Missions to Mongolia

FINALLY, ON THE GROUND IN BEIJING

2010-11-20T23:12:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. There is no other way. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

WE FINALLY APPROACH BEIJING

2010-03-09T17:24:00.000-08:00

NOTE: Remember that the "post" dates do not relate to the date of the occurences. This trip to Mongolia actually took place in 2005.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

TRYING TO GET TO BEIJING

2009-08-26T10:48:00.000-07:00

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 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! 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.

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.

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?

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.

IN ULAANBAATAR, OUR LAST NIGHT IN MONGOLIA

2009-07-11T12:39:00.000-07:00

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.

THESE LITTLE GIRLS ARE ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW

2009-07-09T09:10:00.000-07:00

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!

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?

HIS DAD WEARS A HAT AND SUNGLASSES JUST LIKE HIS

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

2009-07-08T14:45:00.000-07:00

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:

JERRY AND LITTLE NATE, THE DAY HE WAS RESCUED
BY THE CTW STAFF, IN 2004.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES! LOOK AT THAT HAPPY FACE.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

Change The World/LifeQwest Ministries
P.O. Box 153029
Irving, TX 75015-3029

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

2009-05-04T16:45:00.000-07:00

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.

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. Here are a few pictures you might enjoy:

JUST LOOK AT THE PRETTY NEW CAPES, AND HOW ABOUT THAT TWIRL?

NEW DRESSES! AREN'T THEY SWEET AND PRETTY?

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?

TROUBLE, TIMES TWO!!

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!

Tune in tomorrow.....

OUR LAST DAY IN ORKHAN

2009-04-29T22:42:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 feel 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.

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...

OF BEAUTIFUL VIEWS AND CROWDED MARKETS

2009-03-17T21:04:00.000-07:00

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:

THIS IS WHERE THEIR HOME WILL BE LOCATED, OVER ON THE FLAT GROUND

IMAGINE HAVING YOUR MORNING COFFEE, LOOKING AT THIS VIEW OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS

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.

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.

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!!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

CHURCH SERVICES IN A GER

2009-03-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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:

OUR GROUP, RIGHT AFTER WE SANG FOR OUR MONGOLIAN FRIENDS

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.

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.

SOME OF OUR GROUP OUTSIDE THE NEW CHAPEL, OR CHURCH GER

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.

Incidentally, that's our Dr. Tom in the light blue pants, basking in the attention from some of the children. Just to the right, that'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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

THE REST OF THE DAY

2009-03-07T18:34:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

RAIN ON THE HIGHWAY AHEAD OF US, ON THE WAY BACK TO DARKHAN.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

AT THE HOSPITAL SITE AGAIN

2009-02-27T16:33:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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):

SWEET LITTLE MONGOLIAN BABY GIRL

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.

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.

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:

THIS OLDER WOMAN IS WEARING A TRADITIONAL DEL.
HER DAUGHTER IS IN WESTERN ATTIRE.

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.

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:

DR. TOM, SEEING A PATIENT. DO YOU THINK IT WAS WARM
IN THE ROOM??

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!

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.

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.

OUR FIRST DAY AT THE HOSPITAL SITE

2009-02-07T09:08:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

THIS IS THE LINE THAT GREETED US WHEN WE ARRIVED

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.

PEOPLE WAITING TO SEE OUR DOCTORS - OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL ENTRANCE

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. Our translators are quick to keep Barb and me informed of what's being said. 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.

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.

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.

OLD MAN WITH MEDALS

This grows too long, so will be continued in another blog, another day.

WE BID FAREWELL TO THE RIVER

2009-02-01T21:27:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

DR. RON AND MAN WITH NEW GLASSES

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

LANNI AND THE WOMAN WHO HAS BEEN A CHRISTIAN SINCE 1996

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

SEWING THE PIECES TOGETHER

2009-01-27T13:17:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

BUSY LITTLE BLANKET MAKERS

IMAGINE TRYING TO SEW WITH ALL THOSE LITTLE FINGERS PRYING INTO EVERYTHING!

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.

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 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.

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!

A WONDERFUL, SATISFYING DAY!

2009-01-10T12:15:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

YOUNG GIRL ASSISTING HER GRANDMOTHER

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.

Here's a scene from our "parking lot." Note that saddle!
A MONGOLIAN PARKING LOT! THE YEARLING SEEMS TO BE LOOKING FOR LUNCH.

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.

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.

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.

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.

2009-01-05T11:01:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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 Oliver Twist 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

JERRY, BATSENGEL AND PASTOR ALEX, BAPTIZING ONE OF JERRY'S KIDS

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. 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! 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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

HOME ON THE RANGE

2009-01-02T22:04:00.000-08:00

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.

HORSES FORDING THE RIVER

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

CAN YOU BELIEVE THOSE CHEEKS?

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.

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.

More tomorrow.....

LET THE WORK BEGIN!

2008-12-30T16:26:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

RAY, PASTOR MIDOR, AND JAY

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This grows lengthy, so I'm going to stop here and pick up today's events in another installment.

2008-12-16T08:19:00.000-08:00

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

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.

AN UNBELIEVABLY LONG FLIGHT

2008-12-12T10:10:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

MONGOLIA REVISITED

2008-11-24T09:17:00.000-08:00

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

THE END OF THE JOURNEY - OR THE BEGINNING?

2008-09-30T07:06:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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. Had he not been rescued, he probably would have lived only a few more days.

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:

JERRY SMITH AND LITTLE NATE

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!

DR. RON, DR. BARRY AND LITTLE NATE - RIGHT AFTER RESCUE

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.

NATHAN IN HIS NEW CHAIR, AND HIS NEW LIFE

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

If you'd like to participate in the Change The World ministry, here's the address:

CTW/LifeQwest
P.O. Box 153029
Irving, TX 75015-3029

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.

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!

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.

Blessings!

A MEMORABLE ENCOUNTER, AND THEN - HOME!

2008-09-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

SEEING MORE OF BEIJING

2008-09-16T16:15:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

KOI IN THE POND AT THE SUMMER PALACE

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.

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.

LANNI AND ELOISE IN A RICKSHA

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 and rundown the area may look to outsiders, to the residents, it's home.

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.

Once again, this has grown too long, and I think I'll save the rest for tomorrow.

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.

HIGHLIGHTS OF BEIJING

2008-09-15T10:42:00.000-07:00

It's Wednesday morning, and we have places to go. The first place is the dining room, for breakfast! This hotel, the Sino-Swiss, as I've mentioned before is quite nice, and has good food for every meal, but breakfast may be my favorite. It's a buffet, and there are a lot of choices. The waffles are superb, high and fluffy, and there are several fruit compotes and syrups from which to choose. The chef will prepare an omelet to order, and there are piles of bacon, ham and sausage. The bacon ranges from very crispy to a bit limp, which is the way I prefer it. On another table, there are croissants, sweet rolls, biscuits and different kinds of bread. There are also trays of sliced fruit and some really excellent cheese. There's something for everyone.

After breakfast, we board the bus and head out for a day of sightseeing. Our tour guide, David, is aboard, and Eloise and I are fortunate enough to be seated at the front, so we can hear him well. His accent is heavy, and sometimes we have trouble understanding him, but mostly we get it. There is, however, a small disadvantage in sitting in the front. We can see everything! We see every car that passes within two inches of our bumper, every bicyclist that escapes annihilation by the thickness of a coat of paint, every pedestrian whose head just bobs alongside and across the front of our bus, seemingly totally unaware of our existence. The driver keeps up a steady rhythm of little beeps of the horn, and absolutely never loses his temper. I can't help thinking that in traffic like this in Dallas, someone would get shot, or there would at the very least be a fistfight or two. It's absolutely certain that there would be wrecks, but we have yet to see one.

We inch along at a snail's pace, but this is fine with us, because we have a chance to take in the beauty that exists in much of Beijing. David tells us that a major beautification project is under way across China, and this includes Beijing. It's easy to see the results. There are beautiful, new high-rise buildings. There is lovely landscaping along the roadways. We are aware, of course, that what we're seeing now is strategically placed to enhance the tourist's impression of the city. We strongly suspect that there are areas that are not so nice, but of course, that's true anywhere. Dallas has its seamy side, too.

We're going to visit many places and points of interest, and I'm not at all sure of the timeline, when we went wherever, so I'm not going to try to reconstruct it. I'll just tell you the more interesting things about each place.

One major stop was Tiananmen Square, the scene of the bloody standoff between the Communist regime and the young resistance movement. Who can forget the picture of the young man in the white shirt, standing alone, facing an advancing column of tanks, blocking that advance with nothing but his own body? If you don't remember, or want to know more, just run a Google search on "Tiananmen" and you'll find enough to keep you reading all day.

A light rain was falling, but we left the bus and walked out onto the square, along with several thousand other people. The square is huge, and even though there were so many people, it wasn't crowded at all. You see a lot of police personnel, but they don't seem to bother anyone. There is a feeling in the air, though, an impression, that one had better watch one's step. This is still a Communist nation, though I wonder how long it will be so. The uprising in Tiananmen Square was brutally put down, leaving many people dead, but the movement still lives, and I believe that the day will come when Communism will be a thing of the past in China. I pray so.

Because of the high volume of foot traffic, and the thick motor traffic, tunnels have been dug beneath the streets, to allow people to cross without having to get in the streets. These tunnels are long, wide, hot and very humid. People can be seen sitting along the walls with their head on their knees, apparently napping. Others just simply stretch out on the ground next to a wall and sleep. No one seemed to bother them.

Another place we visited was a silk factory. We got to actually watch the workers as they unwound the incredibly thin filament of silk from the cocoons and spun it into thread. About ten cocoons are floated in a small basin of water, and the worker sloshes a little brush around in the water until it snags a filament from each cocoon. Once they have isolated these filaments, they put all ten or twelve of them together into one thread, and this is attached to a spinning spool. As the spool twirls, it pulls the filaments from each cocoon and winds it up as a single thread. When the spools are filled, they are removed to a loom where the threads are woven into silk fabric. It was absolutely fascinating, to watch the little cocoons dancing and spinning in their water bath, as they were unwound. Inside each cocoon, of course, is a silkworm caterpillar, which is already dead and therefore doesn't mind being undressed as his cocoon is unwound.

We saw some absolutely beautiful silk fabrics, and things made from silk. One thing that fascinated me was the silk duvets. Several girls stand around a square table, about the size of a king-size bed. The edges of the table are lined with pegs or hooks. The girls start with a large fluffy handful of silk filament, which looks a lot like cotton candy. They each take hold of a section, and pull outward on it. Remarkably, it stretches and gives, and soon they have a very thin layer of silk, as large as the table. They hook it in place, and begin another. I don't know how many layers they stack on top of each other, but eventually it's over an inch thick, light and airy, virtually weightless. This is the duvet stuffing, or batting, and it's sewn into a very light silk envelope, which will then be placed into a colorful, beautifully embroidered silk duvet cover. This outer cover is removable for cleaning, and the rest of it just needs to be shaken out and aired now and then. We were assured that the silk inside would never shift or bunch up. I didn't buy one, but I wish I had.

GIRLS MAKING FILLER FOR DUVET

Another interesting place was the pearl factory. This is where pearls are literally produced by the dozens in large, fresh-water oysters. In the foyer of the building there was a water tank which was filled with huge oysters. A guide opened one, and showed us how the pearls just filled the bed of the shell. Apparently, an irritant is introduced into the shell, and the oyster immediately begins covering it with the smooth and beautiful substance that hardens into a pearl. I couldn't help thinking that we should all be like an oyster. When life deals us a hurt, or an irritating thing makes our life uncomfortable, we should try to just cover it with a smooth attitude, and thereby render it harmless. T

here were about two dozen pearls in each oyster, of all sizes, and we were each given one. Mine is particularly large and beautiful, and I plan to get my brother to make it into a pretty piece of jewelry. That is, if I can find it....

We also visited the cloissonne factory, where we were able to watch the process by which the beautiful cloissonne vases are made, as well as jewelry and Christmas ornaments. It's a fascinating process, and results in beautiful products. A cloissonne vase is created by first tracing a pre-designed pattern onto a plain brass vase. Then thin strands of a beaded-texture wire are glued in place, following the pattern. Paint is then applied to fill in the spaces between the wires, creating a beautiful design. The piece is then fired to set the glues and paints. After this, it can be either polished or not. If the piece is to be polished, it's turned on a polishing wheel until it's perfectly smooth, and the rough surface of the wire disappears, giving the impression that it's embedded in the piece. If not polished, the piece has a rough, raised, textured surface that is quite beautiful. Either way, the resulting piece is lovely.

