In French, there is a much more neutral way to discuss les déchets des animaux, without resorting to expletives or, as I did for this blog post title, a rather childish way to refer to excrement. See? No good words in English. It's either a four-letter word, overly medical or just disgust-inducing.
Thank God there is a better option in French, because when we did our compost lesson, I didn't have to worry about a) offending my students' sensibilities or b) sending them into a fit of giggles by choosing between the options English would have offered to describe this particular compost component. Déchets translates to "wastes," but its connotations in French (at least in Togolese French) are a pretty straightforward way to describe animal droppings.
So we discussed the various components that comprise compost - weeds, ash, soil, leaves, dried corn stalks, kitchen scraps and animal droppings. I made sure to explain that cat, dog, and human droppings were not acceptable, nor were the droppings of any animals that eat meat. But the goats wandering around the village? I know they leave plenty of droppings all over the place, perfect for compost use.
The day before we planned to build our compost pile, I hear a knock on my door. I had just gotten back from purchasing the fence materials and garden tools in Atakpame, and I was exhausted. I must admit, my first reaction to the knock was annoyance. "Why can't I be left alone, just this once? If it's those kids again asking for a soccer ball, I might be less polite than I usually am..."
I open the door to one of the little boys who lives nearby. He must be seven or so, but I don't think he goes to school. I never see him in the school uniform khakis, and he's always running around the village with a crew of other boys. They play soccer on a patch of sand behind my house, using a ball of wadded-up plastic bags. They kick it over the house into my compound at least twice a week, so they are frequent visitors as they come to retrieve it.
I asked him if he had kicked the ball over, already looking around behind me to see where it might have fallen. But he shakes his head no, instead offering the black plastic bag he was holding. "Ils ont dit que vous cherchez-" and as he's saying this, various thoughts are running through my head. They said I was looking for what? What is the whole village talking about? Why do they think I'm looking for anything? What on earth is this kid holding out to be, tied tightly in a black plastic bag?
"Ils ont dit que vous cherchez le kaka de lapin," he finishes shyly. I've never heard him speak more than two words of French, so his fully-formed sentence took me by surprise. But I was more surprised by what he was giving me - a bag of rabbit poop.
My brain was working furiously for a couple seconds, processing why the whole village said I was looking for rabbit poop. Then it hits me. "Pour le compost!" I had asked the environmental club students to bring in compost materials for next class. He nodded, adding that his brother told him I was looking for rabbit poop. I asked if his brother was in the environmental club. He shook his head no, and turned to leave.
And so it went, the highlight of my time in Togo so far. A gift of rabbit poop. It wasn't that I was particularly ecstatic about the nature of the gift. But it meant that a) my environmental club students understood and remembered the ingredients for compost; b) noted my particular ravings about how rabbit poop is the best because it's high in nitrogen; c) told their friends about it, so that this boy's brother heard I was looking for rabbit poop, and passed it on to my little gift-giver. That's one of our environmental club rules - to share what we learn with our friends and family.
I mean, of course this little boy's brother could have just heard the funny fact that Abla was looking for rabbit poop, a fact that would be memorable enough without the background details of the compost. But I rather like having it symbolize the burgeoning success of the environmental club...