Getting
prepared for an expedition or road trip requires a light touch. The
right packing makes a trip run smoothly and allows for maximum awareness
of your surroundings rather than fiddling with gadgets and toys that
have been brought along. Pack appropriately. For example, I am carrying
a black sleeping bag that is rated under -20 degrees, and it is June.
Don't let the 90-degree weather fool you; you can never be too prepared.
Furthermore, I have packed only one pair of extra cloths, a towel, no
washcloth, soap, and pajamas that could pass as an emergency outfit
if dire dirt befalls either of the other outfits.
Finally,
I advise that you forget your wallet. This saves you from paying for
anything on the trip, effectively shucking all costs onto your boss
and kindhearted coworkers. No wallet also means no driver's license.
So, you won't be asked to drive the charter van for hours on end through
Ohio's flat and unremarkable landscape, which I would describe at great
lengths were it not for the fact that I was, fortunately, comatose through
most of it.
At
this point some of you may get the impression that I am a fool. But,
wisdom in travel often requires foregoing foresight. Don't think about
it too hard, since road wisdom isn't built to withstand heavy contemplation.
If road wisdom had foresight, I wouldn't have been left defenseless
and at the mercy of interns from the organic farm.
Today,
the game of "better than thou environmentalism" is staged
on a treacherous game board. There are many different kinds of environmental
challenges that serve as opportunities to one-up each other. There are
crops planted at small and large scale, animals, foul, and other natural
resource preservation reserves that interlace these arenas. In this
game all voiced opinions can count as a score.
The
purpose of the trip was simple. We wanted to see how the organic farm
operated. This also allowed Alon, an intern from Israel, to visit his
two fellow exchange students who were working at the farm. The organically
inclined exchange students in question were Hime from Israel, and Sarah,
an American who spent time at the Israeli Institute and knew both Hime
and Alon. So, the teams were formed. The interns from the French Creek
Project, including Alon, Laura, Mondara, and myself, formed our team.
The Organic team consisted of Hime and Sarah. We had them outnumbered,
but we were on their home turf.
The
first night at the farm was filled with small talk as we settled in.
We had decided to sleep on the East side of the building. I suggested
otherwise, but the tantalizing carpet won out over the cooler room with
the hardwood floor. I had become paranoid the night before about sleeping
in a strange place and isolating myself in a room alone. So, I slept
like a pack animal, taking my place in the circle of sleeping bags.
This mistake put our team at a disadvantage straight out of the gait.
I rose from my sleeping bag, overheated and sweating, and cursed my
friends under my breath for not taking my advice.
I
took a shower to cool down even though I had showered the night before
and in spite of the fact that I no longer had a dry towel to use. Growing
on the shower were tufts of green, brown and gray mold and mildew. It
was possible I was endangering my life by exposing myself to the wet
living slime twice in 24 hours.
Once
I finished and dressed for the day I found that no one was awake yet.
I hoped that, like frogs in a pan of heating water, they would boil
before they woke and realize it was hot. I rolled my sleeping bag and
packed everything else with the intent of making a quick escape at any
given opportunity.
Before
I left, I took one last look at Laura and Mondara who were still tucked
in their sleeping bags on slow roast. Alon had spent the night with
Sarah in the "Sugar Shack." This would normally seem indecent,
but I knew him well enough to understand he only had a desire to find
the most primitive place to sleep. After all, he lacked any interest
in the 200+ pound nearly naked wood nymph that would be staying with
him. The Sugar shack is the shanty building where maple sugar is boiled
down. It has no glass in its windows, no electricity or running water,
and that means no bathroom. Meanwhile, Hime spent the night in the basement
apartment of the main house.
Outside
I hear nothing; no telling signs of human activity. This is the perfect
opportunity to stake out the territory before having to face any tour
guides. I walk from the office to the main animal barn and am joined
by the farm's two beagles. One is young and lean, running and barking
at me. The other is an old, fat, veteran mother. Her undercarriage almost
drags the ground. She is slower and her slight limp shows she is getting
arthritis, though it didn't stop her from hurling herself off the back
of the moving pickup truck the night before when the owner of the farm
drove in. I lean down to pet the dogs. They don't seem to remember licking
me the other day and they keep dodging from me. Finally, I continue
on, understanding that the most company I can expect from them is in
the form of noisy double shadows. When I get to the barn they lose interest
and head off in the direction of the small seaweed choked pond. I lose
sight of them in the tall grass and rows of soybeans and rye.
