Meanderings in Uzbekistan: Bombs, Bread, and a Ferris Wheel

 

Despite an explosion and the fear of being kidnapped, a trip to Uzbekistan became an adventure to remember.

 

As Spring Break 2005 quickly approached, I was working overtime to make sure that each of the twenty or so delegations of officers and cadets were ready to go out.  Every spring the Office of International Programs at the United States Air Force Academy would participate in one week exchange programs with foreign military academies.  We would send a delegation of one officer and four cadets to their academies over Spring Break and they would then send their delegations to the Academy for our International Week in April.

 

With time quickly running out to get all the documentation and logistics in order, I was happy that I wasn’t traveling this time around.  The previous year I had managed the entire program as well as lead a delegation to the Kazakh Air Force Academy in Aktobye.  By the time I left for the trip to Kazakhstan, my left eye was twitching non-stop from the unending stress.  My hope was that I could get all the delegations on the buses to the airport and relax for seven days while they were all overseas.

 

A few days before the delegations were scheduled to start departing one of the escort officers came to my office.

 

“Jarad, something came up and I won’t be able to take the cadets to Uzbekistan.”

 

“But, sir, you’re scheduled to depart in three days.  I don’t know if we can find a replacement for you in time.”

Quickly we ran through the logistics.  In order to make the trip work we had to have a military faculty member, with an official red US Passport, and preferably one who spoke Russian.  It took only a few minutes to realize I was the only one, other than my colleague who was backing out, which fit that profile on the entire faculty.  My list of things to do had suddenly become much longer with a call to my wife at the top of the list.  I swore a slight twinge was starting in my left eyelid.

 

I wasn’t opposed to going to Uzbekistan.  The country, like much of the region, intrigued me.  My issue was simply a matter of workload and responsibility. 

 

A part of me, of course, was excited for the opportunity.  Iranian nomads are the first known settlers of the region that comprises modern day Uzbekistan.  Throughout history the area has been part of various empires to include the Persian Samanid and Timurid empires.  With the development of the silk trade between China and western cultures, cities along the route became wealthy.  The Silk Road was born.  Cities with deep historical meaning grew—Bukhara, Samarqand, and Khiva. 

 

Eventually the area became a part of the Russian Empire and then the Soviet Union.  Since the collapse of Soviet Union in 1991, Uzbekistan has been an independent nation ruled by an authoritarian regime.  In 2005 Uzbekistan was an active and serious partner in the prosecution of the Global War on Terror to include operations in Afghanistan and Iraq.  Due to this relationship, we were able to travel to the country with just an official passport.  No visa was required.

 

Soon I was in contact with the cadets who would travel with me to Uzbekistan.  One of them was a cadet we sponsored.  He was LDS and had served his mission in Russia about ten years after I was there.  The other male cadet was also a returned missionary who had served in Russia.  We had two female cadets with us, both studying Russian.  One was an experienced glider pilot who loved to regale us with stories of her near calls in the air.  Our final female cadet was a young eighteen year old who was thrilled and scared to be abroad in such a strange land. 

 

Following an early morning bus ride from the Academy to the Denver International Airport, we were on our way.  During a stop at the Frankfurt Airport in Germany, one of the cadets had his camera stolen out of his backpack.  For most of my trips abroad during my time at the Academy, I used the same travel agency in Colorado Springs.  Usually they managed to work magic with flight schedules.  This time, unfortunately, our itinerary left us with an eight-hour layover in Moscow on the way in and out of Tashkent. 

 

In Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport, we had to stay in the same small area of the airport for seven hours while we waited to transfer to the other terminal for our flight to Tashkent.  After an hour we had seen everything in the stores.  Eventually we sat at a table at a café upstairs to try different dishes.  The entire time we were in the terminal the same CD was played repeatedly.  It was a male Russian singer covering American pop music in heavily accented English.  To this day I continue to hear the words, “Oops!  I did it again.”

 

The transit area to our departing terminal was only manned as scheduled flights prepared to leave.  We were terrified of missing the transit bus, so we watched the checkpoint closely.  A few times we had asked the ladies who ran the checkpoint when we should expect to leave. 

 

“When we tell you it’s time.”

 

“Will you come find us to tell us when it’s time to leave?”

 

“No, you’ll have to be ready and close by.  Now go away and don’t bother us any more.”

 

About an hour two before we scheduled to depart we watched as a female, a Russian national, walked up to ask some similar questions.  Unhappy with their answers she pressed them further, not wanting to miss her connecting flight.  The conversation deteriorated to the point of yelling and then screaming.  Finally, a large and hardened woman in uniform, obviously with some authority approached the scene of the altercation.  Hoping for some help the lady seeking information turned to the new arrival.  Instead of help she received an open-handed blow to the side of the head, dropping her to the ground.  The lady in charge told her colleagues to carry the lady to the holding room for further processing. 

 

We sat quietly and waited for them to announce our flight.

 

Our arrival into Tashkent came in the middle of the night and was uneventful.  The next day we were free to explore the capital city so the embassy hired a guide to take us around the city.  Before we left the hotel we exchanged some US Dollars for the local Uzbek Som.  I don’t remember the currency rate, but after I exchanged $100 I had to put some of the stacks of cash into my backpack in order to carry it.  The highlight of the day was a visit to the large open market in town. 

Tashkent Bazaar

In the evening one of the US Air Force officers, a major or a lieutenant colonel, took us to an amazing restaurant for dinner.  He was there to work with the Uzbek government on military flyover issues in support of operations in Afghanistan.  At dinner he told us of another Air Force officer whom some local thugs beat.  Upon learning of what had happened the landlord, who was shall we say well connected to those with some clout, arranged to have the thugs taken care of…somehow.  Our host also told us about his mission to buy a nice Persian rug for his wife.  What would have cost him a $5,000 in the US, he was able to purchase for under $1,000 in Tashkent.  He said the scary part was carrying a backpack and two handbags full of Som to pay for the rug.

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Prior to our departure from the Air Force Academy we received a threat and security briefing on what to expect and how to behave in Uzbekistan.  The Office of Special Investigation was not excited about our location.  Militant Islamic groups in the Fergana Valley combined with the authoritarian methods of the Uzbek government, had created a touchy situation.  We were told we shouldn’t go anywhere in uniform and should try to hide the fact that we were Americans.  Following the briefing I had to convince two of our cadets not to back out.  

(Two months after our trip, Uzbek police and military forces would shoot and kill over 700 people in Andijan.  This action would begin to unravel the partnership with the United States.)

 

Our second day at the hotel we were met our military escort, a young captain, from the Uzbek Air Force Academy.  As asked, we wore our service dress uniforms.  Our driver was an ethnic Russian who had married an Uzbek and remained behind after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

 

We drove south out of Tashkent toward Djizzak.  The roads were rough but we passed some beautiful farms.  Cows, goats, and horses were staked along the highway allowing them to feed on the grass.  Our conversation with our escort and driver picked up steam as we got to know one another.  We were informed that as part of our itinerary we would visit the academy in Djizzak, play a basketball game against their school team, take a cultural trip to Samarqand, and then visit a tank school and aerodrome in Chita before returning to Tashkent.  The next five days promised to be exciting.

 

First, however, we had to get past our fear of being shot, kidnapped, and/or tortured.  In Tashkent police officers lined all of the main thoroughfares, standing every 30 to 50 yards apart.  You could tell, especially in the capital, that there was significant tension and the expectation that something could happen at anytime.  With that experience and the memory of our security briefing, we were pulling into a small town wearing our uniforms.  I did my best to assuage their concerns, reminding them that our escorts would do their best to keep us out of danger.

 

Our fears spiked when we entered Djizzak.  Luck would have it that we entered on a holiday, I believe it was the anniversary of the city’s founding.  The captain and the driver suggested that we drive down to the celebration, kind of like a county fair, to walk around and see the people.  We pulled up to the edge of the celebration.  There was a roadblock to keep vehicles out of the pedestrian and vendor areas.  Our escort spoke quickly to the police at the roadblock to explain who we were and the plan to have us walk around.  They excitedly pulled the barricade to the side to let us through.  A couple of the police officers then followed us to where we parked and continued to walk around with us, our own, armed escort. 

