WE BID FAREWELL TO THE RIVER

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

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!

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.

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

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!

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.

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.