Monkeys Excrete A Lot


This is going to be another blog post on monkeys. I know most of my blog posts revolve around my hatred for certain animals, but please bear with me. This particular time was so devastatingly shocking that I literally could not sleep for a few nights after. That NEVER happens to me. I’m very good with my sleeping schedule.

Anyway, we were in Sri Lanka for vacation in the summer of 2004. I was going through my, um, chubby phase (I think that’s the kindest way to put it, so I don’t hurt my feelings), and I wasn’t as physically fit as I should have been.

Can I just tell you something about our family vacations? If you happen to be part of our family vacation, you should know that my dad makes us walk a lot. Covering all the historically exciting places across the country is hard work, and that is exactly what we were doing in Sri Lanka.

Back to the story. We were descending down from a mountain after having admired a panoramic view of all of Sri Lanka. There had also been a super famous temple on the top, and as is the norm with temples in Asia, the place was crawling with monkeys. I didn’t mind them at first… they looked a little cute and forlorn, and had unnecessarily long tails, but it wasn’t like they were especially bothering me. I still maintained my distance and held onto my dad’s hand.

Halfway down, because we were on a vacation, we decided to take a picture. I decided to sit down on some steps because I was tired and fat and lazy. My brother and my mom soon followed suit and my dad snapped off a couple of pictures. Done with pictures, I stood up and brushed my pants down.

My fingers brushed against something that was definitely not dry leaves and dust.

I looked at my fingers. It looked like I had sat on a clump of mud. However, there had been no rain for days, and the mountainside was as dry as bone. Where did that clump of-

I stopped. I lifted my fingers to my nose, and took a cautious sniff.

I HAD JUST SAT DOWN ON MONKEY POOP.

I took a deep breath and started screaming. Being the melodramatic type, I also cried. You have to remember, I was also only eleven years old. A tired, cranky eleven year old who had just soiled her pants unintentionally.

And my fingers were covered with it too. My face screwed up in disgust. I managed not to throw up, but it was hard work, because I could only manage to keep my fingers at arms’ length (any further than that, and I’d suffer from a dislocated shoulder). My mom came running over, distraught to see her eldest child in a state of hysterical tears. Upon learning what had happened, she gasped loudly, and burst into unfair and cruel laughter.

My dad and my brother joined in; mirthful laughter, laced with mockery and cruelty. How could they do this to me? Weren’t they going to help me clean off? What kind of a family laughs at their daughter?

I wandered off to the side, and tried to wipe the flow of tears from my face, but obviously failed miserably because somehow, the poop had spread to my other hand as well.

My family calmed down after a while, and my mom tried to comfort me (but didn’t do quite a good job because she kept snorting every few seconds). She gave me numerous wet-wipes and I wiped the worst of it off. Sadly, nothing could be done for my lavender trousers, because I was too disgusted by what had happened to them.

The entire car journey back to the hotel was spent with me sniffling and wallowing in self-pity and misery, while my family gave each other secret glances and coughed to cover up their still uncontrollable joy and mirth at seeing me sit on a pile of monkey poop.

Do you see why I don’t like monkeys? After what they have put my through, why should I like them?

And this wasn’t the only monkey incident that happened in Sri Lanka. Something else happened when we got back to the hotel.

But that’s a blog entry for another day.

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