curly e

(this post was requested by Sandy:-))

Somewhere in the past few weeks I got really, really tired of my hair. Too long, too difficult to maintain, too all sorts of things that made me think "ugh" every time I looked at it.

So naturally I decided to perm it.

Which is to say that I make drastic decisions about my hair when I'm sick of it. Right before I started college I chopped all of my hair off. Right before I moved to Brooklyn for a summer I got bangs.

We looked for a do-it-yourself perm, but couldn't find one. So I asked one of my friends at church if she would go to the hair salon with me. We agreed on a time to meet and I wrote down the word "perm" for her so she could look it up.

Thursday rolled around and I headed to meet up with her at the church. She ended up not being able to make it and so I left, wondering if I should wait to talk with her again or just throw the translator to the wind and go it on my own.

I was super ready for this hair change to happen and had been looking forward to it all week.

The day before I had looked up the word for "perm" in the office's Mongolian/English dictionary just because I had a feeling it might come in handy, translator or not.

So I decided to just go and see what happened. I chose a hair salon that's in a hotel near our house, since I had seen it before and knew there was a small chance someone there might speak at least a little bit of English.

I walked into the salon and thought "Well, here goes nothing." I had written the Mongolian word for "perm" in my little planner, so I pulled it out and went to the receptionist and showed it to her.

"How much?" she said. I nodded and she told me. I nodded again and then it was off to get my hair washed.

I read while they worked and I smiled when several other employees drifted over to watch the curl-rolling process.

The two hair stylists chatted quietly to each other as they worked, but it was a quiet hair salon, not loud and filled with noise like most hair salons in the U.S. This didn't surprise me, as Mongolians are not particularly chatty people most of the time.

We pantomimed our way through decisions like how big or small I wanted the curls to be and when I needed to get up to have the solution rinsed out or when I needed to sit still and let it dry.

And a little over two hours later, my hair was curly, blown-dry and trimmed.

All thanks to three little Mongolian words that I thought it might be a good idea to write down.

These are not the best pictures, but I can't really write about a haircut and not show some evidence, so they'll have to do:



(side note: my hair is a lot more ringlet-esque now after a few washes)

homemade playdough

Seeing as how teaching Sunday School makes me ever on the lookout for craft ideas, I couldn't help but make some play dough this weekend.

I've never met a kid who didn't like playing with play dough and things always go better with my fifth graders if there is a way to let them be active participants in the lesson.

Plus, play dough is super easy. The recipe I used went like this:

Choose your color of food coloring (the recipe called for Tempera paint, but I didn't have any of that so I substituted food coloring). I picked blue of course.
Add the food coloring to one cup cold water, one cup of salt and 2 tsp of vegetable oil. Mix until it's the color you want.

Then add 2 tablespoons of cornstarch and stir.Finally, add in 3 cups of flour to further thicken the dough. I added a little more after I started stirring and realized it was still pretty liquid-y.

Knead it a few times and let it take the form of a ball- it feels kind of like bread dough would.
And that's it! I stuck it in a ziploc bag and put it in the fridge to let it firm up overnight and then took it with me this morning to church.

We talked through the Creation story in class, making objects representative of the different things that God created- a moon for darkness, a sun for light, a tree for plants, a flower for land, etc.

And then we spent time making all sorts of different animals and objects found in creation- everything from a snake chasing a mouse to a turtle to flowers to a moon with a starry night sky.

A thumbs up for play dough's universal appeal.

settled.

Today, while Hol and I were buying a 5 kilo bag of flour at the market, I realized that my 16 months here will be the longest I've been in one place/residence since high school.

(I moved to a different place every year I was in Dallas)

There's something about a big bag of flour that says "settled" to me.

It's an assurance that my time here is something beyond a wisp, that we will use these 5 kilos of flour and need to buy another- making cakes, cooking for friends, measuring and stirring and living the daily rhythms of life.

That time will at least stretch out longer than a few small bags of flour will last.

