, taxiing for takeoff. We are over six hours late, and should be halfway to Beijing by now. The 12-hour flight ahead of us doesn't sound very inviting. <br /><br />The captain is pushing the big jet hard, it shudders and strains, and suddenly we get that "light" feeling and know that we're airborne. Look out, Beijing, here we come! Finally.<br /><br />The flight is essentially uneventful, a few rough patches but nothing serious. The young man seated next to me is very pleasant, and we make conversation. I discover that his name is Anthony, and he works for Google, the internet search engine people. He's delighted when I use the term "Google it", and I think probably a little surprised that this old gal even knows what that means. He shows me pictures of his boys, I share pictures of my family (thanks, Brittney) and we watch a movie together on his laptop.<br /><br />It's now 9:20 a.m., Texas time, or 27 1/2 hours after we first gathered at D/FW. It's 10:20 p.m. in Beijing. Rumor has it that we will be landing in about half an hour. We are ready. The cabin staff has been great. We have been fed much more than we ever wanted or should have eaten, but of course we ate it anyway. Passengers, for the most part, have been patient and pleasant. <br /><br />Remembering Beijing airport from last year, I decide it would be prudent to make one last potty stop before we land, and Anthony obligingly gets up to allow me to leave my seat. Mission accomplished, and I'm returning to my seat. The seatbelt sign has been turned on, and I must hurry. Anthony is elsewhere, walking around. There is a trick to getting into the center seat quickly and with a measure of grace, and I employ it. You step in with the left foot, holding onto the back of the seat in front of you. Then you sort of swing into the seat, with your left foot pivoting into alignment as you drop into your seat. At least this is the plan. It usually works. Not always. This time, just as I started to swing into place, the plane lurched and literally threw me into the seat. Probably would have been fine, except my heel was wedged against something and my foot did not pivot. Result - one corkscrewed knee, lots of pain, and significant nausea. <br /><br />I managed to keep quiet, but Eloise knew I was hurt, and kept asking how she could help me. (That's what good friends are for, you know. In fact, I would not be mentioning this personal incident at all, except for the fact that it demonstrates so beautifully the spirit of comradeship and cooperation that prevailed in our group, as you will see.) I sat gritting my teeth and chewing my shirt collar for a few minutes, and miraculously, in about five minutes, the pain subsided and I thought I might be home free. <br /><br />We feel the big plane starting to descend, and the pilot sends the cabin staff scurrying to prepare for landing. This very long, very tiring flight is finally about to end.</span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-17778733560365836722008-11-24T09:17:00.000-08:002008-11-24T09:37:57.271-08:00MONGOLIA REVISITED<span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I have debated whether to publish this journal, the history of our second trip to Mongolia. It took place in July/August of 2005, and was as exciting and wondrous to me as the first trip, the year before. So, if anyone is still reading, here goes:<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:+1;" ><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;">I have finally just about shaken the cold I caught from a "gentleman" on the return flight last week, and am feeling well enough to begin this little epic. More about him much, much later.<br /><br />July 23, 2005 -- It's 4:00 a.m., and my clock is singing its annoying, repetitious little song to me, trying almost in vain to awaken me. Hush, stupid clock! I have only been asleep for about three hours, and it's just not enough! My suitcase is packed and ready, however, so my late-hour efforts were worthwhile.<br /><br />My little dog, Sugarplum, is tired of the alarm and is now adding her efforts to those of the clock, walking across my chest and nudging my face, and I have no choice but to get up. Once I'm on my feet, excitement and anticipation drive away fatigue, and I dress quickly. Poor little Sugarplum is just as excited as I am. She does not know yet that she's not going, and has been bringing me her toys for two days, wanting me to pack them as I always do when she travels with me. My friend Deanna will be staying with her while I'm gone, but Sugarplum doesn't know that, and is fairly dancing with excitement. She loves to travel.<br /><br />It's now 5:10 a.m. and Eloise and Jerry will be here soon. I make a final visual sweep of the house, retrieve my insulin from the refrigerator and put it in my carry-on bag. No forgetting it this time, like I did last year! I pull the big old "handpainted periwinkles" suitcase through the house to the kitchen door, and Sugarplum's level of excitement ratchets up another notch. Poor baby. I'm putting off telling her the awful truth.