Home, Sweet Home

I had coffee with Nina's Auntie Christine, who was sweet enough to bring me some treats and draw me a map for all of the sights in Hong Kong.


Everyone seems shocked that I am not heading home. But, the way I see it, Hong Kong is as good a place to recover as anywhere. I have people looking out for me and this is the view out my hotel window. Not bad!


And I get a beautiful sunset from the roof each night.




This will be my new home for at least three weeks of physical therapy.

Bionic Woman

So, for those that are interested, here are the pictures of my bionic parts -- 2 plates and 12 screws. They will remain in my arm forever -- the surgeon assured me that they are "made from good American steel." I had to laugh.

The post-op medical report had the following note:

- No contact sport / heavy exertion with left hand for 2 months.

I hate to tell them that travel is a contact sport.

Surrogate Mom

Some days, luck smiles on you.

Last night, when I woke up from surgery, I was groggy and my breathing was labored. I don't come out of surgery well. But I had the good fortune of a visit from Nina's Mom, Sue. I was not coherent enough to talk with her, but it was just really nice to hear her voice. She happened to be passing through Hong Kong for one night only and I was lucky enough that it was the night I needed someone.

She returned again in the morning to check on me and was incredibly sweet. It wasn't the same as having my own Mom there, but Sue makes a really good surrogate Mom.

Thanks, Sue! You were a godsend.

-

How Many Local Dollars for a Local Anaesthetic?

I woke up to a beautiful sunrise. Not a bad day for surgery.



Wish me luck.

Room with a View

Matilda, is probably the best hospital in Hong Kong. It is on the peak and this is the view from my bedroom window. If you have to have surgery, this is not a bad place for it.

Last Flight Out

The ambulance came back to get me in the morning and I had to have the driver tie my shoes for me. (You try tying your shoes one-handed.) They took me to the airport for my flight to Beijing and helped me check in, but I had to go through security and immigration alone with my carry-on bags. I struggled to gather my belongings on the far side of the checkpoint, but fortunately a kind man, seeing my difficulty, helped me. I had to arrange the wheelchair assistance myself, even though it was supposed to have been set up for me. It seems silly, but they arrange this for you for several reasons: boarding priority, help carrying your bags, and believe it or not, the slight movement from walking was very painful.


The flight attendant was really nice. Seeing my condition, she reseated the person to my left so I would have space for my arm and got me a pillow to place under my elbow. I slept through the bulk of the flight, exhaustion finally trumping pain. When I awoke, the same flight attendant sat next to me just before we landed and fed me. It was really sweet.

Someone wheeled me through immigration and check-in in Beijing and I was lucky enough to be in business class for the flight to Hong Kong. I was starving, but didn’t eat because I was expecting to go into surgery that night. After sleeping through most of the flight, I woke to a pretty sunset.
The wheel-chair person in Hong Kong was not very friendly. She complained about having to lift my bag onto a luggage cart and I ended up having to find someone else to carry my bags and help me find my driver. My transport insurance company had arranged a driver to pick me up in Hong Kong to take me to the hospital, so I used this opportunity to make some phone calls to work out my accommodation, etc. Fortunately, my transport insurance company also chose my hospital, so I was treated at a top-notch facility, Matilda, which is on the Peak.

It took about an hour to check in at the hospital, which feels more like a spa. Then I met with the doctor, who wanted to wait until Monday to do the surgery. If I had known, my stomach wouldn’t be growling at him.

Not Very Humerus

The clinic associated with my transport insurance company was very modern and western and I felt immediately comfortable about the level of care. A Dutch doctor did my exam, then took me in for x-rays.

The x-rays were without a doubt the most painful part of this experience, worse than the seven hour excruciating drive, but at least it didn’t last as long. Realizing that I am aware of my own thresholds for pain more than anyone else possibly could be, I insisted on moving the arm into position myself. Even though the pain was agonizing, at least I wasn’t at someone else’s mercy. It was the most grueling pain I had ever felt and, for perhaps the first time in my life, I out-and-out screamed as I moved the arm, inch by inch into position. I had to have the administrator sit with me and hold my hand in the air during the x-rays because I could not support the weight of my own arm.