 

At this point, the cadets were beside themselves with fear.  Here we were in what was considered a dangerous country, in a public setting, and wearing our uniforms.  Stepping out of the van we immediately had hundreds of people stop whatever they were doing to take look at us.  One of the female cadets almost climbed back into the van.  Our escorts, however, weren’t worried at all.  In fact they were excited to show us their city and have us join in the celebration.

 

Walking away from the van, the captain said, “Let’s have them ride the Ferris wheel.” 

 

So, we made our way over the back of a very long line to wait our turn.  As we stood there, wondering if we were going to survive the afternoon, the people at the back of the line turned and noticed us.  Quickly the word “American” began to trickle through the crowd until all of them, parents and children, were looking at us, murmuring excitedly to one another.  Suddenly, one of them grabbed one of the cadets by the arm and made a statement.  In abject fear I looked at my escort.  He simply smiled and nodded his head. 

 

I thought, “Here it is.  We’re about to be kidnapped and held for ransom and our government handlers are in on it.”

 

Quickly, before we could react, we were pulled forward to the front of the line and pushed into the next open car on the Ferris wheel.  The locals were so excited to have us celebrating their holiday with them that they honored us by giving up their places in line.  As we rode the Ferris wheel we all agreed that with that type of hospitality, there was a good chance we would make it home alive.

Ferris wheel in Djizzak

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That night, after a quick tour of the campus and a great dinner at the mess hall, our group was separated.  I was dropped off at the officers’ quarters just off of the campus.  The cadets stayed on the campus with their Uzbek counterparts. 

 

My quarters was a two-room suite with a basic living space with a sofa, chair, and desk and a bedroom.  A full-sized fridge, containing some bottled water, stood next to the bed.  Exhaustion overtook me and I went to sleep on my thin mattress.

 

From the depths of my sleep, I heard a loud boom, and explosion.  Immediately I came fully awake convinced that a bomb had just gone off outside of the barracks.  I rolled off and under the bed, hoping it would provide additional protection in the event of a second explosion.  Lying there I noticed that the explosion had thrown the fridge door open.  In terrified anticipation I wondered if there would be another explosion, whether or not I was the target of the bombing, and if terrorists were on their way up the stairs to get me.

 

Five minutes passed.  Ten minutes passed.  Fifteen minutes passed.  Nothing else was happening.  I wondered if the attack was coordinated.  How were the cadets?  Were they safe or was an attempt made on their lives as well?  Grateful that I wasn’t injured in what may have been the opening salvo, I thought of having my body sewn up in the local hospital; of a long flight home with serious injuries.  I tried not to think what it would be like as a hostage.

 

The only sound was the water dripping from the bottles in the fridge onto the floor.  I couldn’t tell how far the explosion had thrown the fridge, but I figured the blast must have been significant to break open the plastic water bottles in my fridge.  After all, I was on the second floor.

 

Finally, I poked my head out from under the bed to look around, using the faint light from the open refrigerator.  It appeared that the fridge hadn’t moved much.  The door was just hanging open with the water dripping out.  I lay there a few more minutes as it dawned on me what may have occurred.  After a few more long minutes, I pulled myself out from under the bed and crawled to the fridge, not wanting to make any type of silhouette against the window, you know, in case there was a sniper waiting for me outside.

 

Reaching the fridge door, I pushed it shut some so I could maneuver to peer inside the fridge.  There sat a two-liter plastic water bottle with a hole blown in the side.  Turning the bottle I read the label, mineral water.  There was also a bottle of regular water.  I touched it.  It was frozen.  The bottle of mineral water had exploded as the carbonated water expanded with the dropping temperature.  The bomb had exploded inside my room, inside the fridge.  My hosts had planted it there because they knew, that unlike them, Americans like their drinks cold.  To make sure the water was cold, they had turned the temperature very low on the fridge.  Because they never cooled their mineral water, they had no idea that it would freeze and explode.

 

I sat on the bed for several more minutes trying to relax.  Once my heart rate had dropped, I took a towel from the bathroom, wiped up the mess, and checked my watch.  It was around three in the morning.  At some point I did manage to fall back asleep, but it wasn’t restful.

 

The next morning the escort officer asked me if my quarters were comfortable.  I smiled and said they were wonderful.  The second night there was a fresh bottle of mineral water in the fridge.  I pulled it out and set it on the table.

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The remainder of the trip was amazing.  Our game of basketball against the school team was a little lopsided.  Out of the five of us only one had any decent skill at the game.  One of our female cadets was extremely competitive, (she wasn’t the one with skill), and managed to put a three inch scratch mark on the face of one of the opposing players. 

 

One of their officers had been a helicopter pilot during the Soviet invasion and occupation of Afghanistan.  He forgave me for the Stinger missiles that were launched at him and for those that had killed his friends. 

 

For lunch on our second day the deputy commander of their academy hosted us.  He was an ethnic Uzbek, a lieutenant colonel.  At the close of an amazing lunch, during which he boasted of the service the Uzbeks were providing to the Americans in Afghanistan, he asked us to drink a toast with him.  He was shocked to learn that three of us were Mormon and wouldn’t drink the alcohol.  Perhaps feeling guilty that he, as a Muslim, regularly drank alcohol, he pushed us hard to drink with him.  He challenged our manhood and insinuated that we were offending him.  I told him I had no intention of offending him, but that if forced to choose, I would rather offend him than my God.  In all my time in Russia and other countries, I had never been treated so rudely for not drinking alcohol. 

 

(A month later I turned the tables on him at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs.  I told him that I would be offended and that our general would be offended if he didn’t eat a ham sandwich with us at the mess hall.  He didn’t speak English so he couldn’t complain to anyone.  Of course, as a good host I had made sure they had a nice halal alternative for him.)

 

After two or three days in Djizzak, we loaded back into the van for a trip to Samarqand.  Two of the Uzbek cadets came with us.  Once in Samarqand we also picked up a female tour guide who spoke excellent English.  We visited the Holy Daniel, a site that is believed by some to hold some relics of Daniel the prophet of the Old Testament.  Supposedly it contains his arm bone and some believe that it continues to grow, hence the long sepulcher.  We also visited the mausoleum of Tamerlane and the Registan, or Public Square of the old city.  The Islamic architecture and design of these buildings is amazing.  Again we visited an open market and purchased round loaves of bread to eat while we walked around.

 

Registan (Public Square) Samarqand

From Samarqand we stopped by an active Uzbek Air Force aerodrome, or air base.  During our lunch with some of their helicopter pilots in the Officers’ Club we were invited to fly with them in their helicopters.  When we tried to decline the offer, they told us that they often fly our special forces into Afghanistan and that we shouldn’t be so scared.  Luckily a storm front moved in before they could get the helicopters, large Mi-8s, ready to fly.  We had to settle for a quick walk through of the helicopters.

Mi-8 Helicopter

Our final stop before returning to Tashkent was a tank school in Chita.  When we arrived it was obvious that they weren’t clear on when we were supposed to arrive.  Nothing was ready but they managed to feed us a late dinner and get us berthed in their barracks.  I was put in a room with a bare mattress and a scratchy wool blanket.  The next morning we played with their tank simulators and then visited their World War II museum that focused on the epic tank battles against the Wehrmacht.

 

On the way into Tashkent, our escort officer stopped to feed us one last meal at a restaurant.  All of us were tired and would have preferred to go straight to our 5-star hotel for a shower, some sleep, and then maybe some food.  As the gracious host he was thrilled to spend a little more time with us.  He used it as an opportunity to get very drunk.  Our female cadet who was only 18 years old asked if she could partake of the alcohol since she was of legal age in Uzbekistan.  Since Academy rules allowed for it and there were going to be three of us with her who weren’t drinking, I told her I had no problem with it.  She said it was her first time ever trying alcohol and I’m pretty sure she was being honest.

 

Once we finally arrived back at the hotel in Tashkent our first stop actually was the business center to send emails to family assuring them that we were alive.  I sat next to the young girl who had tried alcohol for the first time.  I watched as she typed her email:

 

“Dear mom and dad, I’m in Uzbekistan.  I think I’m drunk for the first time ever.”