<br /><br />At 5:15 sharp, Jerry and Eloise arrive, and Jerry loads my luggage into the car. I return to the house and pick up the excited, trembling little dog. I say simply, "You're not going, baby. You have to stay home." She goes limp in my arms, and doesn't move as I carry her to the bedroom. I wonder if she remembers when I left her last year. Placing her on the bed, I cup her little face in my hands and try to reassure her. She just gazes at me with liquid brown eyes, trusting me because she loves me, accepting because she must, but not pleased with the turn of events.<br /><br />I stroke her soft, silky little body once more, then step away. She remains motionless, exactly where I put her, and looks at me. One more spoken goodby, and I close the door on her disappointed little self, knowing I will be forgiven the moment I walk into the house in two weeks. Two weeks! Will I really be gone that long?<br /><br />We arrive at the airport before 6:00, and have no problem finding our group. Almost everyone is already here, and the others come in very soon. We're all here now - about half are newcomers, and the rest of us were part of last year's journey.<br /><br />Omar is here, and his new pastor is with him. We were all so shocked and dismayed when Omar announced a few weeks ago that he was leaving our church to follow God's call to a church in Kingsland. Since this trip was already planned, however, he is with us, leading us as before.<br /><br />As I said, we were all dismayed and not a little sad at losing him, and therefore just a bit hesitant about this new pastor of his. However, once we meet Pastor Alex, and note his open, friendly demeanor, we all thaw a bit. Then I see that his foot and leg are in a sturdy brace, as he broke his foot only a few days ago. Still, he is here! His stock rises considerably in my eyes. Maybe he's not a villain after all, even if he did take Omar away from us. Maybe God knew what He was doing!<br /><br />We board our flight, and wonder of wonders, Eloise and I are the only passengers seated in a 3-seat row. Eloise has her preferred aisle seat, I have my window, and there's an empty seat between us. Unfortunately, Eloise soon finds that there are drawbacks to an aisle seat, as another passenger loses her balance while trying to stow her carry-on bag, and the heavy bag falls, striking Eloise on the head and shoulder. After a few stunned moments, Eloise decides she's not injured, but I think she'll probably have a significant headache! <br /><br />As the plane backs away from the gate and no one else has been seated, we realize that we really and truly do have that empty seat between us. We are able to raise the armrests and "spread out" just a bit. This is a luxury we will probably never enjoy again. Once we're airborne, and the restrictions are lifted, we make use of that empty seat, putting our snack stuff, books, pens and other small items there. The unexpected freedom and space are welcome, and we have a very pleasant flight. We're seated over a wing, so the view isn't very exciting, but by craning my neck and mashing my nose on the glass, I do get glimpses of spectacular mountains, some with snowy peaks. <br /><br />In what seems like a very short time, we land in San Francisco, and as the plane rolls toward the gate, we marvel at the mountains which we can see through the windows on both sides. We deplane without incident and regroup in a waiting area. Omar leads us through the terminal to another waiting area near our gate, and we make camp, as our layover is to be a long one, several hours.<br /><br />We use the time to visit, renew old traveling acquaintances, and get to know some of the newcomers. We find a place to get some lunch and spend a little time there, Eloise and I and two others sharing a table. I remember that I need to buy batteries for the cameras, as I was out of them at home this morning. I go over to a newsstand and spend almost $30 for 16 AA batteries and a roll of mints! I will be grumpy for the next ten minutes or so. $30, indeed!<br /><br />Finally, it's time to board the huge bird that will take us to Beijing, and we gather up our belongings, waiting for our section to be called.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-74107954530663414572008-09-30T07:06:00.000-07:002008-09-30T07:33:21.480-07:00THE END OF THE JOURNEY - OR THE BEGINNING?<span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >This will be the last of these journal ramblings. There are just a couple of things that I wanted to complete before closing this book forever.<br /><br />One is very minor. The drink that we reluctantly sampled when we visited in the herdsman's ger, the fermented mare's milk, is spelled "airag". You will remember that I spelled it "erek", but I did say I was spelling phonetically, and I stand by it. That's pretty much how it's pronounced. However, if you should choose to check it out on the internet, you wouldn't find it under my phonetic spelling.<br /><br />Now, for the important thing! I have a follow-up on Little Nate, and I know everyone will want to know how he's doing. I'm very happy to report that he's doing wonderfully well. Those of you who are receiving this who were part of the expedition already know about Nate's progress, but this journal is going to a lot of people who weren't with us, and therefore haven't received the updates that we have.