That investment is a part of being settled. Of reaching in and digging in and scooping into the depths of presence and possibility and connection.

thank you big bag of powdery, white flour.

ykylimw #8

you know you live in mongolia when...

your students tell you this past weekend that everyone is wearing a del on Monday to school or work.

And why you might ask? Why are you all wearing dels on Monday? (people wear them on a daily basis anyway, but only some people)

And they would tell you it's because the del is the national Mongolian dress and the Chinese have mistakenly tried to argue that it's actually their national/traditional dress.*

So it's like a del-wearing protest? Sure, my students answer.

Did you know that it's believed that the Great Wall of China is believed to have been built to protect themselves from Mongolian attacks?

Yeah, messing with the Mongolians is not a good idea.

Oh and what is a del?

This is a del, or at least the female version of a del. Men's dels look differently- mainly they are much bulkier and are worn with a wider sash or belt, although the idea is the same. Dels come in all sorts of beautiful colors and patterns- this one just happens to be purple.


(This is my friend Od's mom's del that she let me try on:-)) Ignore my pink socks- normally they'd wear boots with their del.

It goes without saying that the cutest thing ever are babies in baby dels.


*I don't know the validity of this statement.

word.

Hol and I had a music-sharing party the other night (which just means she and I traded computers and used flash drives to get music from one another) and thanks to her willingness to share, I now have a lot more Hillsong.

these lyrics have been going round and round in my head and heart for the past two days:

Savior I come
Quiet my soul remember
Redemption's hill
Where Your blood was spilled
For my ransom
Everything I once held dear
I count it all as lost

Lead me to the cross
Where Your love poured out
Bring me to my knees
Lord I lay me down
Rid me of myself
I belong to You
Lead me, lead me to the cross

You were as I
Tempted and trialed
You are
The word became flesh
Bore my sin and death
Now you're risen

To your heart
To your heart
Lead me to your heart
Lead me to your heart

-Lead Me To The Cross, Hillsong United

Bring me to my knees. Lord, I lay me down. Rid me of myself. I belong to you.

My mind kept moving back to these words this morning as I wrote them in my prayer journal.

Tuesdays I work late, teaching until 7:30 and I found myself wrestling with an inner unwillingness to have a good attitude about the things that the day were to hold.

I kept thinking, Rid me of myself.

That I might surrender my disobedient and unwilling and hesitant spirit and remember that I belong to Him. And that desiring a heart after his is a thousand steps in the right direction, while wallowing in my selfish nature is a thousand steps to nowhere.

You, O Lord, keep my lamp burning, my God turns my darkness into light. - Psalm 18:28

I almost cried when I read these words this morning before I taught my first class.

He sustains us if only we would get the heck out of the way.

He takes our muck and mire and turns it into light.

lead me to the cross, O Lord.

breaking the rules

She places her tiny hands inside mine and soon we are dancing. In circles. Back and forth. Jumping.

The worship music continues on in the background and we sing as we dance. Namoi’s face is delighted, her body in motion as she worships. I let go of what I should or shouldn’t be doing and we dance. My goodness, we dance.

The music ends and we find our way to our seats. She climbs onto the chair next to me and begins looking through my purse for paper and colored pencils. I’ve forgotten the colored pencils in my rush this morning, but I redeem myself with the pen I have slipped in between my journals and bible.

I feel a poke in my back and discover two of my other young friends behind us. We spent the time in between Sunday school and worship chasing each other around the sanctuary and tickling one another.

They get paper and pens too, settling in to begin drawing. Soon there are two other boys next to them, maybe 8 and 10 years old.

More paper torn out of my notebook. More pens located and passed on.

Namoi discovers leftover brownie remnants on the foil I used to bring them to church that morning. She proceeds to lick every last bit of brownie goodness off of the foil. The boys enter into a discussion of what they are drawing.

I have pretend conversations in Mongolian on my cell phone as Namoi offers it up to me and instructs me on what to say.