 

Then she clicked send.  Immediately I jumped on her computer and sent her parents another email giving them the details and letting them know that she was safe.

 

The next day at Domodedovo airport in Moscow I sat watching snowflakes fall against the big window, and slowly drifted to sleep to the sound of a Russian man singing, “Oops! I did it again.”

Labor and Delivery: One Man's Trials and Travails

Fourteen and a half years ago I was in the hospital in Logan with my wife.  We were anxiously awaiting the arrival of our first child.  As I watched, and provided what support I could, I was amazed at the entire process and what a woman goes through to become a mother.  My appreciation for my wife and my own mother grew by leaps and bounds that day.  

A few short days later I got myself into hot water at our church meeting.  It was a fast and testimony meeting where we have the opportunity to stand and share our feelings, beliefs, and thoughts with the other members.  Having just gone through an incredibly emotional and spiritual experience, I felt compelled to share some of my feelings.  I stood at the podium and talked about my gratitude for my wife for what she had just done.  My last words were, "After seeing what she went through, I am so grateful to be a man."

It was an attempt to show my gratitude for what she had done and to highlight my own weakness in facing such a physical trial.  Unfortunately, I managed to offend a number of the sisters in the ward.  A number of them made their way to the podium, and while glaring at me, told me how wonderful it is to be a woman.  I don't think they understood what I was trying to say.

Either way, and this is meant to be humorous in my own serious way, it is important to share the trials and travails that the husbands and fathers suffer through during the labor and delivery process.  I'll try not to avoid any mention of our suffering that occurs during the pregnancy...that may be too much suffering in one post.

Mothers spend a lot of time sharing labor and delivery stories.  They relish the experience, even if it does frighten soon to be new mothers and young male bachelors.  It is my hope that my experiences will not scare any soon to be fathers.  You can be prepared and weather the storms that will come.

Please note that the couch for the spouse is to close to the bed to allow for any meaningful rest.

First Time: A Rookie's Story
The Beef & Cheddar That Wasn't, Until Later
As we entered the hospital for the birth of our first child, I was unbelievably anxious.  For weeks I had been anxious for this child to be born.  I was excited to be a father.  (And I was excited to quit my job at the cheese factory.)  At the end of her pregnancy my wife was suffering from a serious rash and a few other things.  The doctor mercifully decided to induce labor.

With all of the attention on my wife and my high level of excitement, I had forgotten to eat all day.  By five o'clock that evening I was starving, not literally, but rather strongly in a figurative way.  Luckily, my parents and sisters were at the hospital.  They ran to grab me a Beef & Cheddar from Arbie's.  They delivered it to me in the room and my wife kindly gave me permission to eat it quickly.  As I sat with the bag in my hands, the nurse came in to check on my wife's progress.  Just as I begin to unwrap the warm, delicious smelling sandwich, the nurse said loudly, "It's time.  Get the doctor in her now.  The baby is coming!"

For a split second, my excitement for the birth of our first baby and my deep physiological need for nourishment battled for my attention.  Coming to my senses, I wrapped up the sandwich and put it back into the bag.

Throughout the delivery process my wife was amazing.  We were blessed with a beautiful baby girl with a shock of dark hair on her head.  She was beautiful!  I split my time between telling my wife that she had done a great job and admiring the baby as the nurses cleaned her and checked her vitals.  At some point, the nurses took our daughter out of the room.  Thinking that most of the important work had been done, I decided to go back after my sandwich.  

I was wrong.  The process was not complete.  Picking up the bag with the sandwich, the doctor looked at me and said, "You'll want to see this."

He turned with the placenta in his hands and placed it in a large metal bowl.  My raging appetite quivered and then died.  It was another couple of hours before the hunger returned and I managed to choke down the now cold and stale sandwich.

Stay the Night With Me--Or, the Graduation I Don't Remember
Our first child was brought into the world at an exciting time in our lives.  Not only were we starting out as new parents, it was also the day before my college graduation.  Grandparents held their new granddaughter and rejoiced.  By the end of the night my tired wife fell into exhaustion.  Thinking of my graduation the next day, I begin to think of how to tell my wife good night so I could go home to get some much needed sleep.  

Before I could say anything, my wife reached up and took my hand.  Looking at me with her tired, beautiful eyes she said, "Will you stay the night here with me?"

Looking at the small, hard couch that would be my bed for the night if I stayed, I had to fight the urge to tell my wife that I would prefer to go home.  Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed.  It was a rough night.  Not only was the couch uncomfortable, but the nurses kept coming in to check on my wife and the baby.  Nobody checked on me, yet I survived the night anyway with little to no sleep.

At around six in the morning I stumbled out making my way back to my apartment so I could shower and get ready for my graduation.  After my shower, I woke my parents and sisters up so they could join me at my graduation later.  Once I was on campus I met up with my best friend.  We walked with other graduates from the College of Business to the Spectrum for ceremony.  I was feeling fine, excited for the moment, right up until I sat in my chair.  I have no idea who spoke or what they said.  One of my classmates kept elbowing me in the side each time I slumped over.  One time she leaned over to ask me, with some humor, to quit snoring.  If it hadn't been for her, I never would have known when to walk across the stage to receive my diploma.

Doctor Eye Candy
I have to tell one story about some suffering that occurred during our second pregnancy.  We were stationed at Vance AFB in Enid, Oklahoma at the time.  As my wife searched for a local doctor, one came very highly recommended.

At our first appointment it was immediately obvious why he had such a stellar reputation among the mothers.  He was pure eye candy in the likeness of a Calvin Klein model.  Now this was probably her toughest pregnancy out of all six.  She was miserable and the heat in Oklahoma made it worse.  Yet each time she had an appointment she would get excited.  While I never felt seriously threatened, I did make sure I wore my Battle Dress Uniform to each appointment with the sleeves rolled up.  (I may have even spent a little more time working on my biceps than usual.)

The Worst Night (Maybe Not Ever, But It Was Bad)
With our third pregnancy, my wife was measuring very large as we approached the last week.  Once again, for the third time, the doctor decided to induce labor.  This time her doctor, instead of being a version of McDreamy, looked to be about as old as Methusaleh.  Anyway, for some reason he asked us to come to the hospital later in the day for the induction.  

Based on previous experiences, I figured it would all be over by early to late evening.  We finished packing her bag and left for the hospital.  Since it was a warm day in June, I left the house wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  I figured that once the baby was born and my wife was somewhat recovered, I would go home to pick up my mother-in-law and two daughters to bring them back to the hospital to meet their new brother.

Things didn't go as the doctor planned.  He tried a different type of induction method that just wouldn't get things started.  Finally, late that night he decided to hold off on actively pushing labor until the morning.  Even though she wasn't in full, active labor at that time, it could go by itself at any moment.  So, once again I faced the prospects of a night in a labor and delivery room.

It was worse this time.  She was hot and so they kept the room frigid.  I was in shorts and a t-shirt remember and going home to change at that point didn't seem prudent.  As I shivered on the small, lumpy couch, the nurse brought me a thin sheet from a warming cabinet.  It was heaven, briefly.  Eventually the heat dissipated and I was left to suffer.  

A number of times I was able to relax enough, despite the cold, to begin to fall asleep.  Each time, just as I would start to slip away, the nurse would come in to check on my wife.  Now, I understood the need to check on her, but a little more consideration and quiet would have been appreciated by me.  Heck, even a little attention thrown my way would have been appreciated.  

"Would you like some hot chocolate?"

"Would you like some hot soup?"

"Would you like a real blanket?"

"Sir, are you still alive?"

Any one of those questions would have made me feel like a valued person.  All I received from the staff was silence.  Now, the few times when my wife asked me for ice chips or something else, I was happy to get up and help.  Despite my desperate and destitute situation, I was wise.  I did not speak out loud about my discomfort to anyone that night.  Well, I might have mentioned to my wife once or twice that I was a bit cold.  