Along the way, at the appropriate hours, we would stop for meals. Guess what we were served. You guessed it, Chinese food! Fortunately, I love Chinese food, and thoroughly enjoyed every meal. Our first experience was a surprise, as food is served differently than in America. The tables are large and round, and in the center of each is a revolving platform, a very large lazy susan, if you will. At each place, there is a very small plate. It's smaller than the little salad plates we ate from in Mongolia. The plates in China are about the size of a small saucer. How, one wonders, will I ever get enough food on that to satisfy my appetite? In the states, we wouldn't feed a two-year-old child from a plate that small.

After everyone is seated, the servers begin to bring steaming dishes of food, which are placed on the revolving centerpiece. Each person is expected to take a small amount from each dish and place it on their little saucer, then give the lazy susan a little push to pass the dish on to the next person. The food is not brought in all at once, but rather with a delay of a couple of minutes between each dish. As we were usually hungry, we would begin eating the little dab of food on our plate, and as other dishes were brought in, we would take a little bit, eat a bit more, another dish arrives, take a little bit, and so on. By the time the tenth or twelfth dish arrived, and we had managed to sneak a second dab of something we particularly liked, we would find that we were satisfied and had eaten quite enough.

Chopsticks were always at each place, and they are not disposable. To take a pair as a souvenir would be the same as pocketing the silverware in a restaurant in the states. Forks were always available, standing in a little holder in the center of the table. Knives were not needed, as everything is served with bite-size preparation, in deference to the chopsticks, I suppose. I tried the chopsticks a few times, and could have kept from starving if I had to use them, but since I prefer to eat my meal as opposed to wearing it, I gave up and used a fork. I'm just not very cosmopolitan, I guess.

The food was always quite good. Some meals were better than others, of course, just as it is here at home, but all of it was good, and a lot of it was really excellent. Surprisingly, I didn't get tired of Chinese food, though I'll admit I could have done some serious damage to a hamburger or a plate of cheese enchiladas. There is more to tell, but this installment grows too long, so we'll pick up again tomorrow.

WE VISIT THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA

2008-09-12T14:21:00.000-07:00

It was Tuesday, August 10, when we arrived in Beijing, and it's now late on Thursday night, August 12. A lot has happened, and I've been too busy and subsequently too tired to make careful notes, so this installment and possibly the next one will be a kaleidoscope of the events of the days in between, taken from memory as I go along. Some of it may be out of time and order, but it doesn't matter. We went to a lot of places and saw a lot of things. I'll start telling you about them, and if this installment grows too long, I'll stop and save some for tomorrow.

Probably the most impressive and most memorable event was our visit to the Great Wall. Never in my wildest imagination did I ever think I'd actually see, up close and personal, the Great Wall of China. It almost defies description, but I'll try. I had the presence of mind to buy a book about it, because I knew I'd never remember all the facts that our very knowledgeable tour guide, David, kept throwing at us in large, rapid doses. The Wall was originally built in the 9th century B.C., and was rebuilt or extended over the centuries by various emperors and dynasties. I'll not try to go into a history of the Wall here, but here's a fairly good website if you want to know more: http://www.travelchinaguide.com/china_great_wall/

The Wall that is generally accepted as the Great Wall today is the part that was built by the Ming Dynasty in the period from 1368-1644 A.D. This wall extends over 4,000 miles, and exists in various states of preservation.

The part that we visited is very near to Beijing, and is pretty much a tourist attraction, very crowded and packed with the ubiquitous vendors, who are all afflicted with a remarkable form of selective deafness. They do not hear the English word "no." It simply doesn't register with them. The street vendors in the city have the same condition, but they seem to understand sign language. A raised hand, palm toward them, and a vigorous shaking of one's head will usually discourage them, but those at the Great Wall apparently are partially blind in addition to their deafness.

When we arrived at the Wall, our bus driver gave us a supreme demonstration of his driving skill. He threaded that huge, lumbering vehicle into places that I wouldn't have tried to pull a coaster wagon, let alone drive a car. He moved along inch by slow inch, making full use of his horn, and managed to squeak through tiny passages and crowds of people without ever hitting anything or anyone. It's remarkable. Once we encountered another bus coming in the opposite direction, and it didn't look like one bus could get through, much less two, but with some backing up and repositioning, the two drivers made it work and neither ever lost his composure.

At last we came to an area where the bus could be parked, and we all got out. It was unbelievably humid, and soon a light mist began falling. We were standing on a steep slope, and the ground was littered with a layer of mercifully unidentifiable detritus. This, combined with the mist, made the footing slippery and undependable. We were told that the actual gateway to the wall was quite a long way off, all uphill, over trails and crumbling steps. Eloise and I took a few seconds to decide, and opted for the tourist's Six Flags version of reaching the entrance. We rode the mechanized sleds. Most of our group made the same decision, with only about four of the guys deciding to actually make the hike.

The walk up the hill to the sleds was enough for us. The high altitude, the steep slope, and the heavy humidity had us breathing pretty hard by the time we got that far. We were really glad we weren't going to try to hike the whole thing. After a fairly short wait, we found ourselves being hustled into the little individual sleds and clamped in, and the sleds began their ratchety ascent. Up and up we went, and once again found ourselves feeling very thankful that we weren't making the climb on foot.

It's important here to understand that the Great Wall essentially runs over the tops of mountains. The mountains in that part of China lie in convoluted folds, not in individual peaks like our Rockies. The Wall is built on top, along ridges and up and over such peaks as may occur, but it's almost always on the highest ground around. Therefore, to get to the Wall itself, our little sleds had to climb a mountain, and they did.

At the end of the run, we were again hustled to get out, because the chain drive is moving constantly. The sleds were disengaged just long enough for the attendant to more or less yank us out before the next sled hit ours. Those guys make the roller coaster attendants at Six Flags look lazy.

When we were on our feet again, we followed the crowd to and through a ticket area, where Omar had already paid our way, and we were funneled into a fairly narrow passage that enclosed some steep steps. This is where we "climbed the Great Wall of China." Those steps emptied onto a sloped walkway, and at the end of that, we found ourselves actually standing on top of the Great Wall, looking out over the mountains, and at the expanse of the Wall as it faded into the distance.

THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA, NEAR BEIJING

We were under a time constraint, so we didn't stay on top of the Wall for long, but it was long enough that we felt the impact of the size and scope of the structure. It's wide enough for five horseman to ride side by side, and the length of it is incomprehensible. It would be a mammoth undertaking today, with all our modern equipment and methods, yet this enormous structure was built so long ago, when hand labor was about all they had to draw upon. Indeed, I'm not sure that there would be any other way to build it. The ridges and peaks that it spans are tall and heavily wooded, and it would be extremely difficult, if not impossible, to get our modern-day equipment in there. Perhaps the way it was originally built is the only way it could be done. One thing is sure, it is indeed a wonder of the world, and I feel extremely privileged to have had the opportunity to see it.

After a little while, when we had absorbed about all of the enormity and grandeur of the Wall that we could, we realized it was time to start back down. We joined up with a few others of our group, and made our way back to the sled station. There we were hurriedly inserted into our little sleds and the descent began. A bit different, going down. No chain ratcheting us along this time! We were free-wheeling, just spinning down that mountain on rails that looked pretty slick and shiny. Just as I was beginning to wonder where and how it was all going to end, we caught the smell of hot rubber, and realized that the lead sled was occupied by a park employee, who had a simple, rubber-to-the-rail brake at his command. The sleds were all backed up one to another, and the leader would wait until they got going fast enough to give us all a thrill, then he would apply his brake to the rail and we would slow down, passing through the little clouds of smoke that arose from his brake. It's a pretty ingenious system, and it was fun. Also, it sure beat walking!

When we left the sleds, we started our return trip to the bus, and were immediately engulfed in swarms of vendors, all of whom offered us the bargain to end all bargains, and none of whom responded to our repeated negative answers. They just kept coming. It was like being in a human tornado. One woman followed me, repeating the same sales pitch over and over, for at least two hundred yards.

Finally, as we neared the bus, Eloise and I spotted a camel, complete with saddle and a sign that advertised that one could have a picture taken aboard the camel. Well, that looked like fun, so we decided to do it, and I went first. There was a small metal platform next to the animal, with steep steps leading to the top. Once on top, the trick was to get into the saddle and get settled before the camel stepped aside or bit you. No, I never actually saw him bite anyone, but he surely looked capable of doing so. He had the longest, yellowest, ugliest teeth I ever saw, but had absolutely beautiful eyes. God played a joke on the camel when He designed most of his body, but He made up for it with the eyes.

Now, this was a two-hump camel, so the idea is to perch on his back, between the humps. Naturally, this means that there will be a hump in front of you, and believe me, that's about the silliest-looking structure I've ever seen. It was quite tall, not really big around, about like a large fence post. It was crowned by a thick mat of brown hair, that looked very much like a messy bird's nest. Remember, it was misting rain, so this hair, in fact the entire camel, was frosted in mist, and very damp. What does a wet camel smell like? Just about what you'd expect - a wet camel. Perhaps not as offensive as one might expect, but not something you'd like to bottle and take home. As for his posture, I couldn't help but feel that it was pretty ungallant of him to lean forward in that squatty, strained position as soon as I got on board. I may not be a lightweight, but I'm not that heavy!

LANNI AND THE CAMEL

After my picture was taken, Eloise climbed up and got on the camel, who then proceeded to take a step or two forward. Eloise's reaction was much the same as it was when the bus would have a near-miss. Squeal, apply a brake and grab onto something. Problem was, camels don't have floorboards for the imaginary brake, and she didn't want to grab a handful of that thatch of wet camel hair. So she just squealed. I guess it worked. The camel stopped, Eloise's picture was taken, and we went on our way. Soon we found ourselves on board the bus again, and our driver miraculously got us through the maze of people and vehicles and back out onto the highway. Our visit to the Great Wall of China was over. I was impressed. I want to go again, but I think I don't want to go back to the same place. I have read of a place that is a reachable distance from Beijing, and that is relatively unspoiled, with none of the accoutrements of tourism that ensnared us today. I think I'd like to go there, when and if I'm in this country again. Well, as promised, I'm going to end this installment here, as it grows too long. Tomorrow was another day in China, and it is another day here as well.

WE RETURN TO CIVILIZATION

2008-09-09T20:08:00.000-07:00

After a few minutes of rest and a good hot shower, we put on some clean clothes and head downstairs, where everyone is gathering, about to board the bus. We get on, and off we go!

Omar has made reservations for us at a cultural center/theater, and has told us a little bit about what we can expect there. The highlight of the show will be a performance by a Mongolian Throat Singer. What on earth is that?? Well, we found out, and it's really an unbelievable phenomenon.

Certain people, somehow, seem to have the physical ability or the talent or whatever you may choose to call it, to produce more than one tone at a time. We all talk, sing, yell or whatever by producing one tone, modulating it as needed to form words or change pitch. The tones can be raised and lowered up and down the scale at will, but there's only one tone to a customer, ordinarily. These throat singers can somehow produce two tones at the same time, each on a different pitch.

Have you ever stood in front of a fan and hummed, talked, sang or whistled into the breeze the fan creates? Sure you have. Every child discovers this at some point in his life, and every adult worth his or her salt has played with the discovery again when no one is watching. If you haven't, you need to conduct a search for your inner child, and liberate him or her.

Anyway, I think most of us know about the "double sound" that's produced when we do this. Well, that's what these throat singers sound like, and I have no earthly idea how they do it. It was fascinating. It sounded like two voices, but there was only one man singing. The question immediately arises - was another voice being transmitted from a microphone somewhere? Of course, that was possible, but I don't think so. The throat singers are famous in Mongolia, and I'm sure if it was a hoax, someone would have exposed it by now. I do know that it was beautiful, and absolutely fascinating.

We went to a lovely restaurant, had a delicious meal and returned to the hotel to rest and get ready for our flight back into China in the morning. We will be spending three days in Beijing. We're going to the Great Wall! We're going to the Forbidden City! We're going to shop! Uh-oh!

WE LEAVE OUR FRIENDS

2008-09-06T22:18:00.000-07:00

It's early morning, and as instructed, we have dragged our luggage into a central area, to be loaded onto our bus. We go to the dining room for our last meal together here in Darkhan, and eat quickly, because we must. Otherwise, we'd probably linger over the tea and coffee cups, as we're all feeling a bit pensive, thinking about leaving the friends we've made here. This country, these people, have a way of getting a strong hold on one's heart. I will miss them.

After breakfast, we make one last trip to our rooms, make one more check to be sure we've forgotten nothing, and avail ourselves of the facilities one last time. I don't think I'm going to miss our bathroom.

