Job Blues (and wound photos!)

Have you ever wondered what viscera looks like? Neither have I, but my new job has given me a great idea.

When you think about placenta, because let’s be honest, you think of it all the time, you imagine it in the magical, mysterious world of childbirth. People mention it in the medical and veterinary field, but you don’t really hear much about it in everyday conversation. That’s the way life should be. That’s the way I would have preferred life to remain.

But I’ll tell you what happened instead.

One day, a 72 year old woman slipped and fell face first into a slimy pool of sheep afterbirth. This isn’t really that unusual – we are in New Zealand, after all, which has more sheep per capita than any other place in the world. Now that’s a way to go down in the record books. Anyway, when the woman stood up and brushed herself off, she glanced into a mirror and exclaimed:

“I look 35 again!”

Well it didn’t take long for the entire country to hear about it (small islands, everyone knows everyone’s great grandparents). Soon enough the celebrities got wind of this placental power, and using the remarkable technology that we have today, spread the news to the USA, Europe, and Asia, and a new business was born.

Using the afterbirth of every form of livestock in this country, pharmaceuticals and beauty products are made to help people look younger. While it sounds relatively interesting, I assure you that it is rather disgusting.

It’s not disgusting because of the end product, but because at one point down the line, someone, somewhere, had to process that fresh placenta, right out of the animal and straight off the farm. And that someone is me.

Don’t ask me how I got the job; ask me why I took it.

“Because I didn’t know any better.”

While the start was a bit of a horror show, the job has gotten easier, if not better. I’ve gotten to know the factory pack house setting: long hours, repetitive work, heavy lifting, and constantly on your feet, not to mention mastering the art of breathing solely through my mouth. More importantly, I’ve come to respect the people that do it - those people that work full time, rather than temporary travelers looking for an extra buck.

My first job in NZ has proved to be the worst in my short career. Hopefully I don’t beat that record any time soon.

When someone offers you money, make sure you get details before signing a contract.

Now some photos to show the fun I'm having after work is done:

Wound Before

Wound After

Thank You Cookies that Sara and I ate :)

The river in Ypuk

Hilton, the guy we're staying with

Yellow shorts!

 

The Day I Hit My Face with a Fence

A lot has happened since I last wrote, and regretfully I can’t rewind and tell you everything. So I shall share the most memorable, beginning with my first, and hopefully last, visit to the Emergency Room in New Zealand.

It all began with a fantastic opportunity to ride on my first live hunt. Now remember, we’re living in a horse world, so by hunt I am referring to hounds, horses, everyone in matching jackets and jodhpurs, and a hare (not a rabbit) that runs in front, being chased. For those of you that don’t know (here’s looking at you, non-horse people), hunts are riddled with rules and traditions.

The basic premise is that the hounds (don’t you dare call them dogs) pick up a scent and follow their quarry under the direction of the Huntsman. As they go, a crowd of roughly 50-60 riders follows at their leisure, but staying in a pack. Depending on how the hunt is going, it can be galloping across the hills and fields and jumping over fences, or it can be standing still on top of the hills, waiting for the dogs to find the scent again.

So I borrowed a horse and suited up for a beautiful day in the rolling hills of New Zealand. I had ridden this horse only once before, the day immediately prior. We had taken a few harmless jumps, and I wasn’t too concerned. We saddled up that Sunday morning and mounted, ready for the hunt to start at noon.

It began with a brief greeting from the Master, and we were off. Things went wrong rather quickly.

There were two things I didn’t realize about the horse I was riding. One: it was very herd-sour, and was aggravated as soon as her pasture mate was not in sight. Two: she wasn’t very experienced.

So when we approached the fence to jump and her buddy wasn’t in front of us, she needed a lot of convincing to keep going. We were about three strides from the jump at this point and she seemed to agree that we could go over. I put my balance forward in anticipation, when suddenly she slammed on the brakes and said “NEVERMIND!”

Well I was already committed, so onto the fence I went!

I pretty much hit it with my entire left side. There’s a bruise that runs in a perfect line from the left side of my back, diagonally up across my torso. My left arm is also riddled with marks. But of course, the only thing I noticed was that there was blood pouring onto my shirt from my face.

With no mirror, I asked how it looked. I received shrugs and remarks that made it sound like it wasn’t that bad. So I got a tissue from a friend and held it to my chin, put my foot in the stirrup and went on a hunt!

I rode for about 5 hours past that. The hunt was amazing – it was beautiful, green rolling hills with a mountain range in the background. The scenery was littered with people on horseback and the sounds of hounds baying. Hunts are incredibly social. You often lose the people you came with, and instead you approach anybody that’s nearby and chat. People were incredibly kind and welcoming, and many of them concerned about the blood that I couldn’t see on my face.

I happened to be riding with the Deputy Master when a kill was made. He told me not to be alarmed, but I was going to receive something. I mentioned the traditions, and when the hare was killed the Master approached the hounds, took the hare and cut off its feet. Then he threw the hare into the air, everyone around me made yowling noises, and the hare was given to the hounds as their prize.

Then I was ushered forward as the Deputy Master shouted to the Master:

“We have an American visiting us!”

At this point I feared that perhaps they would turn the hounds on me and I should start running, but instead the Master approached me and gave me one of the hare’s feet. I tucked my trophy into my jacket pocket with a smile on my face.

We passed around our hip flasks, galloped and laughed. When we returned to the trailers everyone settled their horses in and then gathered for a potluck.

At this point I began to get concerned about my face. It was the first time I could see the wound (in a car mirror) and it didn’t look particularly pretty on the lower left side of my chin. There was quite a bit of dried blood on it, however, so I shrugged it off and grabbed a beer.

After an hour I realized I needed to clean it up. Open wound + dust +horses = needing tending to. I called Sara, and she and Hilton, the guy we’re staying with, came and picked me up.

All it took was a hot cloth to the wound:

“I think you need stitches. Second opinion? Hilton!” – Sara

Hilton walks in, takes one look at my chin, “Yup, stitches, we’re going to Hastings.”

Because I am incapable of getting hurt in convenient places at convenient times, we had to drive 45 minutes to the nearest emergency room on a Sunday night. Hilton was good to take me, and Sara was good to come along. Because who likes quiet Sunday nights?

 It was about an hour and a half before I was seen. The doctor pumped me full of local anesthetic and started cleaning. It was a good thing I went in. It was a 2 cm puncture wound, full of green paint. He scrubbed it clean and put three stitches on my left side under my jaw.

And you know what the best part was? It was 100% free.

It’s called ACC – Accident Compensation Corporation, and it’s the insurance that pays for most accident related injuries. It’s paid for through a tax on petrol, diesel, and employers and employees pay a small percentage as well. While I understand it for citizens, I was pleasantly surprised that I was covered.

Three stitches, a tetanus shot, a hare’s foot, a beautiful day in the rolling hills of New Zealand, and a few pretty bruises and photos, and my weekend was complete.

Oh, and pizza. We had pizza for tea.

It’s called tea, not dinner, mind you.