While the next day was rough for me, it was undoubtedly rougher for my wife.  It was her first time making a go at it without an epidural.  (Men, this is a big conversation topic.  Make sure you know enough to nod and agree with your wife's opinion on the matter.)  
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As my wife and I experienced three more labor and deliveries, we learned to handle the pain, stress, and exhaustion.  It helped that the deliveries began to happen more quickly with each child.  For the last two she instructed doctors and nurses on what she wanted and how it was going to be.  They listened.  (On the last one I had to help the doctor get suited up because the rest of the labor and delivery team weren't there for the start of the festivities.)

Throughout my years as a husband, father, and birth coach, I understood that the needs and sufferings of the husband are often neglected.  Often, as I have come across expecting husbands, I make it a point to warn them.  I give the a quick run down of things to expect, things to take, things to do, and when to speak and when to be quiet.  In response to my warnings, many people laugh and some expecting moms and some experienced moms get a look of annoyance in their eyes.  I understand that they and the new babies are the stars of this show, but the forgotten ones have needs as well.

So, here are some of my...

Lessons Learned
What to Bring
- First, whatever your wife tells you to bring.
- Layers of clothing to include long sleeve shirt(s) and pants.  You can go to the hospital in shorts and a t-shirt, but make sure you have something else to put on.  A word of caution, you might not be given enough time or privacy to change.
- Snacks.  Bring the snacks you like but make sure they aren't the type that might annoy your very agitated wife.  She may not want you chewing on something that is crunchy or chewy.  She may not appreciate certain odors.
- Entertainment.  Tread lightly here, very lightly.  It's okay to bring a book or some type of electronic device.  Only pull them out when your wife approves their use.
- Cash.  Bring small bills and coins for quick runs to the vending machines.  If you have time to run to the cafeteria, take advantage of it but be prepared in case you can't.

How to Select a Doctor
- Let your wife select the doctor but try to steer her away from former Calvin Klein models.
- Also, try to steer her toward doctors who go to the quality hospitals.  (Definition of a quality hospital is below.)
- Always agree with your wife's opinion of the doctor (except for when she talks about how handsome he is).

How to Select a Quality Hospital
-  A quality hospital has three things: good food in the cafeteria, good food that brought to the rooms, and great amenities (snacks and drinks) that are available for both you and your wife.
- Take the tours of the labor and delivery wings of the hospital.  Ask questions about the amenities available to the husband.  Can you get drinks and snacks from the amenities room?  If the answer is no, then observe how closely it is watched.  Are meals for you, in the room, included in the service?  Who is their cable or satellite tv provider?
- Eat a meal at their cafeteria.  Some hospitals have had amazing food.  

Try to guide your wife to pick the doctor that goes to the good hospital, but realize you can only say so much.  Anything you do say should be couched in terms of how it benefits her, so look for those things so you can maintain your integrity.

Getting It Right (Mostly)
As we entered the hospital for our sixth labor and delivery, my wife was excited.  This was going to be her first time without pitocin.  I expected things to go quickly and wasn't too worried about my comfort.  Before my wife changed into her hospital garb she reached into her overstuffed bag and pulled out a surprise for me.  It was a homemade blanket that folded into a pillow.  Stuffed inside the blanket was book, some Twizzlers, some Pringles, and a few other of my favorite snacks.  My eyes, as they did when she handed me the blanket, are tearing up while I write this.  We were truly prepared.

My wife's labor progressed rapidly this time.  The doctor and I had to set the bed up and get her dressed without the assistance of the labor and delivery team.  They were still wrapping up another one in a nearby room.  A backup nurse was called in to help.  

Now, an important aside.  This last doctor was her first female OB/GYN to deliver one our babies.  She was a lot of fun to meet with throughout the pregnancy because she runs a lot of marathons and other races.  Several times she and I swapped stories about various races in our pasts and futures.  

In the delivery room, the contractions started to come on more frequently and powerfully.  I stood holding my wife's hand so she could squeeze it hard during the contractions.  Due to my wife's experience and strength, there wasn't much coaching from the doctor or the nurse.  To fill the silence the doctor started to talk about my upcoming race that was taking place the next week.  She told the nurse about it.  The nurse then proceeded to ask me questions.  I love to talk about running and races, especially to someone who really wants to know.  Under the circumstances, however, I knew I was walking on thin ice.  I tried to keep my answers informative, yet brief so that I didn't annoy my wife.  I even made a concerted effort to quit talking during the contractions.  But the nurse kept asking questions.

In the middle of one my informative, yet brief answers, my wife crushes my hand and says, "Shut up!  Just shut up about the race!"

Never forget, no matter how cool you are or your stories are, you are not the star of this particular show.

Foreign Medicine: Remembrance and Recovery

At the end of an intensive year and a half of study at the Naval Postgraduate School, I submitted the final draft of my master's thesis.  It is titled The Demise of Russian Health Capital: The Continuity of Ineffective Government Policy.  My professors and thesis advisor were excited for the topic.  Compared to topics covered by the other military officers seeking degrees in National Security Affairs, it was a decidedly un-military type of topic.  At the time I wasn't sure what drove my interest, but looking back I think it was an attempt to understand some of my past experiences with the Russian health care system.  The stories below will serve as a belated prologue to my master's thesis.

The Questionable Transportation of Medical Supplies 
At the end of my two month stay at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, I was excited to pack my luggage for my departure to Russia.  While we were wrapping up our packing we were asked to head to one of the administrative offices.  Upon arrival we met with a good brother and were given multiple bags of syringes and vaccines for us to take over in our luggage to the mission home.  These would be used as booster shots for the missionaries.  We were instructed to pack them in our bags to prevent them from being stolen by the Russian customs inspectors who commonly plundered items sent through the mail.

As we prepared to go back to our rooms with the bags of supplies, I stopped and asked a simple question, "Are the customs people at the airport in Russia going to have any problems with us transporting this stuff?  Should we have any paperwork with us?"

The good brother suddenly looked uncomfortable.  Looking down, he said, "Well, we're not sure.  We hope that they won't check or if they do, that they won't care."

Back in our rooms I hoped to get the other missionaries to put all of the supplies into their luggage.  Unfortunately they were not able to fit it all and I was forced to take a large bag of syringes.  If I had been aware then of what it would be like to go through passport control and customs, I likely would have refused to take the package.  It was an especially touchy time because the Russian government had recently started blaming the West, and America specifically, for carrying HIV into the country. 

(For a general story of my arrival in Russia please read the blog at this link: "Welcome to Russia!  Welcome to Siberia!")

When I finally made it through passport control and customs I found my luggage.  Some of my clothing had been pulled out.  Sitting on top was the large bag of syringes.  No questions were asked of me or of the other missionaries who had brought the syringes and vaccine.

Not In My Country, Comrade!
In the late 80s and early 90s HIV was spreading quickly in Russia.  All foreigners were suspected of being carriers.  Any who resided in Russia for any period of time were subjected to random blood tests.  We were given detailed instructions, in case we were selected for testing, to make sure that a the syringe used was new and taken from a sealed package.  Initially, I was shocked to even consider the idea that they recycled syringes.

I was only selected once for a random blood test, while living in my first apartment.  A knock came on the door early in the morning.  A uniformed officer was there.  He asked to see our passports and then invited us to follow him to a local clinic to have our blood drawn.  As we walked through the snow I started to run through my mind how I would ask for a clean syringe.  Having only been in the country for a couple of weeks, my vocabulary was severely lacking.  My only hope was that my companion, who had been in the country for just over three months, would have sufficient skill with the language to keep us safe.  I envisioned two scenarios.  In one they didn't have clean, fresh needles and syringes.  After arguing we would be held down while a nurse pulled a needle out of a sink full of water and other needles, attached it to the syringe, and then it being plunged into my vein to extract my blood while leaving behind pathogens and viruses from others.  In the other scenario, my companion utilized his budding, yet proficient, Russian skills and some cash to convince the nurse to reach into her hidden stash of safe needles.  Then we were arrested for bribing a medical official.

Neither scenario played out.  As we entered the medical facility, we were taken into an exam room where a nurse was waiting for us.  On the table were two brand new needles and syringes still in their sealed wrapper.  The relief was so great that I believe that was the first time I enjoyed giving any amount of blood.