Should I have been shushing these five children surrounding me during worship?

Should I have been asking them to sit still and to stop digging through my purse and to please stop talking and to pay attention?

Perhaps. Perhaps those are the things that I should have done if we want to play by the unwritten rules that say children should either be in a separate room or sit silently, quietly and well-behavedly while the service unfolds.

I’m sorry, unwritten rules, but I don’t believe in you.

I believe that worship is about the inclusion of all of God’s creation- and that means that little ones not only should be there, but need to be.

I believe that worship is dancing and singing and jumping and coloring and brownie eating and giggling.

I believe that worship is reflected in the faces of children like Namoi and Dishke. That they remind us of joy and spontaneity and grace and the messiness of life.

I believe that worship is meant to reflect the rhythms of real life- of interruptions and children’s voices, of laughter and hugs, of the wisdom of 3 year olds and the voices of those who cannot contain the breath of life inside of them but must wiggle and squirm and move.

I believe that worship is to be free, unhindered by physical movement and capable of holding all that occurs within it.

I believe that parents should not have to spend worship worrying about their children behaving. That they might be able to discover new ways of inviting their children to participate, to reflect, to enjoy, to move about and to find a home among the pews, the chairs, the altar.

Oh how I long to believe that the church and worship can become places where we celebrate the children among us and allow them to lead us forward in worship.

That we would not silence them but invite them. That we would not fear their antics but encourage their thoughts, their words, their songs.

In the middle of our drawing, eating, whispering fest on Sunday, one of the men sitting a few rows behind us came over to Namoi and offered her a ball he had in his coat. She took it with joy and shared it with the boys, the five of them enjoying it for the remainder of the service.

As we finished, she walked back to the man and returned the ball. They began to play together- he put his hat on her head, she giggled, they laughed and he smiled. The man was a guest, homeless probably, although it’s hard to know. Namoi welcomed him in a way that none of us adults ever could have- she honored him by receiving his gift, gave value to what he offered and then rejoiced in him as she returned it with gratitude and delight. She ministered to him through her smile, her laughter, her silliness.

And that is why I’m willing to throw the rules out and hope for another way.

scarves have many purposes...

...including hiding laughter.

The blue fibers are soft upon my cheeks as I bury my face into the knitted pattern.

The scarf hides my smiles as my eyes give me away.

The micro driver has changed the radio again and our ride is now tempered by a ridiculous remake of Akon's "Smack That."

I breathe in the warmth of the fabric and pretend I am a turtle, ducking my head into the bunched up blue and green stitches and remembering that sometimes the best humor is that which is stretched out upon lips hidden in the twisted knots of a scarf, a secret to one's self.

some of the girls

linked

it's sunny in a way that disguises the cold. so that when you step outside into the brightness, the cold takes your breath away and makes your body physically contract- startled that the sun has not warmed the air as it has cast sunlight upon the ground.

we walk to dashka's house next, the rounds of Tsaagan Sar visiting and eating just beginning.

our arms thread their way through one another's. our elbows bend, forming sharp right angles that connect as they jut out.

we hold each other close as we walk, our arms linked tightly, a support system as we tread on the slippery paths and walk through patches of ice inches thick. we hold each other up when we start to slide towards the ground and we laugh as we surprise ourselves with footholds that do not stick.

there is beautiful intimacy in our guarded walking. three of us girls ahead of the others, holding each other up as we navigate the ground. we have left together, we are journeying together and we will arrive together. we are sustained by a grace that requires each of us to need one another.

