The Zoo

It must have been the perfect time to visit the island. The storm season had finished, yet summer and all the associated tourist hoards were still a few weeks away. For the locals, it was pleasant enough for some, but not all, to go to the beach; for me, it was as beautiful as that one summer weekend in England when you forget how rainy the country usually is.

I had been recommended the beach by my taxi driver. Located on the far side of the island to the port and the international quarter, it was small, no more than 200 yards long. At one end, a row of colourful decaying fishing boats sat, hauled above the high-water mark and soaking in the rays on that typically soft bronzed sand. At the other, a small gathering of umbrella shades made from dead palm leaves stood guard over tired parents idly watching their children race to and from the advancing waves. I sat in the centre; a lone white spectre lost in the throng of vibrant dark bodies.

I had chosen to be alone for the day. One becomes very close in a wardroom, inevitably so, but, after several weeks of having to bear every storm of emotion brought forth by my fellow officers, I found myself seeking a harbour of quiet solitude. Of course, I had not been able to secure the whole day to myself; the XO had kindly booked a table for the whole wardroom at one of the hotels in the international quarter. Such events tend to be the catalyst for storied runs ashore — the night rarely starts when it is supposed to, and never ending where it is intended to — that will be spun over and over in the following stint at sea. Having shared every meal for weeks on end, however, the attraction lies more in the free flowing drink than in the conversation.

The day rolled timelessly on, as they do in such places, merging the afternoon into one singular moment that would etch itself long in the memory. Immune to this trick, the locals gradually trickled away as the afternoon wore on. Eventually, the last family had left, leaving me quite alone. The sun was slipping lower in the sky, slowly finishing its daily duties, spilling its golden paint across the western sky. I closed my eyes for a moment. The warmth cooled me as the soft sand supported me in a moment of bliss that was already ending. Nothing is as transitory as peace. I took one last deep breath and opened my eyes.

Up the beach, there was a man walking in my direction. One of the local mongrels trotted behind him, half-hidden behind his heels. He was an old man and he had an old dog. Although shadowed by a tattered straw hat, his face showed marks of a defeated pox, with small holes rupturing the left side of his face. He held the stare of a man aboard a raft adrift in the ocean, resigned to the whims of forces beyond his control or understanding. They walked no more than 20 paces away from me, before the man sat down and beckoned the dog to him.

Behind him, the sea had begun dissolving the day’s sun, transporting me back onto the ship on the other side of the island. At the aft end of the quarterdeck stands the Officer of the Day, Williams (sweating in his black cotton Nos 1s because he had thrown up on his tropics after the reception), and two lads, likely Robertson and Bratton (in their navy-blue daily working rig). Behind them, the ensign flutters, basking in the dying light. I hear the still piped, a stern voice over the main broadcast declare “Attention on the upper deck, face aft and salute: sunset.”, and see the ensign lowered. Williams stumbles on his words (“Pipe the sti… Pipe the carry on.”), the “carry on” is piped, and this time the voice over the broadcast has a defiant frivolity to it (“Carrrrrrry on”).

The vision faded, replaced by the pox-faced man holding his dog close, his arm pulling with the clumsy roughness that comes from those unpracticed in gentleness. He held him until the last of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, before standing and retreading the footsteps he had left behind, his worn sandals slapping softly on the sand. As they passed me, the dog glanced at me with wary eyes. With its messy short cropped sandy fur, it was, like most of the dogs on the island, reminiscent of a runtish Labrador. Unlike most of the others, however, his tail had been docked and was little more than a stub. He gave me a cursory glance, but stayed close to his master’s heels.

I stayed a while later, enjoying the cool of the evening, before glancing at my watch with a curse. The beach was largely empty now, and I made my way up the ramp back towards the township. The taxi driver had dropped me off by a fruit stall on the main road; it seemed the best place to find another one. The buildings of the town were built so tightly that it would not be worth the effort to try to enter in a car. I weaved between the houses, until I reached an alleyway between two crumbling concrete houses.

Just over two-thirds of the way down, two silhouettes appeared at the far end. My pace slowed. This was not the way I had come. I heard footsteps behind me.

Sometime later, I do not know how long, I emerged emasculated. They teach you many things when you join, but they never tell you how to lose. You are taught to succeed at such lengths that they don’t know what to do with you if you fail. Worse still, you don’t know what to do with yourself.

Had I failed myself or had I failed them? Had they failed me? How would I explain myself? How could I cover myself? What would they think of me? What would I see when I next looked in the mirror?

I barely noticed the woman talking at me until she moved in front of me. Confused, I drew my gaze out of my mind. I had somehow stumbled my way to the fruit stall by the road. Drawn back to reality, I felt a dull throb down the outer side of my left leg. I touched it carelessly and almost collapsed.

“Are you OK?” What she looked like or how she sounded escapes me. In my mind, she was young, with golden-black skin, her hair done in a large bun, and a child strapped to her back, but the voice of an old family nanny. I doubt either are true — rather a collage of parts pieced together from the driftwood of the island.