The Novosibirsk Regional Hospital: "Hello, Nurse!"
After two months in Russia I started to experience significant stomach and digestive issues.  The pain would come and go, but it could be quite intense.  At some point my mission president put me in touch with an American doctor the Church had assigned to Moscow.  We spoke over the phone a few times.  I shared my symptoms and he asked me questions.  Without the ability to run tests he was unable to diagnose my problem accurately.  (He did, however, contribute to an incident that scared me badly at the time.  He asked if I had seen any blood in my stool and told me what to expect.  Up to that point I had never really looked.  A day or two later I ate a beet salad and some borscht.  I had never in my life eaten so many beets at once.  Well, the next day, while in the bathroom, I was convinced that I blood in my stool.  Luckily, my companion at the time, who had been in Russia for almost two years, calmly reminded me that I had just eaten a lot of beets and that this was normal.)

The doctor suggested that I visit a local clinic or hospital for testing.  He also instructed me to write down any medications that I was given so I could tell him.  Our mission president gave us permission to travel to the Novosibirsk Regional Hospital just outside of the city.  The director of the hospital had been trained in Germany and our mission president, who served his mission in Germany, had befriended him.  My companion had quietly been suffering from his own ailment so it was a good opportunity for both of us to visit the doctor.

We boarded the bus early one winter morning.  The bus ride took about an hour.  Upon arrival we made our way to the office of the director where we described our symptoms.  He brought in two assistants and gave them instructions regarding which tests needed to be done.  Unfortunately, he split us up.  I was terrified.  While I was beginning to understand more of what was being said, I still wasn't confident or very skilled in my ability to communicate in Russian.  No matter.  We were rushed off in separate ways.

The hallways of the hospital, especially on the main floor, were packed with people waiting in line to be seen.  I heard two people talking about how they had been there for two days waiting to speak with someone.  As guests of the director we were taken to the front of every line.

Approaching my first stop I tried to ask my escort what was about to happen.  I don't remember if I understood or not, but as soon as I stepped into the room I saw a large ultrasound machine.  The previous patient had just finished dressing behind a white curtain and quickly exited.  My escort explained my situation and what tests needed to be completed and then left.  Suddenly I realized that I was alone with two young, female nurses who were very attractive.

As my heart rate begin to rise and I considered running out the door.  One of them smiled at me and said in Russian, "Please take your clothes off."

I responded in my best Russian, "May I take off just my shirt."

She stared at me for a few, uncomfortable seconds before she answered, "Well, okay. Take your shirt off."

After I removed my shirt I lay on the exam table.  One of the nurses sat next to me while the other sat at the desk with my paperwork.  The one next to me squeezed some of the ultrasound gel into her hands.  She rubbed the gel around in her hands to warm it up and then began to rub it onto my abdomen, smiling at me the whole time.

As she was doing this, her partner at the desk asked, "What do you think of Russian women?"

Trying to answer while looking away, I said, "I'm a missionary.  I don't think about that."

Her reply, "Yes, you do.  You're thinking about them right now."

Both of them laughed.

Finally, they got started with the actual procedure.  One moved the instrument around on my abdomen and read off the measurements while the other wrote it down.  Once they were finished they continued to tease me, asking me if all American men were so shy.  I put my shirt back on as quickly as possible and stepped out into the hallway to find my escort.

From there I went for an EKG which was uneventful.  Once the EKG was finished I met up again with my companion.  He went with me for my final test of the day.  They were going to draw a bit of blood for some tests.  I was told it would just be a finger prick.  We entered a lab ahead of a long line of people waiting to be seen.  I only remember a few things about the lab and the experience.  The nurse was wearing one of those cool, old-style nurse hats.  She had me walk over to a large metallic sink where she cleaned my hand with water and then some antiseptic.  She then pulled out a small cylinder made out of what looked to be paper or cardboard.  It was about two inches long and maybe an eighth of an inch in diameter.  She snapped it in half and revealed in the casing a small razor blade with an angle on it.  The light glinted off of the edge of the razor.  Immediately I realized she was going to jab that into my finger to produce some blood.  My knees buckled a little before I recovered.  I struggled to find the words to ask why they couldn't use a small needle.  As I was struggling to speak and stay conscious, she jabbed the razor blade into the tip of my index finger.  Needless to say it produced sufficient blood for the tests.

Following our tests, we met again with the director who told us we would be contacted again soon regarding the results.  He also informed us that another of our missionaries was being seen in the hospital that day for some treatment.  We asked if we could stop by to see him before we left.  We were escorted to another treatment room, a large hall with curtained off areas.

We were somewhat aware of this elder's medical issue.  He had developed a visible and painful rash on his neck.  This wasn't his first trip to the hospital to receive treatment.  Walking into the room we saw his companion sitting on a chair.  He smiled as soon as he saw us.

He said, "Elder Hurlburt (names have been changed to protect the victims) is behind that curtain over there.  Go look at him.  But do not laugh!  The nurse will get very angry if you laugh at him."

Intrigued we made our way over to the curtained off cubicle and looked inside.  I was not prepared for what I saw.  What appeared to be an alien creature looked up at me.  He had two long bronze or copper tubes going up into his nasal cavities.  The tubes came out and each was capped off by a large metallic ball of the same color.  A curly cable was attached to each ball and went back into a large electrical machine that was thrumming at a regular rhythm.  The tubes and balls seemed to be held in place by some type of Ace bandage that had been wrapped around his head several times.  His eyes were barely visible and his shock of dark curly hair was forced out of the top of the bandages.

My first thought was that they had turned him into a Tuscan raider from the planet Tatooine.

Trying not to laugh and remain quiet we asked him what the machine was supposed to do for his rash.

"They are shooting ultraviolet rays into my sinuses in hopes that it will kill the infection that is causing the skin rash."

Standing there listening the thrum of the machine and looking at his misshapen head, I lost control and started to laugh out loud.  Immediately a rather large, middle-aged nurse was next to me.  I'm not sure exactly what she said, but from the tone of her voice it was clear that I was being asked to leave.

A week or two later this same elder had been checked into the hospital for care.  We stopped by to see him when we came back for the results of our tests.  He had been there for a few days and his face was covered in stubble, not usual for a missionary.  As we were visiting in his room he told us that one day a nurse or a doctor had come in to give him an injection.  Expecting the injection in his arm or backside, he was shocked when the person injected the needle directly into his neck and pushed the plunger down.  His skin immediately felt as if it were on fire and the feeling spread.  Once he had recovered sufficiently from the shock he asked the name of the medicine and wrote it down so he could give it to the Church doctor in Moscow.  Then he asked what the medicine was supposed to do.  The answer basically was:

"Oh, we don't know in your case.  Usually we use it for something else entirely, but we wanted to see what it would do for your rash."

Eventually he recovered.  My test results all came back negative, with no obvious problems.  The next step was for them to perform an endoscopy and a colonoscopy.  Due to the invasive nature of those procedures we decided to hold off for a week or two.  Luckily by then I was feeling surprisingly better.

One more quick story about treatment at that hospital.  One of our senior missionaries had developed a painful boil.  The mission president took him and his wife to the hospital for treatment.  As they were waiting in the room, the mission president stepped out briefly.  When he went back into to room the elder was lying unconscious on the exam table.  According to his wife a nurse had come in and given him an injection that put him out immediately and completely, all for a skin boil.

Miscellaneous Hospitals
While I never returned to that hospital or went to any other for treatment, I did have reason to stop by a couple of others.

One day my companion, who was new and didn't speak much Russian, were out looking for a pool we could rent for an upcoming baptism.  We decided to visit a hospital to ask if theirs would be available.  Along the way, my companion realized he needed to use the bathroom and the feeling got stronger as we walked.  By the time we reached the hospital he had an almost overwhelming need to take a leak.  It's important to understand that in Russia, especially at that time, there weren't many public restrooms.  The few public restrooms usually were in parks and cost a few hundred rubles for access and a short length of toilet paper. 