"I am the true vine and my Father is the gardener." - John 15:1

"I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." -John 15:5

Connection and sustenance mean finding our roots- of going back to the place where we are joined with him, where the branch meets the vine, where we die to ourselves and become a part of the Body- the Body that He has redeemed through his death and resurrection, that we might know life and growth and the truth that it is not the branch that matters, but the vine that sustains us.

we leave dashka's house and begin to travel towards hishke's.

i find myself between taivna and jawa and I slip my arms through theirs. we brace ourselves as we head up hills and down icy ravines.

their long legs propel me forward faster than my own, shorter legs. they temper their pace so that we may walk together. we pull each other into the snow when the cars appear out of the distance and honk angrily at us to move.

we reach her home and we wait for the others. i've discovered walking with those with long legs gets you places faster. we sail on the solid stretches of ice, hands dipping into piles of snow.

i throw. they throw.

we run, we laugh, we look through eyelashes blurred with snow flurries flung into our faces.

"Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruits by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me." - John 15:4

we are known when we stay. when we know the sacredness of our link to the vine. when we confess our need, our interdependence, our utter incapability to do anything without him.

we are known when we live this out. when we let go of our pride, our independence, our selfishness and we let ourselves need God. when we let ourselves need one another in order to better see and know God. when we let ourselves need others to navigate the journey towards living the kingdom unto the earth. when we let ourselves be linked.

it is night. eight hours after we first began the traveling show of greet, drink tea, eat, repeat.

the stars are out, the little dipper visible in the dark sky. the wind whips itself around, an unwelcome scarf around our heads.

we walk into the darkness-arms together, elbows close, propelling us forward, together.

bayra starts to sing on the other side of our linked line. od joins in. then me. then taivna.

our voices mix themselves as we sift through Mongolian and English, laughing as the icy streets glitter in the quiet of night.

you are holy (you are holy)

you are mighty (you are mighty)

you are worthy (you are worthy)

and I will follow (I will follow)

I will listen (I will listen)

I will love you (I will love you)

all of my days (all of my days)

we are linked as we echo one another. we are linked as we walk towards our homes. we are linked as we raise one voice unto our Creator. we are linked as we guard one another from falling. we are linked as we gain warmth from our nearness. we are linked.

praise God.

ykylimw #7

you know you live in mongolia when...

...cars get covered with stitched together quilts when they're not being used to try to help prevent the engines from freezing.

and when the blankets don't help and the engines freeze anyway, you see men placing small blow torch-like contraptions underneath their cars to warm them up.

and when neither of these things are used, you end up standing outside waiting for the car to unfreeze because the doors are literally frozen shut.

happy white moon.

hol, od and I at od's house for Tsaagan Sar eve- this is as the table was in the process of being filled with food. Don't you like Chinggis on the wall?

food! Sheep, circular house made out of bread and dried milk products, byy3, various salads, soup and rice.
We're on day two of the lunar new year celebration- more eating and visiting to come this afternoon.

a v-day question

it seemed appropriate that yesterday as I sat on the micro the man sitting across from me began a conversation that led to questions about my marital status.

i mean, it was valentine's day. not that they celebrate valentine's day here. but just the same, I knew it was valentine's day, so I was able to enjoy the irony even if no one else was.

as he asked if I was married and I replied that I was not, I knew what was coming next.

it's always the next question when I say I'm single here.

"What is the normal age for people to get married in America?"

For the life of me, I never ever know how to answer this question.

To say "it depends" is too vague and just ends up with us in the same place that we started, with me trying to think of an actual numerical age.

To say "around my age (22)" or "in their twenties" means I will inevitably end up having to explain why I am not married or engaged or otherwise "taken."

To say an age older than my own is to then have to respond to the person's kind encouragement to find my husband here. "Don't you want a Mongolian husband?" they ask.

yesterday I just said between 20 and 30 and then changed the subject, talking about the cold.

and yes, I would rather discuss the weather than my marital status with strangers on micros :- )

wouldn't you?

formed

"We are formed by these people, are neighbors. They have become a part of us and we have become a part of them- our stories are bound together.

Sharing life with them has changed how we think about the future and how we reflect on our past...And they have taught us how important it is to remain connected to our past and to recognize the faithfulness that already exists in this place."

-School(s) for Conversion: 12 Marks of a New Monasticism, edited by The Rutba House, pg. vii

I love these words.

That they reflect the reality that sharing changes us.