Downstairs, the last of our luggage is being loaded into the bus's underbelly, and people are milling about, delaying the boarding as long as possible. Hugs are exchanged with our interpreters, over and over. We have given them small gifts, including some Beanie Babies, and the girls are holding theirs. BatBubba is wearing the Texas T-shirt Eloise gave him. We are becoming very aware of how much we're going to miss these bright young folks who have been at our sides since we arrived, facilitating and making possible everything we've tried to do here. One more round of hugs, the wiping away of a few tears, and finally we board the bus.

BATBUBBA IN HIS TEXAS T-SHIRT

FAREWELL TO MOOGI AND BIAMBA

With much grinding of gears, the bus lumbers out of the parking lot, and we are on our way to Ulaanbaatar. It's going to be a long drive, and we fear it won't be as much fun as the first trip. On that one, we had our enthusiasm and anticipation to help the time pass. This time, we are dealing with nostalgia and reluctance to leave this land. We drive over the same landscape, but there is a bittersweet quality this time. We know more now. We pass some gers, and they no longer seem so mysterious and exotic to us. We know that they are simply a house, a home to a family of nice people, who work hard and just try to make a living the best way they know how. We know how lovely the gers are inside, and how comfortable, and how very practical for this part of the world.

As we're driving over the beautiful Mongolian countryside, I'm suddenly struck by the thought that if I don't get pictures of some things now, I may never get them. I mention that I'd like to get a picture of an ovoo (pronounced OH-woe), but by the time I realize that we're coming upon one, it's gone before I can get the camera focused. Somehow the word gets to the driver, and without warning, he pulls over on the shoulder and stops the bus. There is a lovely ovoo on the other side of the highway. I make my way across the aisle to a window and get a great picture.

AN OVOO ON THE ROADSIDE BETWEEN DARKHAN AND ULAANBAATAR

An ovoo is a very interesting manifestation of the religious background of the nomadic people of Mongolia. Buddhism is strong there, but there is a lot of animism as well, which involves shamanism, superstition and reverence for gods of nature. Travelers in Mongolia build the ovoos, these piles of rock and sticks, a little bit at a time, as they move through a given area. The idea is to leave an offering, thanking the god of the mountain, or the pass, or the valley, for allowing the traveler safe passage. The offerings usually consist of a stone, or possibly a stick or piece of wood, sometimes even a small trinket. The blue strips of cloth, as I understand it, represent a prayer of a more specific nature. After leaving the gift, the traveler walks around the ovoo three times in a clockwise direction, and then goes on his way.

Some ovoos are enormous, fifty feet or more in diameter, and may be taller than a mounted rider's head. These huge ones may be more than a hundred years old, as this custom is an ancient one. This particular ovoo was about ten or twelve feet in diameter, and about two or three feet tall, not counting the poles. I saw one that was so tiny it would have been completely unnoticed, had it not been for a couple of blue strips of cloth tied to a twig. It contained only three or four small rocks stacked together. I suppose everything has to start somewhere.

As we approached the midway point, it occurred to me that a rest stop would be very welcome. Then I remembered the infamous rest stop, regretted my last cup of tea, and silently hoped that we would stop at a different place. We didn't. Oh, mercy. We stopped at the same awful place, with the same awful little hut, and the same awful stench hit us as soon as we stepped off the bus. The first time, I was able to convince myself that I could make it to Darkhan, and I did. This time, I knew I could never make it to Ulaanbaatar. I am seriously regretting that last cup of tea now. There was no choice. I joined the pitiful little line of equally desperate women, and made my way toward that miserable hut. It's amazing how polite and courteous we all became, each one urging everyone else to go ahead and go first.

Finally it was my turn, and there was no one left to send on ahead of me. Nothing to do but enter the wretched hut and take care of business. I took a deep breath of the stinking air outside, because I feared it would be worse inside. I made it last as long as I could, but inside the hut I finally had to breathe, and learned that I was right. It was worse inside. I realized that I really missed our bathroom in Darkhan. As I stood there, over that gap in the floor, my purse strap slipped off my shoulder and to my great relief, it caught at my elbow. I hung it around my neck, because I knew if it ever fell through that gap, it would just have to stay there, passport and all.

After about ten years, I was ready to leave the little hut. Since I hadn't yet died of asphyxiation, I took the liberty of snapping a picture from the doorway as I left. I'll spare you the sight, but I have the picture, if anyone is interested. I walked across the parking lot toward the bus, pausing to let the prevailing wind blow (I hoped) some of the smell out of my hair and clothes. Those of us who had braved the perils of the little hut were understandably a bit smug as we boarded the bus, and can be forgiven for being unsympathetic toward those who chose to complete the ride in a state of discomfort.

The rest of the ride passed uneventfully, and finally our bus pulled up in front of the same hotel in which we had stayed upon entering Mongolia. It's nice, the rooms are clean and comfortable, and it has a real bathroom!!! Eloise and I are sharing a room this time, which is fine with us. We have only a short time to clean up and be ready to go, because Omar has a couple of events planned for us this evening. It sounds interesting, and we can hardly wait.

WE MEET AN ANGEL

2008-09-05T14:36:00.000-07:00

Everyone finally is seated, a blessing prayer is offered, and dinner begins. The whispers continue, and finally we begin to piece the story together. Later, we are told the entire story.

One of the members of the construction crew, whose name is Nathan, was so intrigued yesterday by the stories shared by the humanitarian aid team, that he asked to go along with them today, rather than going to the construction site. He was welcomed, and so it was that he was with the team as a little drama unfolded.

You'll remember that yesterday the team encountered a family that included a very small, very ill four year old boy. The family said that he had a lot of birth defects, and though they tried to feed him, he was unable to eat or swallow. Nathan was touched by the story, as we all were, and today he mentioned the child to the team. Since they were in the area, they decided to drop by and check on him.

At the door, they were met by a family member, who seemed uncomfortable, didn't appear to want them to enter, and who told them that the boy had died during the night. Horrified, and not really believing the story, the team leader gently insisted that they be admitted, and began to question the family. At some point, Nathan and the others heard a small cry from a curtained-off closet. When one of them opened the curtain, they were met by the sight of a young girl, sitting on the floor, holding the naked little boy and trying to keep him quiet. The floor was filthy with the child's waste, and there was no food or water in sight.

To the experienced eyes of the CTW staff, it was clear what was going on. The little boy had been put into the closet, with the hope that he would starve and die. The family had neither the means nor the desire to cope with his physical disabilities, and he was just one more useless mouth to feed. When the team arrived, the little girl was sent into the closet with him, to try to keep him quiet. The family knew what they were doing was wrong, and that the CTW staff would not let them get away with it.

At this point, I'm a little hazy on the details. I'm not sure whether Jerry Smith (our missionary) was with the team as they entered, or whether he was in another part of the building. It doesn't matter. The important thing is that he was on the scene immediately, took in what was happening, and took charge. He went to the closet, scooped up the little boy, and announced to the family that he was taking the child. He instructed a CTW staffer who was with them to call the police, and the team left, taking the little boy with them. Shortly thereafter, they were at the police station, telling their story, and applying for permission to take the little boy to the compound as their ward.

The Darkhan police know and respect Jerry Smith and the work that is done by CTW missions. He removes children from their sewers, feeds some of their hungry populace, and is known as an influence for good in Mongolia. Though the government officially takes a negative stance on evangelism, they really don't try very hard to find out if that is going on. CTW people don't stand and preach on street corners, and they don't pass out tracts. They don't button-hole people and push Christianity upon them. They simply practice the principles of love and caring and sharing that were taught by Jesus Christ, and if someone asks them why they are doing what they do, then they are free to tell them.

It's slow going at times, but the results are beginning to show, and I believe that in ten years, the work will be growing exponentially. The work is young in Mongolia, begun in the 1990's. The little Mustangs right now are mostly just boys, but in a few years they will be men. Christian men, we believe. There is no limit to what can be done as they grow up and spread what they've been taught all over Mongolia. Each year, new boys come into the fold. New girls, too, but in Mongolian society, it is probably the boys who will have the most opportunity to pass on what they've been taught. It can happen. After all, Christ had only The Twelve to carry on His work.

Back to our little four year old boy! Jerry and company brought him to the compound, and later to our hotel, where he was examined by our doctors. Their feeling was that, though the child obviously has some birth defects, it may not be nearly as bad as it looks. They believe that with nutrition and love and maybe some therapy, the child could thrive. When an attempt was made to feed him, this child that was "unable to eat or swallow" ate very well, and appeared to enjoy it very much.

As our doctors were examining the child that evening, our team member Nathan stood outside the door, very anxious and concerned. Indeed, he commented to one team member that he felt like an expectant father! He was so emotionally involved and so touched by the child's situation, that the decision was made to give the child the Christian name of "Nathan". Nathan means "gift of God", and indeed it fits in this case. Our Nathan was a gift to the child, because it was his inquiry and interest that led the team to return to the apartment, and little Nathan is sure to be a gift to the entire CTW mission, as he grows and thrives. We are all praying that he can do exactly that.

This evening was our farewell banquet, and as soon as dinner was finished, the children began to arrive. First the small ones, and their joy and enthusiasm as they sang "Jesus songs" was contagious. There was a Bible drill, with the older children competing, and it was beautiful to see how quickly they found their scripture and read it aloud. Songs were sung in Mongolian and in English and their joyful spirit was beautiful to see.

SINGING A SILLY SONG WITH SHARI ALEXANDER

At one point the children were released just to mingle with the adults. They surged into our midst, giving and receiving hugs, and bestowing huge smiles upon anyone who met their eyes. They are the most loving, beautiful children! Here is one little girl, Rachel, who stole everyone's heart, and especially Eloise's. Who could resist those big brown eyes, and that charming, gap-toothed smile? When she walked over and gave Eloise a big hug, I thought I was going to have to mop my friend up off the floor!

RACHEL, ELOISE'S SPECIAL FRIEND

There was a ceremony during which each team member was presented with a special scarf. It is a custom in some Mongolian homes to present a first-time visitor with a blue scarf. This is a symbol of welcome and an offer of friendship. If there is a second visit, the visitor is given a white scarf, and this symbolizes that the visitor is now a member of the family, and is always welcome. We were given white scarves (we skipped over the blue ones!) and each was presented by a different child, along with a hug.

RECEIVING MY SCARF AND HUG

At the end of the evening, Jerry Smith disappeared for a moment, and came back, carrying a small bundle in his arms. It was little Nathan, or Little Nate, as he came to be known. His handicaps are evident in his eyes, posture, and the way his little legs just hang limply, devoid of muscle tone. It's hard to tell in this picture, because his clothing is bulky and too large for him, but his arms and legs are stick-thin. His cheeks are a bit round, that's just the shape of his face, and what little fat his body holds is to be seen there.

LITTLE NATE, JERRY SMITH AND OMAR GARCIA

Naturally, we all clustered around Jerry and his small burden, everyone wanting to see and touch the child whose plight had so deeply touched all our hearts. It was wonderful to see the little boy in Jerry's care - clean, fed, clothed and with a future now, when only hours earlier he had none of those. It is remarkable to see what the love of God can do, when His people are willing to be His eyes, ears and most of all His hands on this earth. We all return to our rooms, with the impression that we have stood very close to a small angel.

Eloise and I are unusually quiet, as we prepare for bed on this last night here in Mongolia. We are impressed and humbled by the experiences we've had, and grateful for the opportunity to be here. We are, of course, looking forward to returning to our families and our comfortable homes, but in truth, we're aware that we're going to miss this land, these people, and the things we've experienced. God has been good to us.

Tomorrow, we must be up early, and ready to go. We will be taking the bus back to Ulaanbaatar, and from there to Beijing, where we will spend a couple of days sight-seeing and unwinding after the things we've seen in Mongolia. I'm looking forward to that, but to be truthful, I wouldn't mind spending the time here with our new friends.

OUR LAST DAY IN THE FIELD

2008-09-04T20:29:00.000-07:00

Monday, August 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TOOM CHRIS, DAVID SISSON AND SOME OF THE MUSTANGS

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

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

NOTHING LEFT BUT THE FLOOR

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

AND THE BEAT GOES ON

2008-08-31T17:07:00.000-07:00

Sunday, August 8

Once again, we rise early and meet the rest of the group for a good breakfast and some words of inspiration from Omar. He's a gifted speaker, and every morning he sends us on our way with a great devotional to think about as we go. I love to hear him pray. It's like eavesdropping on a conversation between him and God. His prayers are simple, direct and personal. He sounds completely comfortable, no flowery language, he's just talking to a friend. It's beautiful.