As we entered the hospital, he begged me to ask them if he could use one of their bathrooms.  The lady with whom we spoke was not friendly and did not want to speak to us.  I asked her immediately if my friend could use one of their bathrooms.  She refused and said that none were available.  I told him that they didn't have anything but that as soon as I asked her about the pool we would go find something.  He looked like he was going to cry.

I explained our need for a pool and asked with whom we needed to speak to in order to find out if it was for rent.  She said we couldn't speak with anyone about it because it wasn't for rent.  She was the receptionist at the door.  I was sure if I could get past her I could find someone who would be willing to work with us.  But, I couldn't get her to budge.

Turning to leave, I saw the panic in my companion's eyes.  He grabbed me by the arm, and squeezing said, "Please ask if I can use their bathroom again!"

So, I turned and begged.  The lady started to say no again, and then she smiled.

"I do have a room he can use.  Please follow me."

We walked down a hallway and she showed us the door to a room.

"He can go in there and then you must leave."

With that she walked away.  I looked up at the door.  The sign said "Enema Room".  (For an explanation of how I recognized that word, please see this previous blog post: Incongruities.)  I wasn't sure what that meant exactly so I opened the door and saw a tiled wall with water running down it.  It became clear that enemas were administered in an adjoining room with a separate entrance.  The patients would receive their enema and then rush into this room to complete the process against the tiled wall.

Not wanting to scare him, I decided not to tell him about the purpose of the room.  I said, "Go in there and pee as fast as you can."  I was weak and waited in the hallway.

Unfortunately it was in January and very cold.  It must have taken him some time to work through the layers of clothing.  Suddenly, I heard a scream from inside the room.  It was followed by another scream.  He came running out, holding his coat.

"Do you know what I just saw?  A woman came running in wearing a hospital gown and she...!"  

I won't share his description, but he saw it all.

As you can guess, these experiences likely contributed to my desire to study the foundations of Russian health care.  I have one or two other personal stories, but nobody wants to read about me looking into a room full of dead bodies, bodies with surgical instruments still stuck inside of them.

Tracting Down Memory Lane: A Tale of Russian Surprises

Typical Russian Nine-Story Apartment

Soviet era apartment buildings play a significant role in Russian life and culture.  One of my favorite Russian movies is The Irony of Fate: Or, Enjoy Your Bath.  The beginning credits of the movie show the unstoppable progress of Soviet glory through a humorous cartoon as the same types of apartment buildings are massed produced and spread across the world.  The narrator then explains how big and large cities became the same by adopting not just the same buildings but the same street names.   From there we begin to watch the story of a man who gets drunk with his friends in the banya early in the day on New Year's Eve.  The group rushes from the banya to the airport so one of their friends can catch a flight from Moscow to Leningrad (St. Petersburg).  Upon arrival at the airport they continue to drink until it is time to board the plane.  Unfortunately, they forget who is supposed to fly to Leningrad.  A drunken debate ensues and the wrong man, our hero, is put on the plane by his friends.  He arrives in Leningrad and stumbles into a cab.  He gives his apartment address to his driver who takes him to the same street and apartment number in Leningrad.  The man makes his way up the elevator to the apartment door that matches his in Moscow.  He enters his key into the door and the door opens.  He enters the apartment, falls asleep and when the beautiful, female tenant of the Leningrad apartment arrives home a series of romantic adventures begin.  

As a missionary in Russia, tracting through these apartments, going from door to door, was often an adventure.  Sometimes it was funny, sometimes it was scary, and sometimes it was just strange.  Here are a few of my experiences for your enjoyment.

Ding Dong, Is the Elder Dead?
Russia in the mid-90s was an exciting place.  It was in the middle of an unexpected and, for many, unfathomable transition away from the Soviet state to...well, something else.  The uncertainty of the times, along with the general methods of construction, resulted in many apartment buildings that were poor quality or unfinished in some small, but annoying ways.  A common problem we encountered in the newer neighborhoods were electrical wiring that was never completed, particularly doorbells.  Often all we would find for the doorbell were two live wires sticking out. 

Now, without a doorbell you would think that the next best option would be to knock on the door.  While a seemingly simple solution, knocking proved to be ineffective in most cases.  The reason being that Russians, for security purposes, usually had two doors to their apartments and the outer door was invariably made of metal with anywhere from two to four deadbolts.  Knocking on those metal doors only created a loud noise in the hallway that didn't always penetrate through the inner door into the apartment.

So, one day, rather than be discouraged by the lack of a doorbell, I touched the two wires by the casings and pushed them together, producing a nice buzzing sound in the apartment.  I continued to use this method when necessary throughout my mission without incident.  Sometimes the tenants were surprised to find that their doorbell worked.  Others obviously had friends who used the same method. 

My second to last companion, however, was a Russian from St. Petersburg.  We came across an apartment with several missing doorbells.  I proceeded to use my tried and true method.  After watching me for awhile he finally said, "I wouldn't do that.  I doubt it's safe."  I of course discounted his counsel and informed him that I had been using the method for over a year and a half without incident.  

Shortly after that conversation I was assigned to train a brand new missionary from Idaho, my last companion before I returned home.  As a trainer I made it a point to teach him everything I knew, including the doorbell trick.  At one point he asked if it was safe.  I told him about the unnecessary warning from my Russian companion but that I had never had an incident.  I encouraged him to do what it took to contact those dwelling in the apartment.  

It happened that very day.  This trusting, brand new missionary, reached up and pushed two wires together.  There was a bright, blinding light and a loud noise.  I blinked my eyes several times trying to regain my vision.  Slowly things came back into focus.  I looked for my companion but he wasn't where he had been standing.  With my ears ringing I heard some moaning from the floor and looked down to where he lay. 

He looked up at me, and with an accusatory tone in his voice he said, "I don't think that's safe."  

A Bonus Door-Bell Story
One day we were tracting and I came across a door-bell that wouldn't go in.  It had been painted over and was stuck.  I gave it one more good push and in it went.  Unfortunately, it didn't come out again resulting in a continuous loud shrieking ring.  Our initial instinct was to flee but we were frozen in place.  Before we could make a break for it an old lady opened the door.  I expected her to yell at us for being idiots.  Instead she looked pleasantly surprised and said, "That doorbell hasn't worked in years!"  

Then she asked, "Can you make it stop?"

We did everything we could think of with our resources at hand.  I tried to pry it back out with my key but it wouldn't budge.  As we were trying to fix it the neighbors on her floor heard the incessant ringing and came out to see what was happening.  I could hear their conversations as they watched.

"The idiot Americans pushed the button and got it stuck."

"What did they expect would happen?"

Finally, I got enough nerve to ask for a screwdriver from the neighbors.  One of them, mumbling his opinion of us under his breath, retreated into his apartment and brought us a couple of screwdrivers.  In order to fix it we had to remove the doorbell completely, which was dangerous because there was no way to turn off the electricity.  We managed to take the doorbell part, stop the ringing, clean the old paint off of the button, and put it all back together again in working order.  The lady was extremely happy that we had pushed her doorbell in and been forced to fix it.  Now her friends could ring the doorbell when the came for a visit instead of pounding, hoping she would hear them.  

We're the Police!
In Russia, people don't like to open their doors to strangers.  Instead, when you ring the doorbell, they'll open the inner door and yell at you through the door to find out who you are and what you want.  We would yell back our replies to try to get them to open the doors.  If you didn't succeed, you would step to the next door on that floor or go down to the next floor.

As a brand new missionary with less than a month in the country, my trainer had me doing the speaking at the door.  I rang the door bell and a lady yelled, "Who are you?"

In my best accent, I yelled back, "We are the missionaries."

"What?  Who are you?"

"The missionaries!  May we speak with you?"

It was an unfortunate combination of factors.  I wasn't confident enough yet to elaborate regarding our identity.  She was hard of hearing, especially through a metal door.  And, I had a poor accent and couldn't speak clearly.  The word for missionary and police in Russian are very similar.  This is what she heard:

"We are the police."

"The police.  May we speak with you?"

The door flew open and she started to cry.  She yelled at her son, who came to the door.  It probably didn't help that we were in suits and ties which likely seemed even more ominous than the normal uniformed police.  She grabbed her son by the ear and twisted.