Making
my rounds of the farm settles my nerves. I doubt that the competition
is going to be that tough, unless the teammates are better than their
captain and owner of the farm, a man fondly referred to as "farmer
Bob." Never let anyone convince you that environmentalists, vegetarians,
and do-gooder peaceniks are humane. I have seen one too many cases of
the great animal saviors inflicting more pain on creatures than if they
were just left to starve and die. For example, the Hoofed Animal Human
Society has been know to take animals away from their owners, without
having adequate funds to care for the animal themselves, often leaving
the animal in worse conditions than its original homes. This farm proves
to be no exception.
I
walk past the lone tom turkey, now fenced into a small apple orchard.
He had killed his two mates. The deaths are unfortunate, not savage.
Apparently though, natural cruelty is unexpected enough that several
interns want to see him stuffed with breadcrumbs. Last night Sarah pointed
to the enclosure from the porch of the office and said, "If you
wander around without us, make sure you don't go in there."
"Why?"
Laura asked, as the rest of us looked to take note of where she was
pointing.
"Because
there is a really nasty turkey in there. He's alone in there because
he killed the two females that were with him. I think he should be Thanksgiving
dinner." Sarah's voice dripped with hatred for the foul fowl. The
sweaty sheen across her rounded cheek blazed in the setting sun, highlighting
her determination.
Hime
straightened up in his chair, looking excited. "I thought you were
vegan? What makes it right to kill him and not any other animals?"
She
growled, "Because he is mean and deserves it."
"That's
no reason"
"Yes,
it is."
The
two glared at each other. This was a practiced battle. The validity
of the argument ceased to matter a while ago. They are just battling
wills, seeing who is more stubborn. Hime turned back to us and said,
"Still, you should probably stay out of there. As though I could
meet my end at this turkey's fiendish clutches, I imagine the newspaper
headlines saying, "Woman Pecked to Death in the Prime of Her Life
by a 30-Pound Psycho-birdie."
Last
night's talk of cruelty seems meek in comparison with what I find in
the main animal barn. Three sheep seem lame; perhaps some form of hoof
rot, though the ground is dry. More likely a problem stems from curled
up, unclipped hooves. There are two baby ducks and a chick in cages.
One duck has a smashed leg and flails into his water dish. He finds
a little more comfort while sitting there. It must spend a lot of its
time in the water dish, judging by the accumulation of shit in the water.
I can't imagine what they actually drink. The second duck's right wing
is stretched out and can't be tucked in. The chick seems slightly more
normal though obviously suffering from its own disfigurements. It was
picked on and had massive sore bald spots. It would have been killed
if left in the pen with its siblings. Also, the great room holds one
cage with a cat. I don't bother to get close to it. It's a thin calico,
and I can only guess why it would be isolated from the other 15 cats
that are milling around my feet.
Hime
finally joins me. He strolls into the barn and stops wide-eyed with
surprise over the fact that someone has beat him to the barn this early
in the morning. It must not happen frequently, but he recovers with
a smile, happy that someone is up. It saves him the embarrassment of
heading into a den of sleeping females. He is wearing a stained and
grungy light blue shirt that is just as shredded and holey as the one
from yesterday. Maybe it is the same one from yesterday. At any rate,
his hair is a mass of tight curls fresh from washing. "Good morning,
are your friends up yet?"
"They
weren't when I left."
"So
your night was alright then?" Hime's accent is rather thick and
it typically takes me an extra second to pick out what he says.
"Good
enough. I just couldn't sleep any longer. I think we would have been
better off to take your offer. I'll bet its cooler in the basement."
"It
is a little cooler, and my shower is cleaner." Hime smiles at my
grimace but tactfully decides against rubbing it in any more. "I
am going to let the animals out into the field. We have to herd them.
If anyone is up and wants to come, I would be glad for the company.
Why don't you ask them?"
"Okay,
I'll be right back. Don't start without me."
When
I got back to the office, both Mondara and Laura were up, and, as luck
would have it, Alon and Sarah came in a minute after I arrived.