<br /><br />We have received some emails from Jerry Smith, and I'll share part of it with you. You will remember that when Little Nate was found and brought to the CTW (Change The World) compound, he was pitifully thin, weak and frail. He could barely hold his head up, and was completely unable to sit up unaided. Remember, this child is four years old. </span><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >Had he not been rescued, he probably would have lived only a few more days.<br /><br />He has been with the CTW staffers now since the second week in August, and there have been some changes. For one, he's had a haircut. A very close one, for sanitary purposes, I'm sure. He has been getting at least three square meals a day, and enjoying them very much. We're told he particularly loves ice cream. He has been bathed, and held, and rocked, and loved on a lot. He has received visual and verbal and tactile stimulation. A kind and talented man built him a little chair, similar to a high chair, in which he is gently supported, and he is able to sit up comfortably for the first time in his life. I don't have all the details, and I'm no expert, but I'd be very surprised if he doesn't make some tremendous progress in his motor skills and abilities over the next year or so. Just look at these pictures, to see how far he has come:<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxNd5AxzFeQsXyEWyAxU9P8b-smQGUVxbSljvVMX-8Iiz8cwMIqiq7wIHuBA_mH7wdSd-KW0fB4gVWtIRlyLm067ciZMeAPw-ZcM2GOi5UsUMJqnfJ-U3uY8gYQ6-cLiiGxCqTSBjYtw/s1600-h/Nathan-Jerry.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpxNd5AxzFeQsXyEWyAxU9P8b-smQGUVxbSljvVMX-8Iiz8cwMIqiq7wIHuBA_mH7wdSd-KW0fB4gVWtIRlyLm067ciZMeAPw-ZcM2GOi5UsUMJqnfJ-U3uY8gYQ6-cLiiGxCqTSBjYtw/s400/Nathan-Jerry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251818579021790210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >JERRY SMITH AND LITTLE NATE</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />Can't you see the hopelessness and despair in this little boy? He's tired, and weak, and just doesn't have the spirit to try any longer. He just laid his little head on Jerry's shoulder, ready to accept whatever life was about to deal out to him. Bless his sweet heart, he just had no idea!<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdH5kuIAjlPtUi5-uJwJ_eukIPe0-Cri17jqih8fop_YEmLGoBIGtQkdnBghEPT8UImnvYdBeyhhXSYToabAlaG-d6asKfdgMPGOZCD2FENf3Nk3hW_lkysFv4ImMIBHwBNj6bjdA_tk/s1600-h/Little+Nate+and+the+doctors.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdH5kuIAjlPtUi5-uJwJ_eukIPe0-Cri17jqih8fop_YEmLGoBIGtQkdnBghEPT8UImnvYdBeyhhXSYToabAlaG-d6asKfdgMPGOZCD2FENf3Nk3hW_lkysFv4ImMIBHwBNj6bjdA_tk/s400/Little+Nate+and+the+doctors.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251821363193623586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >DR. RON, DR. BARRY AND LITTLE NATE - RIGHT AFTER RESCUE</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />How many four-year-old children have you seen who would just lie there passively, and submit to the examination being conducted by two big strangers? There was a frightening resignation in his manner on that first night.<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWMdJ_EYJZO-0I7WaFmjRFmSUCdVm4xbxAN5C4FUl00OOmiNH0gGroHu2W7sBDcfEtA5BDHQSqEEhNFIxB5-sNVxnQmHtdZFXPcInUlSTvx4uezOz4sfrQnfi052hfeSdyNKYB-9SDAM/s1600-h/Little+Nate+in+his+new+chair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWMdJ_EYJZO-0I7WaFmjRFmSUCdVm4xbxAN5C4FUl00OOmiNH0gGroHu2W7sBDcfEtA5BDHQSqEEhNFIxB5-sNVxnQmHtdZFXPcInUlSTvx4uezOz4sfrQnfi052hfeSdyNKYB-9SDAM/s400/Little+Nate+in+his+new+chair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251820768462434610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" >NATHAN IN HIS NEW CHAIR, AND HIS NEW LIFE</span><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" ><br />Isn't it amazing, what can be accomplished with a little food and a lot of love? This child is the embodiment of what Change The World Ministries is all about. Jerry Smith frequently says they are trying to change the world, one child at a time. Who knows who little Nathan will be in twenty years? If he can learn to talk and communicate, even if he's not able to walk normally, he can still be a voice for God someday. If he never learns to do more than smile and make someone's day brighter, he will still be living proof of what can be done by an individual or an organization that seeks God's will and tries to follow it, to help to ease some of the suffering in this world and let a little light into the dark places.<br /><br />I have never been so moved, so impressed, so spiritually touched as I was in Mongolia. There will be another expedition next year, and if my health and finances permit, and if there is a place for me on the team, I will return. The work that is being done there is absolutely amazing, the growth has been astonishing, and the potential is limitless. Remember, this is a country that only recently was under Communist control. It is primarily Buddhist (or atheistic), with a strong animist influence as well. We talked about this in an earlier installment.