She screamed at him, "What did you do this time you idiot?  They're going to take you away again!  They won't let you out this time."

The son, who was mid to late twenties, protested his innocence to both her and us.  He was getting close to tears.  

My trainer was doing his best to interrupt this sad scene to set them straight.  Finally he reached through the door and grabbed the lady gently by the arm and said, "We are missionaries, not the police."

Both of them immediately went silent and stared at us.  

"Missionaries?  Not police?"

"Correct!"

She grabbed her son and hugged him closely, then turned to us with a high degree of anger visible in her eyes.

"You two are idiots!  Leave now!"

The Delayed Answer
The configuration of standard Russian apartments is difficult to describe, but I'll give it a shot.  Each apartment building will have multiple entries with each entry exclusive to that part of the building.  As you go in each entry, or podyezd, you have access to the stairs and the elevator (which may or may not work).  On each floor you will usually have access to four apartments with two apartment doors facing the stairs and the other two perpendicular at each side.  As a result the doors on each floor are close, particularly the sets that are perpendicular to one another.  A column of apartments, with four on each floor, is only accessible from the one podyezd.  So, when you tract you must go in and up one podyezd, ring doorbells as you descend, and then go the next podyezd and start over again.  

A Russian Podyezd (Entrance)

With the doors so close to one another we would often run into the problem of the delayed answer.  This would occur when you ring one doorbell, don't get an answer and move onto the next door only to have the tenant at the previous door come to the door once you're already engaged in a conversation.

Here is my all-time favorite delayed answer story (although I do have one that is scarier).  It was sometime in the spring and the sun was just starting to go down.  The floor we were on wasn't too well lit and only a little sunlight was coming in through the small window by the doors.  We rang the doorbell on one of the doors and waited a few minutes with no response.  The next door was within arms reach from the first.  An older lady with an apron and a kitchen spoon opened the door.  Delicious smells drifted from her apartment.  

We began a very nice conversation when suddenly the previous door opened.  Turning I saw something I funny and disturbing.  A rather old man was standing there completely nude and wet with soap suds covering his body and most of his face.

He yelled, "What do you want?  Can't you see I'm in the middle of my bath?"

As I struggled with what to say, the neighbor lady suddenly came to life.

"Ivan Nicholaievich, what are you doing?  Have you gone crazy answering your door naked?  Get back in your room now!  Get back now!  Do you hear me?"

With that she went after him with the spoon, swinging it up and down and hitting him repeatedly on the head.  Stepping back a safe distance all we could do was watch.  Ivan Nicholaievich made it back into his apartment and his neighbor slammed his door shut.  Talking aloud about crazy people she walked back into her apartment without looking at us and shut the door.

I have always hoped she washed the spoon before finishing up dinner.

A Christmas in Russia

Eighteen years ago this week I arrived in Siberia as a brand new missionary.  The comfort of the Missionary Training Center was nearly 6,000 miles away.  Those first days were hard, really hard.  At this time of year the sun rises in Novosibirsk around ten o'clock in the morning and goes down around five o'clock in the evening.  Temperatures ranged from -20 degrees Celsius during the day to something even colder during the night.  Newly arrived in a foreign place at the beginning of a two-year sojourn, I felt a bit overwhelmed.

As I struggled through each of those first days I wondered what it would take for all of it to feel normal.  With Christmas only days away homesickness started to settle in more deeply.  At some point we decided as a district to go Christmas caroling.  None of us were certain the last time, if ever, someone had sang Christmas carols in public in Novosibirsk.  With our Russian hymnals in hand four of us set out looking for places to sing.  Besides myself our group consisted of my companion from Helena, Montana, our district leader from Finland, and his companion who also was from Utah. 

Culturally, Russians tend to be very closed off in public situations.  The sudden appearance of four foreigners, singing what we're likely unfamiliar songs, had an interesting impact on those passing by us.  We sang for a time outside a store and then, in an effort to be a little warmer, we moved into one of the Metro hallways.  Some people, unsure how to react to us, simply put their head down and walked by, pretending that we didn't exist.  Others looked at us with obvious disapproval.  A small handful gave us a short smile.

There in the Metro, as we were singing "Silent Night" in Russian (Тихая ночь, дивная ночь), I looked around at my fellow missionaries.  Despite the unfamiliar surroundings and despite the unwelcoming reactions of those passing by, I saw on their faces a sense of peace and love.  The same feelings came over me.  I felt my frozen cheeks surrounded by a large, wool scarf and covered by a fur shapka, break out into a smile of joy.

That same week we attended the branch Christmas party.  We were joined by new Saints in celebrating the birth of our Savior.  Together we sang the beautiful Christmas carols in a new language, a language that I would come to love.  After two weeks of eating unfamiliar foods I was rewarded with a meal consisting of a small beef steak and mashed potatoes.  Outside of the companionship of fellow believers, I don't think the Lord could have given me a better gift than that meal. 

Celebrating Christmas that year, in 1994, I received the assurance from the Lord that I was doing his work in the right place.  A small gathering of Saints showed me the promises the Lord had in store for those in Novosibirsk.  My perception changed from wondering if I could survive two years in Siberia to that of considering the possibilities of what I could do, experience, give, and learn during that time.  I thank the Lord for the tender mercies offered me in that season as the celebration of His Son's birth brought me the comfort I so desperately needed.

A Spiritual Feast in the High Desert

The last month or so has been eventful for our family.  My father returned from his deployment to the Middle East.  I was called to serve as bishop of the Whitney Ranch Ward.  All of my side of the family came out for our third running of the Las Vegas Ragnar.  We capped the visit off with an early Thanksgiving dinner put on by my mother.  Emmalee went to a marching band competition in California.  Wrestling season started for Elijah and he already has his first tournament under his belt.  Isaiah finally convinced his mother to let him start wrestling.  Gracee played in her first few lacrosse games.  She even scored a goal in one game.  Clara started walking.  Elizabeth is just busy all of the time.

In the midst of all the exciting events I managed to come down with a cold last weekend.  The timing wasn't great since I had to take a road trip to San Bernardino on Wednesday and Thursday.  As my departure time on Wednesday evening approached, I felt less and less happy about the prospect of making that drive out and back with the cold and my lack of sleep.  The trip was to provide some initial services to some very large clients for work making the trip difficult to cancel.  At the last minute, thinking of the drive through the high desert, I grabbed a set of CDs from the October 2002 General Conference.  What started out looking as a very depressing trip became a spiritual and educational trip.

Below are the links to a few of the talks with some excerpts that I particularly enjoyed:

"Rise to Your Call," Elder Henry B. Eyring

"The person who called you did not issue the call simply because he learned by interviewing you that you were worthy and willing to serve.  He prayed to know the Lord’s will for you.  It was prayer and revelation to those authorized of the Lord, which brought you here.  Your call is an example of a source of power unique to the Lord’s Church.  Men and women are called of God by prophecy and by the laying on of hands by those God has authorized.

"You are called to represent the Savior.  Your voice to testify becomes the same as His voice, your hands to lift the same as His hands.  His work is to bless His Father’s spirit children with the opportunity to choose eternal life.  So, your calling is to bless lives.  That will be true even in the most ordinary tasks you are assigned and in moments when you might be doing something not apparently connected to your call.  Just the way you smile or the way you offer to help someone can build their faith.  And should you forget who you are, just the way you speak and the way you behave can destroy faith.

"Your call has eternal consequences for others and for you.  In the world to come, thousands may call your name blessed, even more than the people you serve here.  They will be the ancestors and the descendants of those who chose eternal life because of something you said or did, or even what you were.  If someone rejects the Savior’s invitation because you did not do all you could have done, their sorrow will be yours.  You see, there are no small callings to represent the Lord.  Your call carries grave responsibility.  But you need not fear, because with your call come great promises."

"There will be times when you will feel overwhelmed.  One of the ways you will be attacked is with the feeling that you are inadequate.  Well, you are inadequate to answer a call to represent God with only your own powers.  But you have access to more than your natural capacities, and  you do not work alone.