OMAR DELIVERING ONE OF OUR MORNING DEVOTIONALS

One morning, he told us about the "under-rowers" on the tall trireme ships, used in ancient times primarily as battleships. There were three tiers of rowers, and those on the bottom tier, deep in the hold of the ship, had the hardest and least glorified job of all. Their oars dipped more deeply into the water than did those of the upper tiers, yet they had to maintain the rhythm of the rowing for the rest of the ship. They rowed to the beat of a drummer, faster or slower according to the tempo he set. No one could slack off or lay back at all, because then the oars would become crossed, the rhythm would be disturbed and the whole ship would be put at risk. He encouraged us each to see ourselves as an under-rower, probably not a recipient of any glory or recognition, and often with a difficult job to do, but nevertheless a vital part of the group effort. We left that morning, eager to do our part, and there was never a word of complaint from anyone that day.

Today, we're going out to a different site. During the night, the Mustangs have dismantled our two tents and five gers, and moved them to the new site. In our clattering vans, we drive further over paved road, then turn off onto a rough and rutted track, rougher than the road to our original site, if that's possible. When we arrive, there are our two tents, and our five gers, and a sixth ger, about a hundred yards away from the others. This, we learn, is the food tent. Our original five gers now house the pharmacy, three doctors, and a dentist from town, who has joined us today.

By now, Toom Chris and I know the drill very well, and set up our table and benches quickly. We each have our own stethoscope and blood pressure cuff, and there is a pedi-size cuff that we keep on the table between us and share it. We each sit astride a bench, and our clients come in and sit on the bench in front of us, with our interpreters hovering nearby. What on earth would we do without them? They are unfailingly cheerful, and carry their little English-Mongolian dictionaries to help them over rough spots. BatBubba is a bit more proficient, having spent some time in the US, but the girls are pretty good, too, and eager to learn. My sweet Biamba has been replaced at this site by equally sweet Moogi, (or Moogii, I'm not sure) and she's a joy. Here's a picture of all three:

BIAMBA, BATSENGEL (BUBBA) AND MOOGI

We begin seeing clients, and for the most part, it's pretty much the same as the last three days. Terrible blood pressures, pain in kidneys, stomach and joints, gallbladder pain, headaches. Toom Chris and I have decided that this is all attributable to their diet and the fact that they beat themselves to death on those awful saddles all the time. My kidneys would hurt, too! Heredity may influence the blood pressure, and the blood pressure isn't doing their kidneys any good, and certainly will give them headaches. The stomach pain may be from that wretched erek, the mare's milk concoction. Anyway, we have it all figured out. We should be doctors!

The people look much the same as the ones we saw at the original site, though if anything, they're a bit more "rural", if such a thing is possible. At any given moment, there are about thirty horses tied to the trees surrounding the clearing - a Mongolian parking lot.

We see a steady stream of people, and then it's time for lunch. We close up shop and walk the hundred yards or so to the food tent, wondering what lunch will be today. I could go for some more of those little meat pies. However, today we have something different. Under the lid of one five-gallon bucket, we find a mixture of diced potatoes, MUO (that's meat of unknown origin, you'll remember), a little onion and a mild seasoning. Mongolian hash, and it smells good! In a second bucket, we discover shredded potatoes, MUO, a little onion and a mild seasoning. Hmmm. The choice seems to be between diced or shredded potatoes. No problem. I get a little of each! A little slaw (there's always slaw), a hunk of bread and some Mongolian catsup rounds the meal out. Mongolian catsup is good. It's a bit thin, and tastes like a cross between catsup and Tabasco, so naturally I love it, and it's great on the potato dishes.

With a handful of the ever-present dried peaches to chew on, we return to the tent and go back to work. We finish up, and the day ends uneventfully. We make the bone-jarring ride back to town easily. We're used to it by now, and manage to make congenial conversation the whole way. The landscape is so vast and beautiful, the cloud formations are breathtaking with the setting sun reflecting on them, and the peace that descends at this time of day is almost palpable. I could learn to love this country.

Back at the hotel, we have dinner and again share the experiences of our day with the other teams. The construction team reports on the progress they're making as they work on building bathrooms onto each Mustang dormitory, and try to get the plumbing finished. They had a problem when they ran out of materials at one point, but they were undaunted. A couple of the men simply boarded a train for Ulaanbaatar and went after what they needed! That trip took us four hours by bus, and that was a direct run. The trains make every little whistle stop and winding detour, so it took them much, much longer, but they went anyway. They got what they needed, which took quite a bit of shopping and looking - remember, there are no Home Depots in Ulaanbaatar. After a while, if I remember correctly, they were met by a truck from CTW, and returned with the goods. The work goes on.

You'll recall I told you earlier about the group that works at the infant feeding station. This is a daily endeavor, and takes a lot of time and devotion. A few mothers are fed there, too - the ones who appear particularly undernourished and sickly. Not only is the ministry concerned for the mothers themselves, but if they're lost, then the child becomes an orphan, along with any siblings, and will add to the numbers of children who are under the care of CTW.

The humanitarian aid team has been visiting in the apartments, passing out bags of food, and has uncovered some real horror stories. They are seeing the absolute poorest of the poor, and the things they have seen are almost unbelievable. I know we have poverty and want in the US, but I'm not sure we have anything like this. They tell of finding whole families living in the space under a staircase. That would have to be about 5x10 feet, not much more. Many of us have closets larger than that. They have no power, no heat, certainly no a/c, no water, no toilet. One woman heads a family of eleven living in such a space, all dependent upon her for support. She ekes out a living by sweeping the doorsteps of nearby apartments, for which she is paid a few cents a month.

This story was told at one table at dinner, and we had just learned that a ger sells for about $600. Well! We have the answer to this woman's problems! There are about thirty of us present, and if each kicked in $20, we could buy this woman a ger, and move her out of that staircase hole. We're about to pass the hat, confident that we can do a humanitarian deed here in a few minutes.

Then Jerry Smith appears, and with great tact and kindness, he helps us to see that our effort won't work. Yes, we can buy her a ger, but where would we put it? She has no land. True, we can put it out on the plains, where she could live for four months without paying anything for the land, but then she would have to either move or pay up, and she would have no water and no way to go get any. She has no help or vehicle with which to relocate the ger, and no money to pay up. Also, her livelihood is tied to these apartment buildings, and if we move her to the country, she has no income at all. The herding families have their livestock from which to obtain milk, meat and a little money from selling the offspring, but she has no livestock, and probably doesn't have any experience with animals, either.

Jerry also tells us that in many cases, these families have been offered job after job, but they refuse them. Many of them prefer to eke out a living by picking up cans and other recyclables and selling them, sweeping doorsteps, whatever, because they can do these things or not, whenever it's convenient. They don't want to be obligated to show up for work somewhere. Often what money they do manage to get is spent on alcohol. Hmmm. This all has a rather familiar ring to it. Not much different from the welfare rolls at home..

Jerry says he'd much prefer that we just continue to support CTW as we have been doing, and trust them to administer the funds responsibly, applying aid where and how it's most needed. He thanks us for our generous spirit, but then gently points out that we're here for only a week or so, and his staff is here all the time, and know the people and their needs better than we do. He needn't worry about trust as far as I'm concerned. I really can't imagine questioning him on anything he does. After all, he's willing to live in Mongolia, and I'm not.

In one apartment, the team saw a child who was said to be four years old, but was extremely small and thin, weighing about twenty pounds. He appeared to have some brain damage, doesn't walk or talk, and his eyes don't track. He was just lying on the floor, seemingly unaware of his surroundings, crying a little now and then. The team left a bag of food with the family, but still felt that something more needed to be done. As they shared the story with us at dinner, their concern and distress showed on their faces, and we were all touched by the story.

After dinner, Eloise and I returned to our room, neither of us talking very much. We looked again at the makeshift faucet arrangement and the wet tiles in our bathroom, at the stained pillows and ripped pillowcases. We sat down on our hard, low beds and looked across at each other, and then simultaneously we said, "At least we're not living under a staircase!" It is to become our watchword.

2008-08-30T12:01:00.000-07:00

Saturday, August 7.

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

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

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

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

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

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

MONGOL FAMILY, ABOUT TO MOUNT HORSES AND RIDE AWAY

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

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

MONGOLIAN HOSPITALITY

2008-08-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

After bouncing and churning over miles of unbelievably rough terrain, we come to a stop near a group of three gers. There is a small corral, some cattle and assorted goats, a wolfish dog, and four saddled Mongol ponies. We climb out of the vans, and learn that we have been invited to the home of a Mongol family.

Our host is the man who was driving the jeep. He is handsome, his features a bit more finely-cut than most Mongols, and he sports an American-style crewcut. He's wearing a white shirt which is cut almost like our Western cowboy shirts, black pants and of course, riding boots. He is trim, muscular and very fit. A broad smile seems to be a permanent fixture on his face, and his whole demeanor conveys a genial welcome.

We are led, almost pulled, into the main ger and urged to be seated. The ger is surprisingly roomy, and easily accommodates about twelve of us, plus the man and his family.

Our hostess has prepared a spread of traditional Mongol food, and has obviously gone to a great deal of effort, and probably significant expense. There is a wide array of little tidbit foods, and a platter of roasted mutton, with some boiled potatoes alongside. We are encouraged to serve ourselves, and since there are no serving utensils to be seen, we find that fingers work very well. The mutton is tough and stringy, but tasty, and I enjoy a few bites. The potatoes are, well, boiled potatoes!

There are some small things which look like cookies, but which prove to be very hard and have almost no taste. The hostess indicates that we are to dip them into a creamy-looking concoction, which to our surprise is delicious. It tastes like sweetened, buttery cream, and the combination with the hard little cookies is really very good. There is a large platter of the slices of dried milk curd, which seems to be a staple of the diet around here. We have been given several plates of it as gifts, brought in by the locals and presented to us with pride. We have tried to eat it, but it's not easy. One could easily break a tooth, and the stuff is truly not worth the loss! Still, out of respect for our hostess, we each take a piece and gnaw on it a bit. I slip mine into my pocket when no one's looking.

There is a plate of sliced cheese, which looks delicious, but which proves to be hard, dry and leathery, with no taste and is almost inedible. It seems that almost everything they make from milk is hard and dry, and I think I know why. With little or no refrigeration available, at least in the summer, anything that wasn't completely dessicated would mold or otherwise spoil. In the winter, they just sit things outside and have instant refrigeration, but in the summer that doesn't work. So, they have developed a process for drying everything, which keeps it very well. I'm not sure how they do it, but I suspect it's a method that has existed for centuries. These people keep traditions!

Then comes the moment we have all heard about, and have been dreading. The hostess brings out a lovely blue and white china tureen, beautifully painted, and a ladle. She begins to fill bowls with a frothy white liquid. I can smell it from where I sit, several feet away. The bowls hold about a pint, and she fills them to the brim. To serve anything less would be considered very rude on her part. The liquid, we know, is "erek" (phonetically spelled). It is made from mare's milk (yes, they milk their horses), which has been fermented for a long, long time. There are small lumps floating in it, and occasionally a vein of clear liquid will appear. She stirs each bowl and begins passing them around. I try to disappear, but can't quite manage it. I receive my bowl and thank her.

The smell is awful, rather like spoiled buttermilk. Now, I like buttermilk very much, but I never drank it if it was spoiled. I can't imagine how hard this would be on someone who doesn't even like buttermilk. Our handsome host is smiling at me, nodding eagerly, obviously anticipating my pleasure in his most cherished offering. I'm trapped. I have no choice. I take a small sip and somehow manage a smile, as the "kick" coursed through my insides.

The taste, surprisingly, wasn't quite as bad as I expected once I got past the smell, but it is definitely not something I'll ever forget, or ever acquire a taste for. It's sour, of course, and has a gamey taste, and of course, that kick. Yep, my very first taste of an alcoholic beverage! I had to come all the way to Mongolia to do it.

The host and hostess continue to urge us on, and I take several more sips, as much as I can muster. Finally, knowing my limit, I put the bowl down on a ledge beside me and try to ignore it. The awful taste is still in my mouth, as another bowl comes my way, passed from one to another. This is a communal bowl, and everyone seems to accept that fact. It contains a clear fluid, like water, but it definitely isn't water. It's Vodka. I know it's Vodka. I have heard that Vodka has no taste, and hoping that it might wash out the taste of the erek, I figure, well, why not? I've come this far. So I take a swallow of the Vodka, and can truthfully say that it tastes worse than the erek! I have thinned paint with something that smelled like the Vodka tastes. I believe you could blow stumps with it. So much for that. Right now, I'd just really love to have a big glass of iced tea.

My host has noticed that I'm not drinking my erek, and points to it and makes drinking motions. I have no choice. A couple more swallows, and mercifully he seems satisfied. I put the bowl down again, and sit quietly, waiting for Genghis Khan's revenge to overtake me.