<br /><br />The government does not normally look kindly upon Christians. However, in the few short years that CTW has been active there, the Mongolian government has gone from barely tolerating their presence, to deeding more than a hundred acres over to the ministry, free and clear. This leniency and generosity on the part of the government is making it possible for a lot of things to happen there much, much sooner than anyone expected. Because funds didn't have to be used to purchase land, they have been able to build dormitories for the children, greenhouses, kitchens, storehouses, feeding stations for outreach in the town, and to begin work on a lovely worship center. They will be able to house, feed, clothe and educate children who would otherwise be living in the sewers of Darkhan and other cities.<br /><br />These children will be led to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ, gently and patiently, one at a time. No child is coerced, but they are taught by example that God is Love, and that they are loved as well. The work is young there, but who can tell where it will lead, and what will be accomplished as these children grow into Christian adults and spread out over Mongolia, taking the Word with them? Who knows, my mischievous, smiling little back-massager may go out one day and lead his country from darkness into God's light.<br /><br />It has been an indescribable privilege to be a tiny part of the work that is being done in Mongolia. It has been a joy to get to know some of the kind and gracious Mongolian people. It will be my ongoing joy to continue to participate in that work by sending a little money now and then. It won't be a lot, I don't have a lot, but I can send some, and I will. By the grace of God, I'm not living under a staircase!<br /><br />If you'd like to participate in the Change The World ministry, here's the address:<br /><br />CTW/LifeQwest<br />P.O. Box 153029<br />Irving, TX 75015-3029<br /><br />You may be wondering, why an Irving address? That's because Change The World Ministries has a local base, with a local account, and contributions are gathered into that account and handled as a whole, rather than having the money sent to Mongolia in little individual checks that they would then have to try to cash over there, which would be virtually impossible.<br /><br />I make no apologies for this little commercial. This is a genuine, working, fruit-bearing ministry, and it must have funds in order to continue to function. I firmly believe that God will bless every little dime that is given, and the rewards will be totally out of proportion, above and beyond whatever the amount may be. God can take a little, and turn it into a lot!<br /><br />Well, that's the end of my journal. I hope each one who has read it enjoyed it. Most of all, I hope everyone got a sense of what is happening through CTW in Mongolia. God is at work there, and God is good.<br /><br />Blessings!</span><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);font-size:130%;" > </span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-27779678370936232012008-09-27T13:55:00.000-07:002008-09-27T14:19:39.694-07:00A MEMORABLE ENCOUNTER, AND THEN - HOME!<span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-family:Comic Sans MS;"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204); font-family: verdana;font-size:130%;" >When I started this, I had no intention of it running into so many installments, but there has just been so much to tell. I appreciate the way each of you have been so patient and understanding.<br /><br />I suppose we can say it's still Thursday right now, and we are still going about to one place and another, seeing the sights and shopping. At one point, we're all standing in a group on a sidewalk, waiting for our bus to find us. We have been mobbed, as usual, by street vendors, and a couple of our folks have bought from them. There are some young policemen standing nearby, and they call David over and tell him to instruct us not to buy from the vendors. Their manner was calm and friendly, but David later told us that failure to obey their instructions could conceivably result in seizure of our passports! Apparently, the Chinese government is trying to put a stop to the harassment of tourists by these vendors, fearing it may be detrimental to the tourism industry in general.<br /><br />We discussed it briefly among ourselves, and decided it would probably be best not to have any more to do with the vendors and beggars, and I was quite comfortable with that. I certainly didn't want to lose my passport!<br /><br />And then it happened. As we were all standing there, I noticed that those on the fringes of the group had fallen silent, and were stepping back, opening a narrow pathway through our midst. Through that little opening, I saw a man and a woman slowly walking, and I couldn't suppress a little groan when I saw them. Both were small, of short stature and slight build. The man's left arm ended a few inches below his elbow, and he walked with a limp. With his other hand, he held the arm of the woman. <br /><br />It was the woman's face that struck so at my heart. She had been horribly, pitifully, hideously burned. I don't know if she had any hair, as she was wearing a little knit hat. Both ears were gone, just little ridges beside the openings on the sides of her head, hard to distinguish in the thick, rough surface of scarred skin. Her face appeared to have melted, like wax. There was no nose, just two holes in the middle of her face. Her right eye was either gone or buried under thick folds of scar tissue, but obviously there was no sight in it. There were no eyebrows. Her mouth was a grotesquely twisted slash in her lower face, and her neck was a mass of leathery, wrinkled skin.