Math
is a skill that shouldn't be left at home on business trips. Even simple
things benefit from small calculations. As I informed everyone that
Hime was waiting for us, I made a small mental tabulation that proved
useful. I couldn't help but notice a ratio that seemed a little off
balance. Four women, two bras. Laura's straps could be seen under her
tank, and I can speak for myself. Mondara and Sarah both have a hemp
and hippy style going. Sarah's long halter-top is backless and is part
of a semitransparent, billowing, dress-like thing that shows she chose
no underwear at all, leaving little to the imagination. Mondara is given
away by the characteristic droop and jiggle. You can pick out the hardcore
environmentalist women because they choose to compliment their intensive
college education and liberated nature by looking homeless, not shaving,
and having a distinctly concentrated body odor that can be picked up
from several feet away. With the scores in 2:3 to 0:1, French Creek
Project has won the "sophisticated fashion" part of the game.
Alon
amused us with his grumbling about spider webs on the portion of the
wooded trail that ran from the sugar shack to the office. Apparently,
he had run into one every few feet. He was still picking at invisible
strands as we walked back to the barn. Once at the barn, Hime picked
himself up from the mound of hay he had used as a chair and told us
what we needed to do.
"Feed
the animals, first. Goats and sheep each get four scoops to a trough.
Chickens and ducks get a handful and fresh water. The lama gets two
scoops."
We
got to pick from one of three brand-less bins of white flaky foodstuff.
Then we would let the hoofed animals out into the field to graze before
it got too hot. While feeding I asked about the chicken and ducks. Hime
started off by saying, "They are going to be slaughtered soon.
They can't make it on their own."
Sarah
materializes at my side in an unseemly billow. "No you don't. We
are gonna take care of them. You're horrible." Alon, Riley and
I exchanged looks, having realized we just ignited something that sounds
like a long-standing feud at the farm.
"You
can't leave them like that," Hime retorted. "If they were
in nature they would be dead already."
"We
are taking care of them."
"You
can't fix them. They aren't right. They are suffering."
"No
they aren't." She thrusts her finger at the cages. "They are
doing fine, see?" The duck with the smashed leg was lying on it
side looking peaceful, not having managed to flop and contort its body
close enough to the food trough to get breakfast.
I
tuned out the conversation as I cleaned out the water dishes and buckets
and fed the animals. I didn't need to hear it, and I didn't need to
speak my mind. In this case, the French Creek Project interns won the
round simply by keeping out of a messy argument that was to be decided
by the owner of the farm anyway. It seemed that the creatures were slated
for slaughter. However the conversation did cause me concern. I could
tell from Mondara's facial expressions that she sympathized with Sarah.
She was 100% pool eyes and quivering lip when Sarah talked, and she
flared with anger each time Hime tried to make a point. She might very
well betray us and switch sides.
Once
the animals had eaten, a three-minute wait at best, we started herding
them out to the pasture. We opened all the doors to the goat, sheep,
and lama pens. We each took a herding cane, the fancy name for a bunch
of medium length branches about the thickness of walking sticks. Hime
took the lambs. He shouted in Hebrew at them, and informed us that they
follow rather than need chasing. The goats had to be chased, but with
Laura, Mondara, and I, the task was quickly completed. While Mondara
followed the goats out into the pasture, Laura and I were left with
one lama that made it clear that she refused to go outside. It was already
too hot for her to want to go out into the field. She ambled about the
pasture in the shade of the barn. Her ears were folded back, and, if
we approached her hindquarters with our sticks ready, she would raise
her back leg. She could easily hurt us before our stick could even prod
at her. Laura got her moving by approaching her side and starting to
turn her. But she darted off, turning back in the direction we had just
come. Now she was on the move at a full gallop back towards the barn.
She could easily out maneuver us.
"Flank
her!" Laura yelled. So, we tried that. We each relocated ourselves
at 8 and 4 o'clock positions. We tried to drive her forward, but other
volunteers must have tried this one on her because she just ran ahead,
then turned, and ran back on us. She didn't make it all the way back
to the barn this time. We had her against the fence in the intermediary
pasture.
"Okay
Laura," I yelled, "go ahead of me and be ready to push her
on, against the fence." She moved ahead and waited as I charged
the lama to drive her forward. On the first two attempts the lama pretended
not to see, except that her twitching ear gave away her attention. Finally,
on the third try, I ran at her, tripped on a concealed stone, and slid
on my knees. This was the first time she had ever seen such a move,
so she startled. She was off, and I was up in seconds. Laura contained
her laughter long enough to drive the lama through the gate. Once she
was through, I heard Hime say, "Now that's the most dedication
I have seen." Laura countered, "Way to take one for the team."