Soon, our host stands and invites us outside. He indicates that they have saddled the horses, and he would be pleased if some of us would care to ride. Well, of course, I'm there. My friend Karen and I mount up and ride a few hundred yards. The horses seem to have two speeds. Walk, and stop. We can't get them to move any faster than a walk, no matter what we do. Heels drummed on ribs were ignored. I don't know if they were waiting for a Mongolian giddyap, or what, but whatever the magic word was, we didn't know it. Perhaps they knew we crazy Americans would fall off of those weird saddles. That was a possibility, indeed. They leave you feeling very insecure, those saddles. Still, I actually rode a Mongol pony.

We ride back to the ger, dismount and others of our group take our places. Toom Chris is persuaded to try, and quickly finds out that his frame just simply doesn't fit in a Mongol saddle. He notified us that he would be singing with the sopranos in the choir from now on.

We are preparing to leave, and our genial host makes the rounds, giving each person a very firm, gentle handshake. I'm struck by his good looks. He has beautiful white teeth, with a gap between the two front ones, that does not detract at all from his appearance. His face is brown and a bit weathered, but less so than many I've seen. His eyes are bright and direct, and convey a friendly openness that is disarming. His clothes are Mongol, but there's a hint of Western in them as well. And of course, there's that American crewcut! These people are a strange combination of cultures, but the more I'm with them, the more I like them.

We boarded our vans, and bumped and bounced over the open plain, eventually reaching the highway, and headed back to the hotel. It was almost 10pm when we arrived, though just barely getting dark, but dinner was waiting. We had a good meal, and a time of sharing with the teams who are doing humanitarian aid visits in the town. Later, we returned to our rooms, and after a quick shower, I fell into my bed and was asleep almost at once.

MEETING GENGHIS KHAN

2008-08-22T22:02:00.000-07:00

Toom Chris and I arrived at the supply ger, and found two or three of our colleagues there ahead of us - one doctor, one nurse and our pharmacist, along with a couple of the Mustangs. There was also a significant number of flies. Yep, there are flies in Mongolia, and they look just like ours. Those of you who know me well can imagine how thrilled I was to see flies in the food tent, but I reminded myself that I was not at home, and no one else seemed particularly bothered, so I just tried to ignore them and didn't run about madly with a rolled paper or a swatter. Besides, I couldn't find either one. Apparently, no one swats flies in Mongolia.

The food was presented in five-gallon plastic buckets, which I recognized as having held the dried peaches we measured out into the bags of food for the needy families. They looked reasonably clean, so no problem. Inside the buckets, we found a pile of little folded-over pies, like a fried pie at home, but smaller, and I'm not sure they had been fried. They were steamed, I think. Another bucket held a lot of the very thinly shredded cabbage and carrots that we have seen before at dinner back at our hotel. It's hard to describe. There is a dressing but it's clear, not mayonnaise-y like our slaw at home, and the taste is very mild, but pretty good. We saw a stack of little pink cereal-type bowls sitting on the floor, and gathered that they were our "plates." Forks stood in a cup next to them.

I got a bowl, and by using another small bowl as a scoop, I scraped the top layer of the slaw off to one side (in deference to the flies) and scooped up a serving for myself, putting it in my bowl. Then reaching underneath the top layer of little pies, I chose one pie and went off to a corner (hard to do in a round ger) with my lunch. There was a slice of bread also, and after taking a bite of it, I decided I probably wouldn't eat the bread again. Hard, dry, coarse, and not a lot of taste to it. I ate my slaw, and nibbled at the little pie. Hmmm. Not bad. Not bad at all. It was filled with meat, which we were told was classified as MUO. That's Meat of Unknown Origin. Not very reassuring, but it was tasty, and I forced myself to forget that it could have come from any one of a number of different animals, including yaks and horses. I ate my little pie, and decided that perhaps I had room for another one. Ate that, too. I was hungry, for pete's sake! We stayed only a few moments after finishing our food, then walked back to our tent, gnawing on a handful of dried peaches, and carrying a bottle of water. Bottled water has been abundantly available to us so far.

We have seen another 30 or 40 people each so far in the afternoon, and they're still coming in. A huge dump truck comes grinding in, and people spill out over the sides. Someone assists a feeble old man with badly bowed legs, and hands him his crutch when he's safely on the ground. He's proudly wearing his del, and a little round derby hat. Hats, as I've said, are all the rage, and they range from Aussie-style canvas hats with rolled-up sides, to baseball caps, to Panama Jack styles, to Bing Crosby straw hats, to one tall silk top hat.

It is mid-afternoon, and suddenly there is the thudding of hooves, and in rides Genghis Khan himself. He is taller than most Mongols, dressed in blousy, purple satin trousers, a turquoise satin shirt that is made like the top half of a del, and one of the colorful, pointed Mongolian hats. He ties his horse to a nearby tree, strides into the camp, and someone directs him to the intake tent.

In a half hour or so, I look up to greet my next client, and realize it is Genghis Khan. He sits down on the bench in front of me, and I look into a ruggedly handsome Mongol face, and see that while his eyes are basically brown, they have lights of those peculiar green/gold colors in them as well. Very unusual eyes. I see also that the whites of his eyes are very red, and his eyes are watering. He doesn't smile, but rather maintains a rather severe posture. I get his blood pressure, which to my surprise is normal, and then my experienced little interpreter, Biamba, asks him what his problems are. He speaks for the first time, looking directly at me. His voice is very soft and gentle, and he speaks in a respectful and earnest manner, pleading for help. It's his eyes, he says. They are very red (he's right!) and they itch and burn and make tears all the time. It bothers him very much, and he hopes there is something we can do to help him. I'm very happy, because we probably can. We have allergy pills and eyedrops in our pharmaceutical supply. I tell him this, and he smiles broadly. A Mustang escorts him to a doctor's ger, and he's on his way to comfort.

A bit later, as we're about finished with everyone, he reappears, all smiles, and asks if Biamba and I would like to sit on his horse and maybe take pictures. Well, I suppose so!! Biamba was as thrilled as I was, and we each got on the horse and someone used my camera to take pictures. Genghis Khan held the horse, I think he didn't trust us, or maybe he didn't trust the horse, but he never let go. No problem. A Mongolian saddle is not the most comfortable thing I ever encountered, and though I'm usually quite comfortable on horseback, I felt very insecure and off-balance. The saddle is placed quite far up toward the horse's neck, and is made so that you don't settle into it, but rather perch against the high cantle. The stirrups are short, and the whole effect is to keep you almost standing, leaning over the horse's neck, and feeling very much like you could just pitch right over his ears at any moment. Later we learn that this saddle design came from the days of the true Genghis Khan, and was intended to make his warriors, who were probably of rather small stature, appear much larger and more imposing, as they rode into battle standing up and leaning over the horse's head.

"GENGHIS KHAN" AND ME

Finally, the day ends. No more people arrive, and we finish the last one and send him to the doctor's tent. We pack up our equipment and leave the tent for a very welcome potty break. Our potty is a tiny gray tent with a zippered door and a small chemical container. It serves the purpose.

We have time to stand and enjoy the beauty around us. The sky is incredibly blue, the mountains to the west of us are awesome, the air is clean and fresh. We're camped on the bend of a swift river, and it looks inviting, but I'm sure it would be icy cold. The whole effect is one of beauty, peace and serenity. I mentally compare it to my own home, and remember the smog, the traffic, and the neighbor boy's booming car radio, and I wonder why anyone would want to live there. I know, of course, that it's home, it's what I know, and it's where my family is, but for just a moment, I have to wonder.

Finally, we are ready to leave, and we climb aboard the vans and start down the rutted road. A mile or so out, a jeep which has been following us since we left the camp suddenly passes us, bumping over the open plain. It contains a group of Mongols who are dressed like herdsmen, and I recognize the driver as a particularly charismatic man whose vital signs I had checked earlier.

The jeep passes our whole caravan, and takes the lead. Someone remarks that he was just getting out of our dust, and that seems reasonable. Not so, however. At some point, we realize that our vans are no longer on the same road we came in on, but rather are following the jeep over a barely discernible track over the plain. No one has a clue where we're going, but we don't really care. One road is just as rough as another, and besides, we're surrounded by breathtaking beauty everywhere we look. So, we just settle back into our seats, try to hang on and keep from being bounced through the roof, and wait to see where this mysterious man in the jeep is leading us.

THE DAY CONTINUES

2008-08-13T20:44:00.000-07:00

About mid-morning, an elderly gentleman enters our tent. He is dressed in traditional Mongol attire, which consists of the ubiquitous leather boots, loose-fitting trousers, and a del. Since the Mongolian alphabet looks like ours only for a few letters, I may be wrong about the spelling, but it's pronounced like "the farmer in the dell." Anyway, a del is a kind of coat worn by men and women alike, and may be worn over just about any kind of clothing. The effect is charming. The person looks so "Mongolian" in their del, and underneath may be Levi's and a Hard Rock cafe T-shirt!

Back to the elderly gentleman. He wore his boots, trousers and del, and a hat that looked like a cross between a derby and a panama, if you can imagine. He entered the tent, and approached us, nodding his head deferentially, and smiling a huge smile that cracked across his weathered face like a sudden sunrise. His hands were worn and callused from hard work, and gnarled and knobby from arthritis. He was holding a curious little jar, with a loose lid. There were a few people ahead of him, and he sat down to wait, all the while grinning in anticipation of what he knew was to come.

When his turn came, he approached our table, said something in Mongolian, and our interpreters immediately told us that he wanted to share something with us. We nodded and smiled, and with great ceremony, he took the little jar, lifted the lid carefully, held the jar near his nose and inhaled sharply! A fragrance, perhaps? The interpreters quickly told us to accept the jar, and duplicate his actions, but to inhale very, very gently. It was presented to me first, so I did as I was told. I could see that the lid was attached to a little rod inside the jar, which obviously lifted the contents when the lid was lifted. I inhaled very gently, I'm happy to say, because the jar contained snuff!

I smiled and nodded at the man, and made a happy face, and he was delighted. When I returned the jar to the man, he presented it to Toom Chris, and was obviously very happy when Chris inhaled not once, but twice, and feigned great enjoyment. The old man was so pleased that we had enjoyed his gift, and just cackled with delight when the interpreters gave him our thanks and appreciation. He had shared with us one of his most precious commodities, and we had been pleased, so he was pleased as well. Incidents like this were repeated many times over the next few days, as people who have so little shared with the visiting Americans, who have so much.

Let me tell you a little about the "del." As I said, they're worn by both sexes, and even by the children. The main distinction between men's or women's attire is the fabric and fancy-work. For women, the fabric is usually silky, or like satin, and always very colorful, colors you see on butterflies and hummingbirds, jewel colors. Probably many of the garments actually are silk, but in today's world they may very well be polyester as well, though they still feel like silk. There is usually embroidery work, and the closures are elaborate ball-and-braided loop arrangements. For men, the fabric may be heavier, like suit-coat material, or it may be satiny and colorful, but with less embellishment than the women's coats. They close at the top of one shoulder, slant downward and fasten again under the arm on that side, and again at the waist. The sleeves are long, and the garment flares slightly below the waist. A long strip of colorful cloth is wrapped snugly around the waist several times and tucked into itself. This has the effect of making the whole top of the garment into a big pocket, and they carry everything you can imagine tucked into those dels.

THE TWO FACES OF MONGOLIA - GRANNY IN TRADITIONAL DEL AND BOOTS, HER DAUGHTER IN WESTERNIZED CLOTHING.

Underneath these beautiful coats, a woman may be wearing jeans or cheap polyester pants and a worn T-shirt, and her footwear may be anything from riding boots to platform shoes over striped socks, but her coat is so beautiful that you just don't notice anything else.

The faces we see are fascinating. Most are dark, weathered and wrinkled. I see one face that looks at least 80 years old, but her card says she is only 52. Their lives are so very hard, and it shows on their faces. Most Mongols have black hair, dark skin and dark brown eyes, but now and then, peering out of a brown face, there will be a pair of sky-blue eyes, and sometimes the eyes are a strange green-blue-gold combination that I have never seen before. These folks usually have a lighter hair color as well, though not always. We're told that this coloration comes from the Russian occupation, and that most Mongolians do not find it particularly attractive. Still, I find these people to be strangely beautiful. Perhaps it's just the contrast.

We continue to see clients, and quickly learn to anticipate high blood pressures. Anyone with a normal pressure earns a comment from Toom Chris or me. I would estimate that at least 85% are significantly hypertensive. A systolic pressure (the top number) of 180 or above is common, and the diastolics (the bottom number) are usually over 100. Even those with fairly normal systolics will have high diastolics. We saw one 13-yr old whose pressure was 130/96. We saw many adults with pressures as high as 200/130. This is stroke territory, yet these people just keep on going.

Our doctors tell us that there is probably a genetic influence on their blood pressures, but certainly their diet plays a large role. They eat very little fruit and vegetables. Their diet consists almost exclusively of meat and dairy products, with a few potatoes now and then. I cannot imagine what their cholesterol levels must be. Hmmm. So much for the Atkins diet!