<br /><br />It was her left eye, her only eye, which held my gaze riveted to her face. The upper lid was gone, and so a large expanse of the eyeball was visible. She had control of it, and it moved left to right, and back again, as she searched the faces of those of us who were unable to take our gaze away from her. It has been said that the eyes are the windows of the soul, and I think that is right. In that single eye, protruding so eerily from that ruined face, I was able to see strength, an indomitable spirit, and justifiable pride. Her bearing seemed to say, "I have survived this. Could you have done the same?"<br /><br />As the two moved through our group, they never said a word, never asked for anything. The woman simply held one hand cupped in front of her. If we wanted to help, she would accept it, but she would not beg. I couldn't stand it. I forgot the presence of the police, and hurriedly grabbed the first bill I got my hand on in my wallet. It was a $5 bill, such a small amount to an American, but probably a significant amount to her. I hope so. I pressed it into her hand, and that all-seeing eye swept downward for an instant, enough to see what she held, and then rolled back up and looked directly at me. For an instant, our gaze locked, and she rewarded me very generously with a quick, brief nod of her head. There was no gratuitous thanks, no judgment about the amount, just a dignified acceptance and acknowledgment of what I had given her. I wish it could have been much more, and I might have gone into my wallet again, but she and her companion were moving on through the crowd. I'm happy to note that others of our group gave her something, and I feel sure that everyone would have done so, given the time. It all took place so quickly, that the pair were gone before many of us knew what was happening.<br /><br />I'm also happy to report that the police, who must surely have seen what was going on, seemed to be very preoccupied with something across the street, and never said a word to any of us. May the Lord bless them for that.<br /><br />Afterward, I struggled with my feelings for a while. It occurred to me that our English language is lacking in some ways. There are just some things for which we don't have an adequate or appropriate word. What happened there with that tragic woman is a case in point. I can't find a word, I don't know what to call the exchange that took place. It wasn't charity. Now, charity is a very nice word, and it certainly has its place. It comes from the Latin "caritas", meaning love or affection. However, if one isn't careful, today it can carry a note of condescension, and that should be avoided. No one wants to be dependent upon the "charity" of others.<br /><br />It didn't feel like charity to me when I gave her the money, it felt like a privilege. I am certain that she didn't feel like she was accepting charity. There was too much dignity in that eye, and in her posture. I think the closest I can come to a single descriptive word is "sharing." <br /><br />Friday, August 13. It's time to go home. We're all excited and anxious to get back to our lives, but there is an undercurrent of regret, as well. This was felt most strongly as we left Mongolia, and the scheduled time in China was meant to help us disengage, to "debrief" as it were, but now, as we're preparing to leave for home, we're sharply aware that the whole experience is coming to a close. I'm not sure I'm ready for that.<br /><br />We board our bus, arrive at the airport and get through there without mishap. Once on the plane, we all begin to realize just how tired we are, and sleep overtakes many of us. The flight to Chicago is long but uneventful, and we have a layover there. Soon, however, we're on another plane and after what now seems like a pretty short trip, we're in Dallas.<br /><br />Jerry is there to meet Eloise and me, and brings me directly home. I pull my "hand-painted periwinkles" luggage into the house, and stand in my own kitchen again for the first time in nearly two weeks. Enough food in the pantry and freezer to feed me for weeks. Hot and cold running water, which is clean and drinkable. I walk through the rest of the house, on soft new carpet. I count two and a half bathrooms, and each fixture has its own water supply, it doesn't have to share a leaky, movable faucet with something else. There is a soft, comfortable bed with nice linens. There are ample towels, soft and fluffy. There is cool air blowing from a vent overhead, and touching a switch brings light. There are TVs, telephones and a computer. I cannot help but wonder, "Why me, Lord?" I think of the families living in tiny, cramped apartments or in some situations, in the space beneath staircases in Mongolia. Very little food, undependable water, certainly no air conditioning, no beds, nothing. Just a place on the bare floor to lie down to sleep, crowded with several other people. And I wonder, "Why not me, Lord?" I have no answer. I can only trust that He does.