The topic pervaded every conversation during my time with other volunteers in the Philippines, because if it wasn't the source of all of our problems it was at least a contributing factor. But I knew that American society wouldn't accept me or my casual references to fecal matter, and so, for the past ten weeks, I have painfully kept my talk of worms, parasites, and LBM to a minimum.
After scrutinous research, I've concluded that no day will occur when poop is in vogue as a topic of conversation. This upsets me. I'm like a nicotine addict. Kind of. How can I just quit offensive conversation? I can't, not cold turkey, so I've compromised to drop references to it sporadically and at my own good judgement, and lessening over time.
Good judgement has never really been my strength (think: stayed two years in The Hottest Country On The Planet, then relocated immediately to A Rock Colder Than The Dark Side Of Mercury, which is –346° F for those not in the know), and so I want to make it well known that I spent minutes, minutes, weighing whether or not I would write the following:
Today I collected reindeer poop.
During several debates with myself, I simultaneously won and lost by defending the aforementioned as an appropriate conversation topic because:
a. It is work relatedIn any case, I did collect reindeer poop with Karin. She needed to collect fresh samples which will later be analyzed to determine food content of the reindeer herd. I obviously went along so that I could write about it in my blog after weeks of avoiding the "p" and "o" keys.
b. It is about reindeer poop, not human poop
c. It is scientific and therefore educational
Like two female Jeremiah Johnsons, Karin and I scouted out the herd by following tracks, guaging the wind, and, finally, aimlessly tramping across the tundra and hoping for good luck, which was ultimately the best tactic.
When we saw the herd of about 350 animals, Karin said we would just walk toward them and after a short while they would run away, spooked by our approach or perhaps our bed hair. We kept walking, walking, walking. Suddenly we were there, within 100 yards of these reindeer, and they just didn't run away. They didn't give us a second thought. My immediate thoughts were: either reindeer have remarkably poor survival instinct or that maybe, just maybe, animals can sense that I wish them no harm. Unlikely the latter, considering the fate of my gerbils way back when.
But there we were, within spitting distance (or, if you will, prime shooting distance) of this huge herd of animals. It was spectacular. I could hear them, I could smell them. I couldn't touch them, but I could touch their poop and I'd say that is pretty darn close.
The thought now occurs to me that I'm above picking up the poop of my fellow man, but there I was playing janitor to a bunch of ruminants. This is the power of nature, people.