That the people we come to live life with change not only our present, but also the way we understand the past, the future and ourselves.

That all of this changes all of us.

ykylimw #6

after a bit of a hiatus...it's back to ykylimw Wednesdays :-)

you know you live in mongolia when...

you wake up in the morning and your roommate tells you to look outside. You look and find that over night a Mongolian ger has been set up on the frozen basketball court of your apartment complex.

after some questioning of those who have lived here for much longer than I, it was discerned that this ger had been set up in anticipation for the Tsaagan Sar holiday coming this weekend (lunar new year).

the ger is probably for one of two things:

1.) to buy fermented horse milk

2.) to take the entire sheep you have purchased and have it cooked for you

And now every time I walk to the bus stop, I pause and look at the ger set up on the iced over basketball court and I think, "This alone proves that I really and truly live in Mongolia."

day to day

i've been here for almost four months now.

on Saturday I helped with a children's service at the mission center, baked brownies, celebrated a friend's birthday with her family and learned how to play a Mongolian game that uses sheep ankle bones as pieces.

yesterday I took the wrong bus and power walked for 30 minutes through snowdrifts so that I wouldn't be late for teaching Sunday school. I taught about Saul being anointed king, ran around the sanctuary tickling little ones, sang worship songs in Mongolian, spent the sermon with another little one on my lap, whispering to me in Mongolian and coloring in my notebook. I fell asleep on the micro as we got stuck in traffic. I went to the market and bought fruits, vegetables, milk and paper; all the while trying to avoid the upcoming holiday insanity of the meat section (Tsaagan Sar is next weekend). We had dinner with friends and Hol and I curled up in bed to watch Away We Go and try to get warm.

today I snuggled with little ones at the orphanage, tasting imaginary food concoctions prepared for me by little hands and refereeing who took what toy from whom. I had lunch with friends and lesson-planned for another week of teaching. We tutored. I tried to organize myself for the coming week. I watched as our cat managed to take my bookmark out of my book and carry it, along with a hair tie, a pen and a bandanna, underneath our bed. I did laundry and hung it on our radiators to dry.

almost four months in and life is ordinary in all of its non-ordinariness.
almost four months in and I'm even more grateful to be here.
almost four months in and it's still a day to day act of waking up and being present.
Of relying on grace and finding joy in every day things.
i've been praying that that will never change.

and they all ate.

I was reflecting on the passage in Mark where Jesus feeds the five thousand the other day. I was preparing for a sermon and found my thoughts drifting to the disciples in this story.

I am the disciples most days.

Faced with the needs of the people, of the community- they are overwhelmed and they want to send the people away.

But Christ doesn't let the disciples get away with their "send them away" request.

Instead he responds to them by saying, "You give them something to eat."

They protest- they don't have the resources, there are too many people, where will they get the money?

And I protest- what do I have to offer? what do I have to give? how can I possibly serve?

I protest and they protested because we feel the gap (which sometimes feels like a giant chasm) between that which we feel that we have to give and that which is needed.

These final verses struck me as I read:

"They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up 12 basketfuls of broken pieces of bread and fish. The number of the men who had eaten was five thousand." - Mark 6:42-44

Abundance has new meaning in these verses- for it is an abundance that fills the gaps between what we have to give and what is needed.

It is an abundance that transcends our limitations and reminds us that it is God who meets our needs, the needs of our neighbors and the needs of the world.

Christ takes what the disciples have- five loaves and two fish- and He uses it, creating abundance out of what they gather and offer.

When we were in Cambodia, we had the privilege of having dinner with GBGM's Cambodia country director. It was a wonderful dinner as we listened to him share about his experiences as a missionary all over the world and how God led him to Cambodia.

His words on vocation have stayed with me since that night, reminding me that I worship a God of abundance, who crosses the gaps, the chasms, and the canyons; using us if only we would offer up our lives for his use.