<br /><br />After a hot shower that lasted about three days, I finally get into my own bed, and find that I'm unable to get comfortable because my little dog, my constant companion, is not there. She's with my granddaughter, and I'll get her very soon, but for tonight, I miss her. Once again, the disparity of it all hits me. There are people in Mongolia tonight who can't sleep because they're hungry, and too warm in the stifling space beneath those stairs, and crowded in with too many other people. I can't sleep because I miss my dog, who eats and lives much better than many of the people I've just left. The irony is painfully obvious.<br /><br />Searching my heart, I really don't believe that God begrudges me the companionship of my little dog, and I think He expects me to take proper care of her, to feed her and provide for her. I do believe, however, that He also expects me to remember, to never forget, the needs of the people who have so little, and to help in any way that I can. This, I intend to do.</span> <br /></span></span>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5908505782734563647.post-13739051706880554732008-09-16T16:15:00.000-07:002008-09-16T16:57:31.198-07:00SEEING MORE OF BEIJING<div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;">I'm going to call this Thursday, though I've seriously jumbled the order of the things we did and the places we went, but it doesn't matter. We went to a performance of acrobats and contortionists, and I have to say here that I never knew the human body was capable of such dexterity and precision movement, and I certainly never knew it could be bent into some of the shapes and positions that those young girls achieved. If I tried to bend my back as they did, the cracking would be heard in Cincinnati, and I'm sure I would never walk again. </span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;">I was fascinated by the theaters. Our bus would nose its way down some little back street and find a place to stop, we would get off and follow Omar down a dimly-lit alleyway, pass through a small door in a somewhat seedy-looking building, and find ourselves in the foyer of a lovely theater. The decor would be beautiful, the restrooms ultra-modern, the staff courteous and efficient, and the seats comfortable. We would see an impressive performance, complete with the latest in light and sound effects, and then be ushered out the way we came in, back down the little alley and back to the bus. It all had a surreal, dreamlike quality, and later I would wonder if I had really been there.</span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;">Almost everywhere we went, we were besieged by street vendors and beggars. About the only place they seemed to be absent was in Tiananmen Square. I think the plentiful supply of uniformed police there might have discouraged them. They were everywhere else, though. Many, if not most, of the beggars were children. At first, I found this appalling. I'm not accustomed to having children beg me for money or food, and my natural impulse was to want to give them something. Our tour guide, David, told us not to do so. At first, I found this hard to accept. Then, I began to look more closely at the children. Funny thing, they all looked healthy to me. In fact, some of them were pretty plump. I don't mean the swollen, round bellies of starving children. I'm talking about plump little kids, with little round rumps, little round faces, and pudgy bellies. We had seen hungry children in Mongolia. These kids weren't hungry, they just knew they could cadge a little spending money off the tourists. Once I realized that, it became a lot easier to refuse them. </span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;">The same thing applied to the vendors. Mostly adults, they swarmed around us like flies, selling everything from "Chairman Mao" wristwatches, to fake Rolex watches, to silk totebags, scarves and just about anything else you could name. However, none of them looked particularly needy. Our tour guide, in addition to warning us not to give the children money, had also warned us against buying from the vendors. It was hard to do, though, as they were extremely persistent. </span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;">We went to the Forbidden City. All my life, I have heard of the Forbidden City, but never really knew what it was until now. It is a huge, walled compound that encloses an Imperial palace, and some lesser palaces where the Empress and a lot of concubines and their children lived. It was forbidden for anyone other than the royal family and their servants in good standing to enter the compound, hence the name "Forbidden City." David was very good about giving us the history of the various Emperors who lived there, and I only wish my head would retain those facts as well as his apparently does. Most of it just went straight through.</span></span></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#6600cc;">We also went to some other palaces, the most beautiful of which was the Summer Palace, in my opinion. It's built near a fairly large lake, which has an island in the middle. There is a residence on the island, and one assumes that in the warmest weather, the family would go there to seek relief from the heat. Surrounded by water, the island residence would surely be the coolest place around. There is a small lake, or large pond, on the grounds of the Summer Palace, enclosed by pathways, seating areas and gardens. This pond contains a great number of beautiful koi, the glorified goldfish of which the Chinese, as well as the Japanese, are so fond. They are indeed very pretty, and a group of children were feeding them, so I was able to get a picture of them as they formed a surging mob of color, going for the food.