Many tell us that they are on blood pressure medication, but only take it "when I need it." Their determination of "need" is when they have a headache they just can't stand. Toom Chris and I, through our interpreters, try to educate them about the need to take their medication ALL OF THE TIME, whether they have a headache or not, but I don't think many of them really get it. It is such a common problem, and the interpreters have relayed it so many times, that I finally resort to just telling Biamba to "tell them the medicine story." She knows it as well as I do by now, and tells them, while I'm taking vital signs on the next patient.

We see about 150 people, and have finally stopped telling each other about the high blood pressures we find, because it's no longer news. The weather is hot and humid, we're tired and getting hungry, our ears are getting sore from the stethoscopes, and the lines are still very long. Where on earth are all these people coming from? We have worked all morning, it's nearly 1pm, and people are still walking in out of the bushes. For a land that looks so deserted, it's pretty darned well populated! We both have snack food in our packs, but we have learned that it would be extremely rude to try to eat any of it, since we don't have enough to share with everyone. In America, if you have a candy bar or some snack crackers, you can eat them and no one really expects you to share. After all, they probably have some of their own, or certainly have the money to buy it if they wish. Here, when you have a treat, it's really a treat, and it would be inexcusable not to share. So, with growling stomachs, we work and wait. Finally, the word is relayed to us - shut down and go to the supply ger for lunch. Hooray!

One problem. Our tent is filled with people waiting to be seen. They have not had lunch either, and they're just as hot and tired as we are. Our interpreters assure us that there is no problem, and they quickly inform the people that the American doctors (?) are going to be gone for a short time. Indeed, there is no problem. These people know full well where we are going, but they all smile and nod, and with a broad palms-up gesture they motion toward the open tent flap, clearly encouraging us to go ahead and leave. We see them re-settling children and themselves, fully prepared to wait patiently until we return. I continue to be impressed by these remarkably kind and gracious people.

We exit the tent and head toward the supply ger, looking forward to lunch. I'm not sure what we expected to find there, (a cheeseburger, perhaps?) but what we found probably wasn't on our imaginary menu.

WE MEET THE NOMADS

2008-08-07T10:34:00.000-07:00

Friday, August 6

We are up early, good breakfast at 7, and into vans for the trip to the remote site where the clinic for the "ger" families will be held.

A ger is a round structure that the herdsmen and their families live in, and the landscape is dotted with them. The same type of structure is used by nomadic people in parts of Russia, and there they are known as "yurts". They're also used in town, as living quarters and very often as storage sheds or supplemental buildings for businesses.

The Mustangs are living in gers at present at the CTW compound, until their dormitories are finished. Gers come in different sizes, depending upon how many wall sections you use. The floor is wooden and comes in sections. The walls are made of a criss-cross lattice, that collapses like a folding child gate. In the center, two stout poles support a circular wooden frame. Lighter poles are inserted into the outer rim of this circle like spokes from a wagon hub, and extend out to the walls. There, they are simply tied in place.

CIRCULAR RING AND UPPER SUPPORT POLES OF A GER

Large sheets of very heavy felt are then wrapped around the whole structure. The felt is made by the herdsmen from the hair of the animals they raise - sheep, goats, yaks, horses and cattle. After a time, the felt takes on the shape of the structure itself. In these "modern" times, a sheet of plastic is thrown over the felt, especially over the top, to make it more rainproof, and a canvas cover that has been sewn to fit the structure is put in place over the whole thing. There is a vent hole in the top, like in a tepee, and this can be opened or closed with the help of long straps attached to the coverings.

A TYPICAL GER - NOTE THE ELABORATELY DECORATED DOOR

The side walls can be rolled up like a Roman shade on the outside, and a chimney effect then provides circulation, as air is drawn in from the sides and carried out through the vent in the top. It's quite effective. Five men working together can put a ger up in two hours, and can take one down in thirty minutes. This makes them very portable, and a family can relocate in a day.

LANNI AND ELOISE INSIDE A GER

Inside a home, pretty fabrics are hung around the walls, and furniture is arranged around the perimeter, against the walls. The ger is surprisingly roomy, attractive and functional. Mongol people have lived in them for centuries, so the concept is tried and true.

One might wonder whether they smell, with the felt being made of animal hair. They do. When it's raining, they really do. However, it smells a lot like a stable, which has never bothered me anyway. It's just a warm, earthy scent, not at all unpleasant, very reminiscent of my growing-up years, when my horse was my beloved companion. It didn't bother me at all.

Back to the clinic! First of all, there was the trip out there. We rode in the Russian vans, made in the early 70's and still hanging in there. There are a couple of newer vans, that belong to CTW, but the Russian vans and drivers are hired to transport us. I'm not sure the newer vans would make the trip. The Russian vans are a sight to behold. Gray, of course. I don't think the Russians know there are any other colors. Everything they make is gray. The vans have seen better days, to put it mildly. The door stops are gone, so to keep the doors from swinging completely around when they're opened, and breaking the hinges, they're tethered with pieces of wire, rope, whatever the driver could find. One is fastened with an old seatbelt strap. Not sure where that came from, since there are no seat belts.

We travel over paved road for a few miles, then the driver turns down a track - it would be an exaggeration to call it a road - and continue on. The vans wheeze and chug and groan, and the drivers herd them over the unbelievably rutted track without mercy. I half expected them to take out whips and start beating them! The vans protest, but the drivers are relentless. Our engine dies, and the driver raises a lid over a console next to him, tinkers a bit, then pours some clear liquid into something under the lid. I think it must have been Vodka, because the engine coughed, choked and clattered into life, and on we went. The vans rear and pitch and buck, but the drivers keep urging them on. We're bounced around the vans unmercifully, as the vans plow over ruts and holes and mudslides, like crazed animals in search of water. I will definitely be sore tomorrow.

We finally lurch into the camp, and the vans wheeze to a halt. We get out, a bit the worse for wear, and nursing a bruise or two, but we barely notice it. We're so excited to be here, and ready to get to work. There are two tents set up, one for the intake team to register the people as they arrive, and one for me and Toom Chris to do our job. We will take vital signs, and with our interpreters, get the history of each person - current complaint and what, if any, treatment they've had. By the way, "toom" is pronounced like "tome", and is the Mongolian word for "big". We have two guys named Chris. One is our pharmacist, and he is tall and slender. The other Chris is also tall, but no way is he slender, hence the distinction "Toom Chris". He's a shaven-headed, bearded biker, complete with leathers, studded belt, tattoos, the whole works. He's also an EMT, a Christian, and a marshmallow inside. He knows his stuff, and is fun to work with.

After Toom Chris and I have finished with a client, they are escorted by one of the Mustangs to a bench outside one of the gers where the doctors are working. The escorts try to keep the waiting lines at approximately the same length. We have two doctors today, each in their own ger, and our pharmacist is in a third one. There are a couple of empty gers as well, as we may be joined by a third doctor tomorrow, and possibly a Mongolian dentist.

There were only a few people waiting when we arrived, but shortly thereafter, people began to just materialize out of the brushy scrub that surrounds the camp. They came on foot, on horseback, in little horse-drawn carts, and a few on motorbikes or in ancient cars. They came from all directions, leading small children, carrying babies, assisting the elderly. They're dressed in an astonishing variety and combination of clothing. We see old pin-stripe suitcoats worn over baggy trousers of unknown fabric. The trousers are inevitably stuffed into the tops of leather riding boots, most of which appear to be of very good quality. Most of the men, and many of the women wear these boots, because horses are a part of their daily life. Everyone rides. T

he clothing combinations are original, to say the least. One woman was wearing a pair of modern, pointy-toed high heels over a pair of argyle socks, with Levi's and a long-sleeved sweater, with a sheer pink nightie top over that. Amazing.

Many of the women also wear hats, and they seem to favor white or cream-colored straw hats, with wide brims. Another favorite style is straw, shaped like a baseball cap, with a huge, very exaggerated bill on it, about a foot long, and fanning out at least eight inches wide.

The people are gentle, friendly, and extremely patient and cooperative. Their speech is soft and rhythmic, and I enjoy hearing it, though I don't understand a word. The intake team is sending them to us faster than we can process them, so our waiting line is building, but the people sit quietly, and the children are well-behaved. This promises to be a long, tiring, and very enjoyable day.

NOTE: Friends, I must apologize for the strange shifts in print style. I'm not doing that. I've given this print engine every command the law allows. Some parts respond, some do not. I'm copying and pasting this text from my old journal, but once I highlight and override with new print commands, it should respond. Even if it doesn't respond as I tell it, it should at least misbehave equally everywhere, but it does not. So, I guess we'll just take whatever comes. Perhaps we can make a game of it - "Guess the Print Style" or some such. Oh well.

Our first day on the job!

2008-08-03T10:58:00.000-07:00

Thursday, August 5

We are up early, have a good breakfast, and load ourselves into the vans for the trip to the Change The World compound. It's located near a small town called Hongor, several miles from Darkhan. When we arrive there, I'm impressed beyond words by what I see. The property is beautiful. It's located alongside a river, on gently rolling hills, and much work has been done to establish a comfortable and secure place for the children. There are living quarters, a cooking facility, storage rooms, and perhaps most impressive of all, five roomy greenhouses.

Inside these greenhouses, Jerry and company are growing a wide variety of vegetables, including of all things - corn! I've never seen corn grown in a greenhouse before, but they're doing it. Tall, beautiful stalks that have reached the roof, and are tasseled out and producing large, healthy ears of corn. Outside of the greenhouses, in the sandy soil, there are cabbages with a leaf-spread of about three feet, and squash vines are rambling everywhere, bearing more squash than the compound can use. Jerry tells us that the excess of what they grow is shared with the poorer people in the town. What's that scripture about planting seeds and trusting God for the harvest?

GREENHOUSE CORN

After viewing the beautiful gardens, we move on down the hill to the baby rooms. There we meet about a dozen infants, who are being cared for by three or four women. The babies seem happy and well-fed, and are so very cute. We don't want to leave them, but it's time to move on.

ELOISE AND SMALL FRIEND

After a short drive in the vans, we arrive at a point much deeper into the property, not far from the river. This area contains the dormitories for the "Mustangs." These are the teenage boys, most of whom were living in the sewers of Darkhan until Jerry found them and brought them to CTW. The dorms are semi-finished buildings at this point, which provide shelter for the boys, but still need work (and bathrooms). That's what our construction team will be doing while we're here. A sewer line will be placed and run to a septic tank, water lines will be put in, and a bathroom will be built on the end of each dormitory building.

The men on our construction team pick up tools and start to work. By lunchtime, Richard (our plumber) is almost unrecognizable. He is filthy!! He's been down in a narrow ditch all morning, and has connected an astonishing amount of pipe. He may be dirty from head to foot, but he's smiling through the dirt, and appears to be enjoying himself greatly. He cleans up as much as he can, and we all decide that it's good, honest, Godly dirt, and make room for him at the tables.

We eat in the semi-outdoors, in what would pass for a livestock stall at home - open, slatted sides with a roof overhead. It's large enough to accommodate four picnic-style tables and benches, We go down the hill to the kitchen, pick up our plates and return to gather around the tables. The food is good, and everyone eats well. There is one thing for certain, however. If you don't like cucumbers, you can't make it in Mongolia. We have them at every meal. They're sliced in very creative ways, but a cucumber is a cucumber, and it's pretty hard to pass them off as anything else. We are told that the ones we're eating today were grown here in the compound. Fortunately, I like cucumbers, so I'm in good shape.

LADIES PREPARING OUR LUNCH

After lunch, the benches were removed, and we gathered around the tables to make up food bags for distribution to needy families. Boxes and barrels of donated food, mostly from the US, are carried to our area by some of the Mustangs, and we set to work. Three bags of dry soup mix, two cans of a dried meat product (we probably don't want to know), two bags of dried strawberries, one bag of shelled almonds, and a large bag of dried peaches, are all combined into one large yellow plastic bag. We tasted the dried fruit. Chewy, but good.

FOOD BAGS FILLED AND READY TO DISTRIBUTE

After the food was bagged up and carried to the vans and loaded into them, we returned to our "corral" to set up a clinic for the CTW staff. It was well-attended. My job is to take pulses and blood pressures, and with the help of an interpreter to also get a brief history of the individual's complaints. It immediately becomes apparent that most Mongolians have high blood pressure. Some relate that they have medicine for it, but most do not. Those who do have it tell us that they take it only when they need it. This is frustrating to the medical personnel, and we try to explain to the people that blood pressure medication must be taken every day, but they only smile and nod at us, and we know very well that they're not going to do that. We're dealing with a mindset here, and it will be difficult, if not impossible, to change it.