When the doctor came back, he told me my arm was broken, which didn’t shock me. But then he said I needed surgery. I almost fell out of my chair. "But, but, this couldn’t be right. I was leaving for Russia in a few days. If I had surgery, I would have to be laid up and my Russian visa would expire. This was the visa that I guarded with my life for the last three and a half months because it was so hard to get." I was absolutely crushed. But these protests that screamed urgently through my head wouldn’t change the facts, so I didn’t let them escape my mouth. I just asked him to show me how this could be, since the first x-ray looked fine to me. It’s never good when the doctor uses phrases like “broken clean off” and “this part is supposed to be turned this way and belongs up here.” Ouch.

Here are the x-rays for those that are interested in this kind of thing.




The readout from the x-ray almost hurt worse than the actual taking of the x-ray. Almost. I insisted on seeing the x-rays again on a light table and barraging the doctor with questions before I would let them give me morphine. I wanted to be coherent for this. He told me the break was in my upper arm (my humerus), not my lower as I had assumed. The best place for my surgery would be Hong Kong. I would need some screws put in to hold the bone together, and I would have about a four inch scar on my elbow. As I listened to him explain how I would have non-biological parts in my body and a major scar, I had a familiar feeling, like the one you get the first time your new car gets dented. This was the first time I had injured myself in such a permanent way, but in the end, I guess it’s just an elbow. It could have been far worse, as my dear mother reminded me later. There was nothing more to say, so I said, “I guess my elbow modeling days are over, eh?” He laughed and declared that it was time for the morphine.


At this point, my two angels, Liz and Kerry, returned with my bags from the hotel and commiserated with me regarding my plight. The administrator called my father and I asked her to start with “She broke her arm”, not “I’m calling from the hospital.” It’s all in the delivery. Luckily, my parents are pretty calm and level-headed.


The morphine killed the pain, making it possible to apply a plaster back-slab, which would allow me to fly. After my arm was plastered and slinged, it occurred to everyone that the shower I had been promised, after being shower-less in the wild for four days, would now be impossible. They offered to have a nurse help me wash my lower half, but I decided I could do that much myself at the hotel. At this point, the manager of the tour company came by to check on me, which I thought was really nice.

An ambulance took me to my hotel, where I called my parents, half-showered, and did a grueling one-arm repacking of my bags in preparation for tomorrow morning’s flight. Morphine might take the pain away, but it doesn’t help you sleep when you have had so much adrenaline pumping.

Before I went to bed, I took a photo of the black eye, for those that care to see it. (Don't cry, Mom.)

Wow, I need a brow wax!

I'd Walk a Mile for a Camel

Between the bruising, swelling, pain, and lack of sleep, by morning I looked like death and didn’t feel far from it. I had assumed the pain would lessen by morning, as it had done last time I broke this arm, but unfortunately, it was worse. Not a good sign.

The car finally came to get us, but since he had other people to pick up, he didn’t stay for the usual pleasantries. This morning, wiser from yesterday’s experiences, I refused to ride across the dirt to the paved road. Instead, I walked out to the road and boarded the minibus there. The first three hours were a snap, as we cruised along new pavement, stopping only once to load up the rest of the minibus with the planned passengers. Just in sight of the end of the pavement, we took a brief stop, which gave us time to prepare for the onslaught of bumps, ditches, and hills.

In addition to my krama holding my arm in a traditional sling position, we had tied another scarf around my arms and torso horizontally to add some stability. I sat in the middle, with Kerry pulling on this additional scarf from the right and Liz pushing on the upper arm from the left. I grasped my left forearm with my free hand and we all braced for the road ahead. The pain was immediately excruciating, but there were no options left, save walking the rest of the way to Ulaan Baatar. So, I gritted my teeth and searched deep inside for that place that might allow me to be both absolutely present and a million miles away at the same time.

I relived yesterday’s pain as we bounded over the bumpy dirt “road”, slid through shallow pools of mud (once getting stuck), bounced across deep tire tracks, dodged around bumps, and climbed up and down hills. Our driver was the same one from yesterday’s failed attempt. He was spending more time looking at me, with concern and panic on his face because he might be responsible for my pain, rather than watching the road. Because of this, all the while, I had to remain absolutely silent – no screaming or moaning or even squeaking.

When we were close to the end, Liz encouraged me to look at the driver to let him know I was OK. I smiled and nodded at him, which made him beam, but also added the weight of confidence to the accelerator. When we reached the city, he whipped around traffic, drove on potholed shoulders, and stopped short many times, making for another extremely painful hour. He dropped off everyone else first, and then struggled to find the clinic. At this point, we were all exhausted.

"If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the will which says to them: 'Hold on!'"