Everyone had been watching, and Laura had successfully negotiated her
way on to their side rather than seeming to be part of the spectacle.
"Team Deserts Teammate in Time of Need." This is a definitive
loss for the French Creek Project. This has to be akin to committing
a cardinal sin. I really should demand that they resign for shaming
such a valuable teammate.
We
played with the baby goats and kept an eye on the sheep for roughly
forty-five minutes before opening the gate and letting them back into
the barn. This was what they had been waiting for, and all of them trotted
back without incident.
We
got back to the office just in time to make breakfast. We were given
the choice of humus and other organic pastes heavily laced with garlic,
eggs from the chickens on the farm, strawberries and raspberries from
the surrounding property, Petta bread, coffee, organic earl gray tea,
and jam. Our missing bosses finally re-appeared. The previous night
Brian had taken off for a hotel, unannounced. He had also partaken of
the hotel's continental breakfast. He not only looked clean and well
rested, but he looked air-conditioned, refreshed, and 'clean showered,'
with plenty of hygienically laundered towels. The head honcho, farmer
Bob, emerged from his house not looking nearly as invigorated, but he
seemed happy enough.
Brian
took pity on his troops and made omelets. As we waited for breakfast,
other volunteers started showing up. A middle-aged woman brought her
8-year-old girl out to play with the goat kids. A few more entered and
passed through. By the end of breakfast, most of the hired office workers
had shown up and taken their posts at the cubicles that we had been
sleeping beside the previous night. At the very end of dinner, we still
had a little time before we took the official tour of the farm to see
how it operated.
Remember
that when things get boring and the foreign food threatens to revisit
you, it is best to get your mind occupied on other things. Often it
is helpful to offer to help out on a task that involves getting partnered
with an interesting or odd person. Seem hospitable and open to your
host's ideas and carefully observe the newest bizarre person on the
farm. Halfway through breakfast the type of volunteer I had been waiting
for came in through the doorway. She was doing the weeding today, and
I volunteered to help, yet another useful trick of the game.
She
was a completely different species of environmentalist from the ones
I had seen so far. She was a dangerous mix of hardcore nicotine addict
and top-shelf nature girl. She apparently had biked a good number of
miles to volunteer at the farm. Her clothes were expensive, a neatly
fit mix of name-brand athletic gear. She was already slicked down with
sweat. She must ooze Perrier water from her perfect pores to be able
to afford to sweat so frivolously in the morning. Pulling the handkerchief
off her head, she attempts to use it as a towel, first mopping her face,
then her arms. Rearranging the bandana and taking a final gulp from
her water bottle, she was ready for work.
I
follow her out to the garden. The others where still finishing breakfast
and packing. We started with a large boxed patch of strawberries. Picking
anything that didn't have the cluster of three distinct serrated edged
leaves. It didn't take long to finish the box - fifteen minutes of silent
plucking. With the box completed she leans back on her haunches and
leans her back onto the chicken coop. I settle myself, cross-legged,
in the grass, admiring the work. She fingers her generic plastic lighter
and says distractedly, "I don't like leaving lighters in my pocket.
I fiddle with it, and one of these days I'm scared I'll set fire to
my pants."
"I
think the flame would smother," I mumbled, trying to avert my eyes
from her fingertips, which I expected to char and blacken at any moment.
Her fingers were too close to the flame as she flicked it on and off,
striking it repeatedly in a manner that was violating and defiling the
disposable mechanism, such as it was. Could she have any nerves left
in her fingers at all?
I
was saved by Laura shouting from the house, "Zahava, are you ready
for the tour?"
"I'll
be right there." I turn back towards my weeding buddy. "Excuse
me, I guess I had better get going. It was nice meeting you."
"Yeah,
thanks for the help. I have a good time on the tour. Will you be taking
the truck? If you are, it could get exciting."
"Uh,
I don't know, but thanks. If I don't see you again, it was nice meeting
you." I dust my legs off and start back towards the office. Game
over, the added teammate tips the scale. If this girl is a welcomed
part of the farm family, then it is safe to say that the French Creek
project is the winner.