We finally see the last person, pack up our gear, pile into the vans, and return to Darkhan. After a good dinner, Eloise and I go to our room, get a shower of sorts, and fall into bed. Tomorrow we go to the first of the remote sites, to begin holding a clinic for the herdsmen and their families. That's going to be very interesting!

Arrival in Darkhan - our hotel

2008-08-01T11:10:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, August 4, approximately 5:00 p.m., Mongolian time

We arrive in Darkhan, and are driven straight to our hotel. Originally, we had thought we would be staying in gers, but the plan has been modified, and we have rooms at a local hotel. Considered pretty nice by Mongolian standards, to our Western eyes, it is a stark, bleak, brick structure, half-hidden behind very overgrown trees and shrubbery. It looks deserted. It isn't. The lobby is bare except for a threadbare rug, a plastic plant, two small pictures and a bulletin board, but a smiling, pretty young woman stands behind a desk, beneath a sign that declares her area to be "Reception."

We are told that we will all be on the second floor, and that we must use the stairs because the elevator doesn't work. Later we will find out that the elevator's cab is used for storage! We're glad we're not on a higher floor, because not only does the elevator not work, but there is no bellman or any help to be seen, just the dainty young woman behind the desk. The guys in our group bring our luggage up for us. Again, bless them!

Eloise and I are sharing a room, we're happy to learn. The room, indeed the entire hotel, is a strange blend of dignity and desperation. The bathroom defies description, but at least there is one. There is running water. Much of it runs onto the floor, but it does run. The toilet seat is not attached, but again, at least there is one. Several times I wished for a seatbelt, though. The faucet is fascinating. It's located between the tub and the sink, and swivels to whichever location you wish. There is even a hand-held shower head, hand-held because the wall bracket is broken. No problem, I prefer it that way. The bathroom tissue is very similar to the crepe paper streamers we used to decorate the gym with when we were kids, only it's a grim, gray color.

My pillow defies description, and the pillowcase is ripped in several places, and too small, so that the pillow bulges out through the rips. The furniture is tiny, and a bit rickety. The rug is threadbare, and even holey in places. Still, there are touches. The heavy drapes at the ends of the wall of windows are functional, that's all, but between them there are some absolutely lovely, gauzy white sheer curtains, with beautiful embroidery work on them. The windows are open, and the sheers are billowing in the breeze, and are just delightful. It's as though some unseen hand, at some time, has tried to bring a bit of beauty and quality into this government-issue place.

There is just enough time to freshen up and unpack before dinner. It's served in a large room on the same floor, on tables that are set very formally. Chargers under each plate, yet! The plate is a salad plate by Western standards. The food is served buffet style, and is very good. The salad plate is large enough.

Our interpreters are present, and are very pleasant young people. One holds a bachelor's degree in English. All seem to have a good grasp of the language. There are a few young men, but most of the staff are girls. They are all bright-faced and smile a lot. Except for one, they are all Christians, and it shows. The other Mongolians we have seen so far are not as apt to smile, though they are far more pleasant than the Chinese.

After dinner, we walked about three blocks to Jerry's office. It's located in a similarly stark and bleak structure, on the third floor, again no elevator. We were shown into a large, bare room, lined with boxes and suitcases. Our job was to empty the boxes and sort the contents into the suitcases. We sort out medical supplies and drugs according to purpose - antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, respiratory meds, whatever the class. We have a pharmacist in our group, who was able to guide the non-medical personnel.

Once this task was completed, we walked back to the hotel. Again, I am struck by the bleakness of the place. The city, almost entirely, was built by the Russians, and you can tell it. Row upon repetitive row of square, blocky, ugly apartment buildings, are lined up like cell blocks. Everything is square or rectangular, and everything looks alike. There is no architectural variety, no color, very few flowers, nothing to alter the look of dismal hopelessness.

Outside our hotel is what was once a fountain, but of course it doesn't function. It is two rectangular, above-ground pools, offset and connected at one corner. Some designer's attempt to be innovative, no doubt. The water source is a series of lead pipes, fully visible even if water was flowing. The whole effect screams "communism." Most of what we see was designed and built by the Soviet communist occupation, and their cold, unbending, hopeless, Godless mindset shows through everywhere.

The buildings, the landscape, the street scene - all taken together gives one the effect, the same feeling, that one experiences walking across a fairground after the fair is over and everyone has gone home.

Yet, I am amazed and pleased to learn, there is a flow of life, a pulse to it all. Inside one of those dismal buildings there is an Internet Cafe. Some of our group went there and sent emails home. There is the Mongolian version of a supermarket, which is just a cut above a mom-and-pop grocery at home. There is a bank, a post office, a restaurant, and a bar named, of all things, "The Texas Pub." It all looks deserted, but it isn't. There are never very many people on the street at any given time, but there is almost always someone.

We return to the hotel, I put a towel over some of the holes in my pillowcase, and have no trouble getting to sleep. Tomorrow is another day.

The bus ride

2008-07-27T11:16:00.000-07:00

1:00 p.m., Mongolia time.

We have landed in Ulaanbaatar. Immediately, we are aware that the atmosphere is different than in China. The airport in China was large, sleek and modern. Here, it is much smaller, and not so new. Not rundown exactly, but definitely not as modern as the one in Beijing. The people are much friendlier, however, and we like the place already.

The language we hear is considerably more pleasant than the Chinese we heard in Beijing. Chinese is harsh to Western ears, and the speakers always sound as though they're angry. Perhaps they are. Anyway, the Mongolian language is much softer, with a gentle rhythm to it, and a lot of sibilant sounds. It sounds very difficult, but it's pretty.

A young woman named Badmaa has been traveling with us. She is a Mongolian, a medical student who has actually graduated, but still has some residencies to complete. One of our team members, himself a physician, befriended her on a previous tour, and she has been in America for the last two months, living with him and his family. We have all gotten to know her, and to love her. She is delightful, bright, enthusiastic, eager and filled with the joy of the Lord. She is returning home, and Mongolia's gain will be our loss. She is met by her sister, grandmother and boyfriend, and we were witnesses to a sweet, tearful reunion.

A bus was waiting for us, along with a van for the luggage. The bus has a/c (sort of) and is comfortable enough. The driver is skillful, which is fortunate, as will soon become apparent. Susan Smith, the wife of Jerry Smith, who founded the Change The World ministry that we will be working with, and two Mongolian associates met us, and will ride with us to Darkhan. Susan shared some very interesting stories and facts with us. Eloise and I were fortunate enough to be seated across the aisle from Susan and behind Omar, and the conversation really made the time pass quickly.

Omar is hilarious. He shared stories from his childhood with us, including what he called his "ascot period." It seems that when he was in about the third grade, his mother bought him some little suits to wear to school. He described them as "Eddie Munster" suits, and they came complete with little ascots. He was compelled to wear them every day. Well, you can imagine what response that would generate from schoolkids. Omar's reaction to that was to reply, "What? Do you mean you don't have a suit and ascot? That's terrible. Maybe you should ask your parents to buy you some, because they're the latest thing." He declares that the ascot experience is what taught him to think on his feet and talk his way out of any situation. We were all roaring with laughter, just picturing Omar in his little suit and ascot.

The drive was about four hours, through desolate but beautiful country. It is very hilly, progressing to mountainous in places, but unlike any terrain I've ever seen. It's like the land is in folds and pleats, and there are almost no trees. There is vegetation - grass, weeds and a few wild flowers, but very few trees. The ones that do exist are gathered into small, isolated groves on the hillsides. The margins are sharply defined, as though the trees had been clearcut up to that point, but Susan says not, they just grow that way.

I realize that I'm seeing the same lines that I noticed from the plane, cobwebbing the landscape, and now I can see what they are. They're little tracks and trails, running alongside each other, crossing each other, veering off and returning, and they are everywhere. Some lead right up to the highway, and very soon we see the makers of these trails. There are animals everywhere. Not wild animals, but rather livestock. The same livestock that at home would be held behind fences and in corrals. Out here, they are free-ranging. I don't see a fence anywhere. Free-range includes the highway, apparently, as we encounter horses, cattle, sheep and goats clustered right on the shoulder of the road, and occasionally meandering across it. The driver uses the horn generously, but the animals mostly ignore it, and just go on about their business.

Not only do animals gather along the roadway, but people do the same thing. We see a lot of people just walking along the side of the road, or standing beside it, sometimes sitting on suitcases or bundles. We are told that these are travelers, and may be waiting for a bus, or hitching a ride, or might just walk all the way to Darkhan. If a vehicle has broken down, it is just stopped in the road, and the occupants are milling around beside it. Our driver exhibits all of his aforementioned skill, as he avoids mowing anyone down. No one gets excited at all.

Susan explains that almost all the land belongs to the government, but herdsman families live on it with permission, and keep their herds. The animals free-range and graze, but apparently know where they live and return home at night. Thus, the network of trails.

We were told there would be a "rest stop" about halfway, and Eloise and I were looking forward to that. However, when we got off the bus and saw the facilities, we decided we didn't need any rest! The bathroom consisted of a crude hut, clinging to the side of a deep ravine. It was divided into four sections, two for men and two for women. No doors, just a ramshackle wall built across the front of the little building. Inside, not only were there no doors, there was nothing else either, except a space where one plank had been removed from the floor, leaving a foot-wide gap, through which one could get a glimpse of the gates of hell. One is expected to straddle the gap and perform. Okay for guys, I guess, but a bit more difficult for the girls. The stench was overpowering, and only the very hardy or the very desperate went inside. After a quick peek through the door, I decided I wasn't that hardy, or that desperate, and returned to the bus.

Leaving the rest stop, we continued our drive through the beautiful Mongolian countryside. We see a lot of gers, and are surprised to see that some are equipped with satellite dishes! Most do not have electricity, but some do have gas-powered generators. They are the ones who have TV. We see a few motor vehicles outside the gers, but most of the time, there are only animals outside. Horses - always several horses, as they are the chief mode of transportation for these nomadic people. We learn that the families who have permission may stay on their chosen site for long periods, but most families do not have permission and must move every four months, or they will be charged taxes for the land they're occupying. This seems like a monumental inconvenience to us, because the gers look pretty substantial and semi-permanent. I'm anxious to learn more about them.

Soon, we begin to see buildings in the distance, and realize that we are approaching our destination, the city of Darkhan. The Mongols pronounce the kh combination with a soft, throat-clearing sound, but for Westerners, it usually just comes out as Darhan, with the "han" rhyming with "con." I'm busy at the window with my camera, snapping pictures as we go, but most don't turn out well, as the bus is lurching and swaying a lot. Perhaps I'll get some pictures later. I put the camera away, and just sit there and soak in my first impressions of the area that will be my home for the next ten days or so. America seems very, very far away.

Approaching Mongolia

2008-07-25T23:14:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, August 4, 5:30 a.m. China time

Up at 5:15, ready to go to breakfast.

It was delicious. Excellent bacon, and ham so fat that I trimmed away over half of the total - just too much fat - but the lean was very good. Potatoes, and a waffle that was lovely, with a fruit compote, not syrup. It was very light and fluffy, and over an inch thick. It's all served buffet-style, and there are astonishing things available, such as pork and beans. (At breakfast?) There are also slices of cheese, tomatoes and cucumbers. This hotel, the Sino-Swiss, is Swiss-run, so that probably explains a lot.

After breakfast, it was time to "head 'em up and move 'em out!" We boarded another bus - a/c this time - and drove to the airport. Several checkpoints to be cleared as we moved through the airport, each manned by an unsmiling young Chinese. The other passengers, mostly Asians, are very aggressive and will mow you down if you let them. They don't seem to appreciate it when you allow them to precede you, instead they look at you rather pityingly, like they think you must be stupid. The officials are, for the most part, very serious and grim, but I did manage to get a small smile out of one young woman. The Communist influence, I suppose. I'd be grim, too, if I had to be a Communist. At one point, we were standing in line beneath a sign that read in English "Foreigners." That was a bit disconcerting. It's the first time I've ever found myself designated as a "foreigner."

We boarded a very nice, new-looking Miat Airlines aircraft without incident and are at this moment as I write, taxiing out to take off for Ulaanbaatar, or "the U.B." as it's often called.

I should mention that the air is very clear and beautiful today - all the smog is gone. The mountains around Beijing are absolutely gorgeous. Very impressive. Now I know why mountains always look the way they do in Chinese paintings - that peculiar, stylized appearance. That's exactly what they look like!

The Miat staff is friendly and efficient, and the plane is very comfortable. The attendants are Mongolian, and are much more pleasant than the Chinese people we encountered in the airport.