-Rudyard Kipling

How Many Lumps Do You Want? Oh, Three or Four

Today was the day we would move to the next ger. We were sad to leave this family that we had grown so attached to over just two days, but were excited about meeting a new family with our increased confidence about language and the local customs.


While we waited for Broody to arrive with the camels for our trek, we each enjoyed our last moments playing with our little Mongolian boy before we had to say goodbye.




But it's not all fun and games. Even he had chores to do. (Getting water for a baby goat.)

While we sat outside, we watched Dad and number 3 son herding some horses. The animals in Mongolia are treated much as they were in the American west about 100 years ago. They are allowed to roam free in herds when not in use, then are captured when needed. The son was riding to get the horses near Dad, who was trying to catch one with a loop on the end of a long pole. Here are some pictures, but if you can watch the video, it is a little more interesting.

Eventually, they did catch one. We assumed that they were catching it to carry our bags, but then they did the unexpected. The son climbed off his horse, removed the saddle, and moved it to this new horse. It seems that this new semi-tame horse would be a vehicle for one of us today. It was time to say goodbye to our home and our adopted family. Here is a little look at our home for you. This is the family ger. (Our separate one was in a picture from my post two days ago.)

The inside of our ger was set up for visitors, whereas the family one has their beds, as well as their kitchen and all of their belongings. (Notice our little munchkin to the right in this picture.)

The north end of the family ger has a shrine, but ours simply has pictures of the family and their visits to Ulaan Baatar.
And finally, you get to see these curd products I have been mentioning. They are made from drying the goat’s milk curd on the roof of the ger. It has a slightly tart taste and an al dente consistency, but it not a taste that is hard to acquire. (Both shapes taste the same to me.)

After our well-rehearsed Mongolian goodbyes, we set out on our journey, me riding Shaar, Kerry riding Hoar, Liz riding the wild horse, and Broody on his horse carrying all of our gear.

We were not looking forward to riding camels again, but we did learn a few comfort tricks, like standing in the saddle early and often to keep pressure off the leg joints, and also how to shift the stirrups to allow you to straighten you legs without losing your grip.

We rode over bumpy grassland, which was like a roller coaster, as the camels tripped and stumbled through it, then back on to the hard surface of the semi-arid steppe.
Liz is an experienced rider, so Broody let her take her own reins. Kerry and I may be "joolchen" (tourists), but Liz, in spirit, is part Mongolian.
When we were only about 100 meters from the next ger and our salvation from the uncomfortable camels, the unexpected happened. One of the sleeping bags that Broody was carrying wriggled free from its straps and fell to the ground, making a sudden swooshing sound. Unfortunately, camels spook easily and mine was right next to the bag. It reared up, throwing me, and took off running. It all happened in an instant. As my camel reared up, I tried to hold on, but soon knew this was impossible. I was already in the air by the time my mind registered the sound of the bag falling. In an attempt to avoid being trampled, I tried to twist my body so I would land parallel to the camels’ strides. Unfortunately, this meant that I broke the fall with my left arm and my face.

Upon hitting the ground, I rolled up into a sitting position, watching the other animals still running away. I heard myself wailing, from the shock, from the pain, and from my desire to not have to sit there in the dirt alone. I immediately knew I had broken my arm. I had broken it last year teaching my friend Alba to ice skate and as soon as you’ve done that once, it is a feeling you never forget. I tried to balance my arm on my thigh so it wouldn’t have to hold its own weight. After a few seconds delay, my nose started bleeding. I tried to catch the blood in my hand, but then realized that it was already streamed across my pants. There was no point in trying to stop it, so I let my bloody hand fall to the ground. I kept calling out, needing someone to be there for me, but they were doing the intelligent thing, which was to stop the animals so no one else would be injured. I realized that, in the impact, my camera had popped out of its case and was lying just out of arm’s reach behind me. In a move that will bring a smile to my photographically-inclined friends’ faces, I twisted around to stretch behind me, grasping at and finally reaching my camera, all the while still dripping blood, wailing, and trying to keep my broken arm immobile.

After the longest 20 seconds of my life, Liz arrived, asking what hurt. Now that I was not alone anymore, I stopped crying out and calmly explained that I had broken my arm and had a bloody nose. Liz got my handkerchief for me and within moments, Kerry, Broody, and another Mongolian man were there. While I was addressing my nose injury, the men were trying to touch my arm and I had to shout at them to stop. Liz found the phrase for "broken arm" in the phrase book (so glad we had that) and they immediately stopped trying to move it. After much pinching of the nose (always stop the bleeding by pinching the nose with your head tilted forward, not backward) the bleeding subsided.