"The Lord will magnify what you say and what you do in the eyes of the people you serve.  He will send the Holy Ghost to manifest to them that what you spoke was true.  What you say and do will carry hope and give direction to people far beyond your natural abilities and your own understanding.  That miracle has been a mark of the Lord’s Church in every dispensation."

 "That They May Be One in Us," Elder D. Todd Christofferson

"Surely we will not be one with God and Christ until we make Their will and interest our greatest desire.  Such submissiveness is not reached in a day, but through the Holy Spirit, the Lord will tutor us if we are willing until, in process of time, it may accurately be said that He is in us as the Father is in Him.  At times I tremble to consider what may be required, but I know that it is only in this perfect union that a fullness of joy can be found.  I am grateful beyond expression that I am invited to be one with those holy beings I revere and worship as my Heavenly Father and Redeemer."

"Encircled in the Arms of His Love," Elder Neal A. Maxwell

"In the churn of crises and the sinister swirl of global events, true disciples will maintain faith in a revealing, loving God and in His plan for redeeming His children, which plan is the why of all that God does!  Furthermore, God’s character, as revealed to us, tells us that He has the cosmic capacity to ensure that He really is ‘able’ to do His immense work."

"The restored gospel is buoyant, wide, and deep—beyond our comprehension.  It edifies whether concerning divine design in the universe or stressing the importance of personal chastity and fidelity.  Only meek disciples can safely handle such a bold theology."

"How can we know that God is aware of us and loves us?  He tells us by the scriptures—likewise, by our honestly counting the blessings and bestowals of His grace in our lives.  Most of all, He tells us by the still, small voice of the Spirit!"

“…brothers and sisters, what keeps us from knowing and loving Him more?  Our reluctance to give away all our sins—thinking, instead, a down payment will do.  Likewise, our reluctance to let our wills be swallowed up in His will—thinking, instead, that merely acknowledging His will is sufficient!”

A normally long and boring trip through the desert became a spiritual feast.  

Profile of a Ragnarian: Jarad Van Wagoner

Over the past year I've watched as a friend from my hometown has achieved a degree of fame as a competitive participant in Obstacle Course Racing and trail marathon circuits.  Frankly, his accomplishments are impressive, but like my other friend Brett always says: "Running skinny is easy.  It's like golfing from the fairway."

After my last few races I've waited at the finish line for someone to come interview me in an attempt to ascertain the secret to my success.  Alas, nobody from Runners' World has been there to record my compelling story and background.  So, in order to meet the demands of my reading public, I'm going to interview myself and provide you with a very informational profile.


Name: Jarad Van Wagoner
Age: 37 (for at least two more weeks)
High School Mascot: Eagle
Favorite Running Aid: Body Glide


Let's get to the important issues first.  Do you tend to have any digestive issues when you run?
Please define digestive issues.

You know, do you have any problems with diarrhea or anything like that when you run races, especially the relays?
Well that seems kind of personal, but, yeah on occasion I've had to pick up the pace to make it to the next set of outhouses or Honey Buckets.  It's not a regular problem though, at least not enough to earn a nickname like Deucer.  I have, however, ran relays with people who define the entire experience around their digestive life. 

What do you do to correct or control your digestive issues?
First of all, I relax.  After having ran several races I know what to expect which is that while I may not be very fast, I will finish.  Second, I make sure that I consume enough calories.  The biggest mistake I've made during a relay is to choose sleep over a meal.  I can run on very little sleep, but my bowels reject the concept of running without sufficient nutrition.  You must avoid my sister's experience as described in these previous blog: Shot Blocks and Miracles on Leg 27.

Once your bowels put you into panic mode on a race, I've found that calm meditation generally is the best remedy. 

Who is your favorite training partner for the relays?
Usually I like to train with my wife, especially when she's out of shape because it makes me feel fast.  The downside is that she has longer legs than me, so once she gets in good physical condition she starts to run faster than me.  Last time she finally slowed down when she got pregnant.

Which of your Ragnar teammates do you look up to most?
That would be my friend Brett.  He's pretty tall.  I also look up to my brother-in-law Nathan Feltch because he's pretty tall as well.  I do feel that Nate became a little shorter, however, after I watched him trip and roll through a patch of sage brush along a lonely stretch of highway outside of Las Vegas one night in 2011.  Unfortunately he also fell again at the end of that run, right after he handed off the slap bracelet at the exchange.  He fell stepping off of the curb, scraping up his already bloodied legs even more and spraining his ankle.  Watching someone put a maxi pad on his knee to stem the bleeding seems to have shortened him even further.  But, yeah, I still look up to Nate and to Brett.

Describe one or two of of your favorite Ragnar legs you've ran.
Usually the night runs are my favorite.  There's something relaxing and liberating about running at night.  On my second Wasatch Back I ran from Coalville to Wanship early in the morning.  The trail runs a short distance from the freeway and adjacent to pastures and fields, coming close to the river once or twice.  I love the feeling of isolation when I run at night.  During that run I only came across a few other runners and the tall brush added to the effect of being alone.  Even with the smell of skunks in the air, it was an amazing run.  I ran into the next exchange just as the sun was coming up. 

My next favorite run was on the Ragnar Trail Experiment at the Zion Ponderosa Ranch.  Prior to my run it had rained all day and it was still raining at 11pm as I began my run on the Green Trail.  The mud was over the top of my shoes as I started out from the exchange.  With the rain falling all around, the light from my headlamp wasn't very effective at illuminating anything more than three or four feet in front of me.  Mud, hills, and rain tortured me throughout the entire run making it a challenge to move forward and stay on my feet.  I fell on my hands an knees more than once trying to come back up out of the ravine.  By the end, I was completely exhausted and thrilled at what I had just done.  Check out the story here: Experimental Trail Running

Describe one or two of your worst Ragnar legs.
Well, on the Ragnar Trail Experiment at Zion Ponderosa Ranch, it rained the entire time during one of my trail runs.

Heat usually makes the runs challenging in a way that I do not enjoy.  Both times I've ran in SoCal, my first leg has been in 100 plus degree heat.  I really do not enjoy running in the heat.

Tell us about the vans on a Ragnar.  What makes the interior environment so enjoyable?
Some would try to convince you that it's the camaraderie that makes it so enjoyable.  I don't think that's it.  I believe that it is the intoxicating odor of sweat from multiple bodies that makes it so enjoyable.  Once you learn to identify all of your van mates by their own unique odor, you truly bond.  My friend Brett always puts all of his running clothes in a plastic bag.  Brett sweats a lot so the bag is usually pretty full of liquid and weighs 10-12 pounds. 

Snoring is another big bonus.  You get to find out who snores loudly and their own special pattern.  The best is when you have two people snoring at the same time in the van, with their snores offsetting one another so that there is no quiet time.  It gets even better when you add someone to that mix who keeps complaining out loud so that nobody else can get to sleep.

Do team members ever become irritable or grumpy from the exhaustion and bad digestive issues?
No, but I've noticed that as my team members get more exhausted they tend to think less clearly and then they say and do very stupid and irritable things.

What is your fantasy in terms of your racing career?
First, I would like to be able to look really good running in just shorts with no shirt.  The second, and perhaps more likely, is that someone will one day pay me to run races to include all of the Ragnar Relays.

What Ragnar events are at the top of your bucket list (ones you haven't run yet)?
- Ragnar Trail Tahoe
- Northwest Passage
- Colorado (after a lot of training)

What Ragnar Events Have You Run?
- SoCal 2011
- Wasatch Back 2011
- Las Vegas 2011
- SoCal 2012
- Wasatch Back 2012
- Ragnar Trail Experiment 2012
- Las Vegas 2012
- Ragnar Trail Zion 2013
- Wasatch Back 2013
- Las Vegas 2013
- Del Sol 2014
- Ragnar Trail Zion 2014
- Wasatch Back 2014 (Registered)

What other amazing events have you run?
- Ogden Marathon 2010
- Provo Canyon Half Marathon 2010
- American Discover Trail Marathon 2010
- Hurrican Jem Trail Half Marathon 2010
- Red Mountain 30K 2011
- Ogden Marathon 2011
- Ogden Marathon 2012
- Ogden Marathon 2013 
- Ogden Marathon 2014 (Registered, will probably die)