He shared with us that people often like to think vocation is the place where our abilities and gifts meet the needs of the people and community. He said that in reality, vocation often just means being present in the gap that exists between our abilities and the needs of the community- trusting and learning that God will bridge this gap and use us.

and they all ate.

Christ feeds the five thousand with five loaves and two fish and there are abundant leftovers. He takes what the hesitant and protesting disciples gather and he crosses over the gap between what they have to offer and what is needed.

He meets their needs. And we? We are simply to offer ourselves up. To trust that if we follow, if we go where he calls, no matter how big the gap seems- he will bridge it and his abundance will meet us there.

triple crown: the belmont

long overdue, but here we go...

the final part of three posts on public transportation in mongolia. look here for part one and part two.

the belmont stakes:

Taxis. Ask anyone in the U.S. and the image brought to mind is of a yellow car clearly marked as a taxi- with a taxi driver, a meter to calculate the fare and the assumption that the driver is going to know how to get where you want to go.

But think again my friends. In Mongolia, it's a whole other deal.

Taxi is a fancy, simplified way of saying, "random, unmarked car that pulls over when you stick out your hand." Also known as a glorified version of hitchhiking.

It's a way for folks to earn money. It's a way for other folks to get from one place to the next in a manner that is slightly faster/more direct than a micro or bus.

There's even a standard rate- 500 tg per kilometer, so you can have a rough estimate of how much a ride should cost.

There are few street names here, so getting from one place to the next is a game of using landmarks for directions. Of naming a rough area or neighborhood or part of town and then using the Mongolian words for "straight, right turn and left turn" to direct your driver.

It is an adventure. It is a test of my (severely limited) Mongolian skills. It is a way of travel that brings stories.

straight

Sometimes taxi rides are full of conversation.

We had spent the morning at the church, preparing food for the next day's New Years celebration. Hol and I decided we wanted to go to a cafe we like for lunch, so we flagged down a taxi and began working out the process of communicating where we needed to go.

Our driver was full of questions as we negotiated our trip back into downtown. Where are you from? How long have you been here? How do you find Mongolia? Are you cold?

I laugh when he asks this, as I've been huddling in the back of his car, trying to warm my half-frozen hands as we drive. Yes, it's very cold, we answer.

He's friendly and full of laughter as he converses with us, re-phrasing things when we don't understand, repeating his questions when they surpass our Mongolian skills and jump into the "I don't have a clue what he's asking" territory.

We reach our destination and end our conversation by confirming that we are here as teachers, working at a church. He crosses himself as he confirms this information, laughing heartily as we get out and go back into the cold.

right turn

Sometimes taxi rides are just downright funny.

It was late, a Sunday evening after a young adult celebration at church.

Od and Dashka and I got into a taxi, told him where we needed to go and resumed our conversation.

Not a minute later, the car stalled and we were stopped in the middle of the intersection.

The three of us couldn't help but burst into laughter as our driver got out and began pushing the car, asking "13?" (13th district is where I live), as if he was going to push us all the way to our destination (about a 20 minute drive from where we were).

We laughed until we had tears running down our faces, because this is normal and even normal gets to be funny.

It was there, sitting in between Od and Dashka, watching our taxi driver try to push us all the way home, that I realized I will never be able to ride a taxi in the U.S. again without thinking it's boring.

left turn

Sometimes taxi rides are just a means of avoiding being late.

I only take taxis when I don't know a micro or bus that will get me where I need to go or when I'm running late and can't wait for a micro to show up. Or when I'm convinced I'm going to get frostbite if I wait any longer.

They are quiet usually, silent, slightly warm.

Just the driver waiting for the words of direction to come as we drive and me sitting in the back, rubbing warmth into my fingers, watching familiar buildings and streets pass by.

Here? he'll ask.

T (shortened version of yes), i'll answer.

At first, taxi rides were a test of knowledge. How much Mongolian we knew. How well we knew the streets and landmarks that guided our directions. How well we understood Mongolian numbers and could thus know how much we needed to pay when we got where we needed to go.