I wiped away the tears and got down to practical matters of dealing with the arm. The girls got out my first aid kit so I could take some OTC pain meds, which did very little for my pain. I don’t carry anything really strong because some countries are funny about what pain killers you can carry. Then I asked Kerry to get out my krama that my friend Jennifer had bought me in Cambodia. A krama is a traditional Cambodian scarf that was about to become a traditional Mongolian sling. (Thanks, Jennifer!) I lifted the broken arm with my good arm, while the girls slid the krama under my elbow and tied it up around my shoulder. Then I told them that I needed to get up before the shock wore off and the real pain set in. I grabbed Broody’s arm and the other man tried to touch my broken arm again, which got him a scream. I felt bad because he was trying to be nice, but that really hurt! Between Broody gently pulling and me using my own power to pull myself up at a pace that wouldn’t hurt, I was soon standing, to worried smiles from the girls.

We walked to the ger and the family immediately had me sit and relax, with pillows all around to support my arm. They, naturally, gave me milk tea, which I sipped, but then had to give to Kerry because it was burning my hands and it would have been very disrespectful to drop it. Hot cup, no handles, one arm – bad combination. They brought in lunch and had me sit in the place of honor closest to the north end of the ger so I could sit comfortably to eat.

At my request, Liz communicated, once again through the godsend of a phrasebook, that there was no emergency (since I assumed it was the same break as last year, which only required a sling) and I didn’t want a doctor. (Actually, no offense to Mongolia, but I didn’t want a local doctor.) They didn’t know what to do with me, so the Mongolians all left to discuss this in the other ger, save Broody, who sat sheepishly at the place of least honor, on the floor right next to the door. After the others had left, he asked to borrow our phrasebook and flipped through the entire thing, until he found the word for “I’m sorry.” ("uuchlaraa") The worst part is, he could have saved himself the trouble and said it in Mongolian, because that was one of the few phrases I knew. He really looked sullen and concerned, a complete departure from the cocky and temperamental man we had met the day before. We kept telling him it was not his fault, but he kept saying that they were his camels, making him responsible. I couldn’t help but think that Cris, our veterinarian friend in Ulaan Baatar, was right – they really are deeply concerned for your personal well-being.

When we were finally alone, we tested out my camera to make sure it still worked. This is Kerry declaring me a bad-ass.

The Mongolians returned, phone in hand. Unsure of how best to help me, they had used their cell phone to call the tour company, who in turn called my transport insurance company. The tour company manager had a decent knowledge of medical care and between he and Liz, they assessed my condition and agreed to send a car to pick me up, but it would take several hours to get here, and the 300 km drive would take seven hours or longer in the dark.

While the girls did the planned activity for the day, which involved riding a yak cart to the dunes to do some sand sliding, I had to stay home. I was sad to be missing out on the fun, but in my condition, jealousy was not an emotion I was capable of. I tried to rest, but everything was uncomfortable. For the second time today, Cris was right on. When the car arrived, even though I was standing there in wrenching pain and precious daylight was fading, the driver and our tour company rep went into the ger to have milk tea and food. As I paced outside, which was the only comforting thing I could do for myself, I pictured with complete empathy the poor sheep lying on the ground, sickly, as Cris was painfully obliged to enter the ger to drink milk tea.

These fantastic new friends, despite my assurances that they should continue on their tour, insisted on returning to Ulaan Baatar with me. How many people would do that for someone they had met just days before? We finally said our goodbyes to the family and took off across the dirt in a van to make our way onto the sealed road. It was probably only about 400 meters, but before we were even halfway across, I was screaming in agony and begging the driver to stop. Liz called the tour company and my transport company and explained that we needed a new plan.

The transport company wouldn’t air lift me for a broken arm. I believe their exact words were, “Those are the hazards of traveling in a remote place.” There were no doctors and, more importantly, pain killers close by. Light was fading fast and the second half of the journey was not on a paved road. We had run out of options. We had no choice but to spend the night in the ger. We thanked the driver and I insisted on getting out and walking back, rather than enduring that agony again.

Liz rode back with the driver to explain the situation to the family and Kerry walked with me, at my gingerly slow pace. As the sun set over the dunes, I mentally prepared myself for the long night ahead. The van came back past us and the two children from the family (aged 11 and 12) hopped out. They had been sent to walk us back. How sweet! To entertain us, they caught baby goats and sheep for us to pet.