</span></span></div><div align="center"><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246765871545342370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgVwb7BMnaIsjNb07sMqAc_TdAaUxUPIsf7yG8IF8PCxuDxcaEgWtw5YzVw0A23mmA2QeiPtwFHOKoGlEbzZa3fJumtUT4Aq4EBUu6gAFPldENzZj6KO5RCQVcGRkHYdtxVEYKdd6KEA/s400/DSCF0666.JPG" border="0" /> <span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">KOI IN THE POND AT THE SUMMER PALACE</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span></div><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">Another very enjoyable thing we did was the ricksha ride. You probably know what a ricksha, or rickshaw, is but I'll catch you up anyway. It's a small buggy, typically seating only two people at the most, and in older times it was pulled by a man who placed himself between two poles extending from the front of the little buggy, and holding the poles, he would run along the streets, pulling the little buggy behind him. Nowadays, the buggy is attached to a bicycle, and the driver rides the bicycle, which pulls the buggy. </span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">Eloise and I got into one together, and our driver was a large, genial man who was very friendly and kind to us. Toom Chris, who (mercifully) rode alone, had a driver who was small of stature and didn't look very strong. The expression on his face when he saw Toom Chris was priceless. The man may have been small, but he had a large sense of humor, and we all had a good laugh when he partially encircled Toom Chris's huge bicep with his hands, then transferred his hands to his own thigh, indicating that Chris's arm was bigger than his leg. Which, indeed, it was. However, once we got under way, it was evident that those thin little legs were made of steel, as he had no trouble at all in powering the ricksha right along with everyone else.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span><br /></p><p align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246766001818625570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyjt0iJDwcrnpK_acK64wjomdaAp403fwQHcuKQIgJwzVkCoNXaPOBUTGptu4PTqKTxzmarjXGn4LGySHdymn2jR4BbkdqLYscp4dCTWE2teygrPo15sEa-DBFOLTGvFCStsGVH7FYauw/s400/DSCF0648.JPG" border="0" /> <span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">LANNI AND ELOISE IN A RICKSHA</span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">You'll remember that earlier I mentioned that we felt like we were being shown the best of Beijing, but knew that there must be a darker side somewhere, just as there is in any large city. At one point, our bus was passing through an area that obviously had not undergone any renovation. David commented on this, and acknowledged that it's a problem for the government. They want to tear it down and rebuild, but are delaying, surprisingly, for humanitarian reasons. Apparently some of these old sections date back for two hundred years or more, and the little homes within those rabbit-warren areas may have been in a single family for many generations. There are narrow little lanes that traverse the neighborhood, really too small for auto traffic, but bicycles and pedestrians have no problem. The people are well known to each other, and form a very tightly-knit community. They look after each other, and share in each other's joys and sorrows. In short, however poor a</span><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">nd rundown the area may look to outsiders, to the residents, it's home. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">When the government does tear a neighborhood down, they make every effort to relocate the residents into nicer surroundings, but the people don't want to go. They want to remain where they are, with their old friends and neighbors, and in many cases their family members, close by. We were privileged to be invited to visit a home in one of the back-alley areas, and were surprised at how nice it really was. From the outside, it looked very rundown and dilapidated, but inside it was quite lovely. There was a large TV, comfortable furnishings, family pictures, a modern refrigerator, all the comforts of a home. Outside, there was a tiny patio, with a grape arbor overhead, and some beautiful flowers. The resident, our host, was hospitable and charming, a well-spoken and obviously educated man. Of course, this visit was arranged by our tour guide, and we know that there are areas that he would not want us to see, but then there are parts of Dallas to which I wouldn't take a visitor from China. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">Once again, this has grown too long, and I think I'll save the rest for tomorrow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;"></span> </p><p><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;color:#6600cc;">NOTE: I do know how to paragraph my text. This program does not know how to honor the commands I give it. After re-paragraphing this about four times, I gave up. My apologies.</span> </p><p> </p><p> </p>Romeenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06354791171524293474noreply@blogger.com1