I have a window seat, and my nose is pressed to the glass. I want to see everything I can see. About fifteen minutes out of Beijing, I notice a crooked white line snaking across the ridges on the mountains below. Someone said it is the Great Wall. Hmm. Not too impressive from up here at first glance, but as I let the sight sink in, I realize the distance it's covering - it extends as far as I can see - and the altitude from which I'm seeing it, and I begin to get a sense of the immensity of it. We'll visit it when we come back through, and I imagine it will be much more impressive up close.

Farther out, I notice that there are many roads, connecting what appears to be warehouses or sheds, some sort of long, narrow, repetitive buildings. What are they, and why are they scattered out in the mountains? Finally, I realize that they're located near some dark splotches which I take to be some sort of vegetation that's different from what covers the hills, and there are tiny lines from the splotches to the buildings. All the splotches seem to be on the same side of the mountains. I think about it a while, and I think I have an answer, though no one can confirm it. I think I may be seeing tea plantations, and the buildings are the drying sheds. Can't prove it, but it's as good an answer as any. Hooray - I love tea!

As we fly northward, at some point we leave China and enter Mongolia, though we're not aware of it at the time. There are some changes in the topography below, though. The mountains flatten into hills, and there are very few trees. There are, however, many, many little lines that spread like cobwebs over the surface. These lines are crooked, meandering, and they converge and then separate, they criss-cross each other, they run parallel to each other. They are everywhere! What on earth are they? They're too small and narrow to be roads, and anyway, there are relatively few motor vehicles in Mongolia, especially out in the wilderness such as we're flying over right now. I also notice occasional light-colored, irregularly-shaped formations on the ground.

The sound of the plane's engines changes slightly, and I think we're dropping a little. We must be getting close to the U.B. As we get lower, I can see that some of the light-colored formations I saw before are actually herds of sheep, goats, cattle, or any combination thereof. I see one herd that seems to be mostly horses. If there is anyone in attendance, I haven't been able to see them yet. The animals appear to be wild, just going about as they please.

I begin to notice some tiny white, round dots scattered about on the plains below, and I realize that they must be the "gers" we have been told about. A ger is a tent/building hybrid that has been used by the Mongols for centuries as dwellings. They're movable, and suit the Mongolian nomadic lifestyle very well. I suspect we'll learn a lot more about them during our stay here.

We are now over Ulaanbaatar, and the pilot is making our descent. Our mission in Mongolia is about to begin.

In Beijing

2008-07-24T08:39:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, August 3, 2:00 p.m. China time.
We are in Beijing!! We made it through the airport just fine, thanks to Omar. We are a group of 29, ranging in age from one teenage girl and all ages up to me (65) and one person who is one year older. Most are from Plymouth Park, but not all. There is a plumber from somewhere near Tyler, a preacher from a church in Winona and two female members of his church. Dr. Tom Dickey (pathologist at my hospital) and his wife, who attend a Methodist church in Irving. Pretty much a motley crew. Our luggage had already been pulled off the carousel by the time we got to the area, thanks to Omar's "yellow tag" system. We all had bright yellow name tags attached to each piece of our luggage, and everyone knows to watch for those tags and nab them when they go by.

One handle on my new blue and white "hand-painted periwinkles" luggage had been broken, but I'm not surprised. It weighs nearly 60 pounds. I packed responsibly with regard to clothes, I truly did, but it is full of snack crackers, bags of nuts, cookies, candy bars, granola bars and such. Why on earth I brought all that stuff, I'll never know. Even if they fed us nothing at all, Eloise and I could never eat all that lot. Next time, I'll know better.

Omar arranged for a bus to take us to our hotel. Originally, we were to make a connection and go directly to Ulaanbaatar in Mongolia, but Mongolia's Miat Airline had cancelled our flight, so we can't get out of Beijing until tomorrow. Thus, a hotel tonight. We are tired, and secretly grateful. Omar gently convinced Miat that they should pay for it, since we weren't notified of the cancellation until we got to Beijing. He even got them to pay the airport tax that will be charged when we re-enter the airport tomorrow. $75 per person! We board the bus and are on our way, into the unknown mystery that is Beijing's traffic. The weather is very hot and terribly humid, the bus is crowded and there is no a/c. We are tired. We could be excused for being cranky, but no one is. I think we're all still a little giddy from the sheer excitement of it all. Personally, I'm having a wonderful time.

Not only is Beijing hot and humid, but it's shrouded in a thick, dense blanket of smog. It's worse than Dallas ever thought of. It's worse than Mexico City, and I didn't think anything could be worse than that and still boast of life within its borders. Visibility is about two blocks. Arrgh. Anyway, we all crowded into the middle and back of the bus, and our luggage was loaded onto the seats in the front. I expected the rear wheels to leave the ground, but they didn't.

The drive was very short, probably about two miles, but it took at least twenty minutes. How to describe the traffic? Let's see....First of all, we see no speed limit signs. They aren't necessary. Nothing moves at more than 15 to 20 miles an hour, and often we just creep along at idle speed. If a driver has no horn, he has no chance. They all drive with one hand on the wheel and the other on the horn. It's a constant chorus of beeps, up and down the scale, like thousands of little frogs. The narrow streets were never intended for buses, and the buses must share with hundreds of pedestrians, hundreds of bicycles, and of course, hundreds of cars. Everyone ignores all common road rules, right of way is by bluff only. It is survival of the fittest. Eloise wears out her "brake" on the floor beneath her seat. I close my eyes and pray a lot.

We arrive at our hotel safely, and unload the bus. Our male companions, as always, very gallantly help the ladies with the heaviest pieces of luggage. Bless them. The hotel is, in Omar's words, "an old four-star hotel." I would describe it as "shabbily genteel", rather like the old Baker in Dallas, before it was demolished. A bit past its prime, but clean, reasonably convenient, and comfortable enough. My room is cool, once I figured out that the keycard inserted into the proper slot would activate the power for lights and a/c. There is a shower, a clean bed, bottled water and a TV, which gets some American stations. What else does one need? Most of our group are doubled up in rooms, but somehow Eloise and I got private rooms.

A shower and clean clothes had a restorative effect, and Eloise and I met the group for dinner in the hotel dining room. It's now 6 p.m. China time, but 5 a.m. home time. We are tired, but while dinner was a bit generic, it was good, and we enjoyed it. We went back to our rooms, and I was in bed before 9 p.m. Imagine that! The bed was hard, but comfortable enough. One small, smushable pillow (I love it), and my first experience with a duvet. No top sheet, just a duvet. It's light, but warm. I assume the cover is changed and laundered in the same manner as a sheet. At least, I hope so. I never even turned the TV on, and was asleep in seconds.

Here we are in the Beijing airport:

The Departure

2008-07-23T07:24:00.000-07:00

This is the first installment in the first of the Mongolia journals. I hope everyone enjoys reading it. If you can find just half as much pleasure in the reading as I found as I lived it, it will be well worth your time.

Sunday, August 1, 4:30 p.m.
My packing is done, except for a little fine-tuning. I'm very excited and almost wish it was tomorrow morning already, but not quite. I still need a little more time here in my home, before going to the other side of the world.

Monday, August 2, 3:45 a.m.
I'm waiting for Jerry and Eloise to pick me up. They arrived at 4 a.m. sharp, Jerry loaded my luggage and we were off. Three blocks from the house and I realized I had left my glucometer and insulin on the bathroom counter. No problem, we were early, went back for it. It's not something I could leave behind.

5:00 a.m. We're all checked in and ready to board. A good group - Many I know, but some I don't, so I know I'll make some new friends.

Omar Garcia, our fearless leader, is a wonder. Very organized, and therefore very calm. No running about with his hair on fire, he has it all planned out ahead of time. He's wearing an orange shirt, which makes him easy to find. I'm glad, because I don't plan to stray very far from him.

6:00 a.m. Take off! We're on our way to Mongolia. Who would ever have thought I'd be doing this at age 65? I'm very excited.

I do miss my little Plum. She thought surely she was going, because she usually does when I pack a suitcase, so she brought me some toys while I was packing, as she always does, expecting me to pack them, too. She was very crestfallen when I put her in the bedroom and told her goodbye. David will pick her up later this morning. She's in good hands.

Chicago, 11:00 a.m. We are checking our visas and passports - we already have boarding passes, got them in Dallas. A very pompous ticket agent informed one member of our group that the flight is oversold and therefore there is no seat for him, but no problem, he could take the next flight! Omar, unflappable as always, quietly informed the agent that this is not acceptable and will not happen. Bump a single passenger if you must, but do not pull one member out of a group and bump him, especially as all tickets were purchased at one time and have been reconfirmed at least twice. The man tried to argue, Omar did not argue, simply told him to fix the problem. He did.

12:30 p.m. Sitting in a 777, about to take off for Beijing. Beijing. That's in China! Oh, my!

Still Monday, August 2, 5:30 p.m. Dallas time. This plane is getting smaller. We have hit a few rough patches that make us all stay seated, but when it smooths out, people get up and walk around. The staff are friendly and helpful. At the moment, we're very near the North Pole, and are over a huge icefield. To my surprise, there are patches of open water. They're small, but they're there. I saw a "pilot's halo" over the ice. It's a circular rainbow, and is absolutely beautiful. No sign of Santa Claus anywhere yet.

Tuesday, August 3, 2:00 p.m. China time. We are in Beijing! More later.......

How it Began

2008-07-22T10:20:00.000-07:00

As some of you know, I had the opportunity to go to Mongolia with a mission team in August of 2004. Never in my wildest imagination as an adult, did I think I'd end up on the other side of the world some day, but God had other ideas. Thinking back, I know He had it planned for a very long time.

When I was about twelve years old, at a church service where a foreign missionary spoke about missions and the need for people to go and serve, I felt in my childish heart that God was calling me to be a missionary. I think most young Christian children experience that at some time. In addition, I knew even then that I wanted to be a part of the medical field when I grew up, so it was natural that I'd see myself as a medical missionary.

So, at the altar call at the end of the service, I walked to the front and told the pastor that I wanted to commit myself to be a medical missionary. That pastor had known me and my family all my life, and being the intuitive and experienced man that he was, he very gravely and kindly accepted my "commitment" and suggested that I pray about it a lot, and in the meantime, do my best in school and get the necessary education.

Time and circumstance (and a handsome young man) intervened, and I found myself married, with children coming along at intervals, and not only was I not a missionary, I wasn't even in the medical field! I don't think I ever really forgot the missionary idea, though it definitely was buried deeply in my mind. I'm quite sure I didn't forget the medical part, because at the age of 37, with some trepidation, I enrolled in nursing school, and at age 40, I was a registered nurse, working at our local hospital.

Fast-forward to 2004, and I'm a 64 year old widow, still working at the same hospital, and quite content just doing my job. Picture another church service, with another foreign missionary speaking, telling of the need for help where he lives and works - in Mongolia, of all places. I felt the old stirring in my heart, but thinking of my family, my job, my home and all the many obligations in my life, I knew I would never just sell out and move to the other side of the world.

Wait! What was that? He said, "We need people who will come and spend just a couple of weeks with us, helping us meet the needs of the children in our care, and those of the nomads out in the countryside."

Just a couple of weeks?? I'm listening very intently now.

"We need men who can do construction."

Well, that leaves me out. I'd only be in the way.

"We need women who can cook and sew, to teach our local women how to prepare nutritious meals from the food we're growing, and how to make clothes for the children."

Well, I like to cook, and I can sew a little. Oh, but anyone can do that, probably better than I can. They don't really need me.

Then he said the magic words. "We need people with a medical background, doctors and nurses, to staff the remote clinics for the nomads out in the countryside."

Oh, my! Now he definitely had my attention, and at the end of the service, I found myself once more walking down a church aisle. The amazing thing is, I didn't "get" the connection at that time. It was not until I was sitting astride a bench, beneath a tent on the banks of a river in Mongolia, taking blood pressures and interviewing an endless line of nomadic folk, that it hit me. I was on a mission trip, and I was doing medical work. I was a medical missionary!

The lesson in all of this, for me, is simple. God's plans for us aren't always what we imagine them to be. When I was twelve, I pictured myself in deepest, darkest Africa, fighting bugs and malaria, and helping leprous, starving people. Fascinating, but that wasn't His plan. No, His plan for me wasn't that dramatic. He planned for me to be on that bench, beside that river, doing a simple job, and nothing more. All He asked of me was that I be willing, and I suppose I had been willing all my life. I know for a fact that God engineered my entry into nursing school, but that's another story. I know now that He was preparing me for Mongolia, among other things. Anyway, it was just a matter of my willingness and preparation meeting the proper circumstances, and that's what happened on that Sunday when the missionary to Mongolia spoke at my church.

So, that's how the Mongolia missions began. In later posts, I'll share installments from the journals I kept on those two trips. If I can figure out how to do it, I'll include some pictures. Mongolia is a starkly beautiful, strange land, and I want very much to return. Perhaps one day I will.