When we finally reached the ger near dark, Liz washed my pants for me because they were covered in blood. We went to bed, but sleep was fleeting. I managed to find an elaborate pillow, chair, and bed arrangement which was comfortable for my arm. But, I have always been an active sleeper, so within an hour, I was uncomfortable and had to shift, which threw off the entire system. Now, I was not in a good position for the arm, I couldn’t rearrange the pillows with my one good arm, and I could not manage to get the blankets back over me to protect against the icy cold of the desert night. Liz had set her alarm to wake me every few hours to make sure I didn’t have a concussion and was kind enough to help me rearrange myself each time. But by morning, I had probably only slept three hours.


[For those curious about the title, it's an exchange between Bugs Bunny and Pete Puma from Looney Toons. Rather appropriate for today.]

I've Been Through the Desert on a Horse with No Name

Breakfast was a dairy and rice base with chunks of beef. Tasty and hearty.

The plan for the day was to take a camel/horse ride to a sacred mountain. Here are the friends/vehicles that were awaiting us this morning.


This is me sitting atop my camel, “Shaar”. A little bit about camels... If you think the goats from yesterday were jerks, then I can't politely say what camels are. But in the grand scheme of things, they are the "jerks of the animal kingdom". I think this is universally accepted. They spit, they snort, they scream, and in general, they are ornery. Now, if you are convinced that camels are not so nice, then you should know that Shaar is the king of the jerks. He is particularly difficult and mean. As we walked, he kept moving to the right, forcing his fellow camel, "Hoar", to move further from our guide. This would seem harmless except that the rein held by our guide is connected to her nose with a wooden peg. So, everytime she was pushed too far away, the lead rope would pull painfully on the piercing in her nose and she would cry out. Some animals are just jerks!
Our guide for the day was number 2 son. I don’t know his name, but he wasn’t the cheerful sort, so I nicknamed him Broody and after a while, forgot that it wasn’t really his name.

While the picture above makes a camel ride look like a relaxing way to cover some mileage, let me assure you that riding a camel is novel, but it is not fun. Don't believe me? Watch it in action... (While you watch, listen closely and you might be able to hear Broody singing a Mongolian "long song".)

I finally understand the meaning of “saddle sore.”

We rode for over an hour to the mountain, which never seemed to get closer as we rode across the open steppe. Distances can be so deceiving in those wide open places.

About a kilometer from the mount, Liz and I asked to walk because it was just so uncomfortable. But it allowed me to take this picture. (Notice how short Mongolian horses are.)

The mountain is a sacred place that people come to seek assistance from a higher power. In particular, we were told, women come here to pray for fertility.

Blue lengths of cloth are tied to the rock as a part of their prayer.
We relaxed here for a while and took in the immensity and beauty of the steppe.

We spied a local man moving his horses.

On the return, I rode the horse, which is the smallest horse I have ever ridden. Being on the tall side, I am used to always getting the tallest horse in the stable. But Mongolian horses just aren’t that tall and you have to keep the stirrups short so they don’t tangle with the horses’ legs (and so a real cowboy can stand in the saddle). The saddle is also covered in metal and is high in the front and back, presumably to facilitate their standing riding style, but it leaves a heck of a bruise on your lower back if you aren’t used to it. So it was the least comfortable horse ride of my life. But I came here to experience the culture and have some adventure, not to be comfortable.

When we returned, our five year old was back in our ger, playing with us, sitting on our laps, and bringing us outside to play with him.He took the only picture we have of the three of us.
We told Dad we were going for a walk to a nearby hill. When we were about 50 meters away, Dad called out to us, and a now jacketed Batgaryl came tearing out of the ger to catch up with us. We walked up to a nearby hill, with Batgaryl in tow, at moments quite literally. We spoiled him, carrying him on our backs and shoulders. I started making horse sounds and he started making the sounds Mongolians make to get horses to move. He even called me his horse (in Mongolian, of course). This was probably not the smartest thing we could have done because we ended up carrying him all the way home, too.
The hill has a rock pile where, by our understanding, people walk clockwise around it three times, place a stone, and make a wish. We each took our turn.

It is also a good place to reflect.
And the views are amazing.

We headed back when we noticed the approaching storm. Storms roll in very quickly here and we didn't want to get caught out in it.

We spent the evening talking with Dad and Broody, in what little Mongolian we could muster.

[And yes, my horse did actually have a name, despite the post title, but I don't remember it. It was something like "Hoorn".]