And now, taxis rides are a moment of peace as I try to be on time for the start of long days that find me running late. A few minutes of quiet Mongolian words passed back and forth as I think about how familiar all of this has become. A warm escape from the cold winds of the sidewalks.

How much?

How much?

At the end of our first two weeks here, we took a taxi to the market as part of our "final test" in language school. We were nervous, uncertain and had spent the past two weeks walking everywhere because using public transportation (micros, buses or taxis) seemed like this big, scary thing that we were never going to be able to do.

How much would I have paid at the beginning of this journey to know that one day I wouldn't think twice of doing these things?

How much would I have paid at the beginning to know that one day the streets wouldn't seem foreign, but would become familiar?

How much would I have paid at the beginning to know that one day I would find traveling from one place to the next in all of these different ways ordinary, normal and comfortable?

I would have paid a lot.

How much?

How much is the fare?

time, prayer, tears, laughter, courage, fear, letting go and letting it be.

that is the fare my friend.

Can't they just deport us to Mongolia? Part 2

The kind airline employee smiles and nods at Hol's hopeful good-bye, probably wondering if we'll be so chipper when our risk-taking doesn't pay off.

It's 7:20 and boarding should be starting in 10 minutes.

Upon trying to head to the departure gates, a guard stops us to let us know we'll have to check our packs, because it's a full flight and there won't be room.

So now we're checking luggage on a flight to a country that may or may not refuse to grant us entry.

The kind man asks us to take anything out of value and we both kind of laugh, knowing that we're going to be sad to probably never see our bags again (Or at least that's what I was thinking- I kept having visions of us being told we were being deported back to Cambodia and me going, "But what about our bags? We have hammocks, sir!")

It's 7:30 now and they're making the boarding announcements. We have yet to make it to the security line.

Attempt number 2 at making it past the guards is denied, this time because we have failed to pay the airport departure tax.

$25 later, I have the stamp I need and exactly $2 in U.S. money. Not that it will do much good in China, but it seems extra comical to be facing possible deportation with $2, some Mongolian tugruks, a few Khmer riel and a few Chinese yuan (about $1.50 worth).

They make the final boarding call as Hol and I are throwing our bags, laptops and coats on the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine. Thankfully the gate is only a few steps away and there are still 2 or 3 people walking onto the plane. Our passports get their departure stamps and we are off.

We watch Lost to distract ourselves from the visa/luggage related adventures facing us upon arrival, because a world of Jack, Kate, Sawyer and Sahid is distracting indeed (still on Season 2).

We land and discuss if we should hope for a man or woman, young or old and then I pray for it all to work itself out, for the airline employee's small chance predictions to become a large chance.

We avoid waiting only to be directed elsewhere and just go immediately to the immigration lane marked "special."

Soon we've handed over our passports and itineraries and are being directed to go sit in a corner across the way as 3 immigration officers begin conferring with one another, examining our documents.

We talk while we wait, wondering how surprised Joseph will be if we call him and say that we've returned to Phnom Penh and need to go to the Chinese embassy. I make some possibly to later become unfunny jokes about all of the immigration officers gathering to vote on if we should be admitted and that we should at least be able to argue our case ("We promise we won't leave the airport! We just want to go to Mongolia!").

One of the officers walks over to us and I can't decide if he's bringing good news or bad news. Turns out he just needs us to fill out another document. He leaves again and we agree this seems like a good sign.

20 minutes later, he returns again, passports in hand and says, "Here you go."

I feel the need to walk away quickly, in case they change their minds, and Hol and I high-five the fact that our gamble has paid off.

Celebration doubles as we find our packs circulating round an empty luggage carousal.

It was fitting, and appropriately comical, that what greeted us in Guangzhou was our lone bags waiting for us, circling over and over and over again.

More Lost, a flight to Beijing, a night in the Beijing airport, more Lost and a flight to UB later, we were back to warm layers and long underwear and hot tea and...

...the sense that it's good to be back.