“Yes, I… No… I need a taxi.” I looked down at my hand, glistening red in the faint glow of the evening.

“My friend, my friend, you need a ride?” I turned unaware of the presence of anyone else. “Where are you going?”

The man in front of me was rakishly thin and improbably clothed in a dress shirt, suit trousers, and black shoes that shined above the roadside dirt.

“To the international quarter, but I have no money.”

“Why, my friend, that is where I am going, come with me, come, come.” He put his arm around my shoulder and walked us to a nearby car, set back from the road.

“But I have no money.”

“My friend, do not worry, it will be all OK, alright?” He held up his hand in an “OK” gesture and smiled a row of almost perfectly white teeth at me. His single gold tooth glowed under the orange streetlight.

At this, the woman sucked air through her teeth in a curious sort of whistle. My guide shot her a look and called out something in the local tongue as he bundled me into the back. With its high floor and feeling of emptiness, the car was reminiscent of an old school minibus. Black tape covered the back windows, with one strip loose, allowing a shard of streetlight through.

As we drove off, the man started talking at me, questioning me.

“You are English, yes? When I have enough money, I will go to London. Do you like football? Ah, my friend, when I go to London, I will see Stamford Bridge, and I will see Chelsea play against Manchester United, and after that I will go to Buckingham Palace to see your Queen…”

The usual patter one hears from taxi drivers around the world, almost hypnotic in its pattern and rhythm. I found myself tuning out into space, thinking over the events from earlier, making the appropriate noises at the appropriate time, asking the appropriate questions, giving the appropriate answers.

The island passed by. Unexplored scrubland, alien hills, lone houses, the radio playing local music warped by global tastes as the loose tape whipped furiously against the outside of the car. In my heart, I dreaded the idea of the supper before me. I had no desire to see people, no desire to explain my state, no desire to be anywhere at all. Yet I could feel the inevitability of the evening rising through the floor of the car, pulling itself around me.

Then the car stopped.

“My friends will be here soon, not long.” Confused, I remembered he had mentioned picking up some friends. We had stopped outside a gated house, its international style and ostentatious displaying of superfluous details, features, and colour gloating over the rest of the island’s humble stature.

An outside light heralded the emergence of three men, one skinny, two broad. They were all dressed in a similar fashion to the driver, wearing well-tailored designer brands. As they approached, the driver started talking to the thin man, gesturing towards me. The trio stopped and peered through the windscreen at me in silence. Eventually the thin man made some remark, waved his hand, and sat in the passenger seat, as the others entered either side of me.

We drove off. The two in the front talked, occasionally joined by the man on my left. He would lean forward, toss in a comment before throwing himself backwards with a belly laugh. I stared straight ahead in silence. We saw no other cars.

“My friend,” the driver turned around, “you will come with us, yes?”

“Where are you going?”

“We are going to see the zoo.”

“I didn’t know there was a zoo.”

“It is not a zoo that most tourists see.”

“Is it near the international quarter?”

“Of course, my friend.” His golden tooth shined through the darkness.

“Can you not drop me off before?”

“My friend, very few tourists see the zoo.”

“Do I have a choice?” He turned and said something to the thin man who laughed.

“We will take you to the zoo.” With that he jerked at the wheel, crushing me between my companions. Compact dirt replaced asphalt, and every pebble, rock, and dip in the road stabbed at my bruises with a casual vindictiveness.

We wove our way further from the lights, further from civilisation, until we reached the coast. The car slowed down, before turning right. While the direction was clear, the path was less so. We lurched violently one way then the other, seemingly only ever a moment from the rocks below. I longed to fiddle with something, anything, my hands itching to release nervous tension.

Yet the further we drove, the more calm restored itself. I had no valuables on me and had already been beaten once today. There would be no glory or riches from harming me further. Besides, we had been following the coast for a while now and seen no dwellings since we left the road. If they sought to do anything, why drive so far? Perhaps there really was a zoo.

Out of the crashing of the waves a murmuring began to break through. Softly, it resonated, rising with the waves, falling as they fell. I strained my ears to pick up the source, when another jolt revealed it. The car had turned sharply, rising over the ridge that had been hiding the rest of the island.

Before us, illuminated by the half-moon, a crowd, dozens strong, gathered in packs, stood chatting excitedly. Upon our appearance a great cry went up, with hollering followed by dogs barking and howling. The driver stopped us in the centre of the throng, but, at first, only the thin man got out of the car. Holding his hands up like a circus ringmaster, he drank in the acclaim. He worked his way around the crowd, drawing them ever closer around him. Hoots of laughter served to draw more people towards him until it seemed as if we were the only ones not beside him.

I felt an ease of pressure as the two men either side of me got out. I followed suit, only to find my left leg buckle and I was forced to grab the side of the car to balance myself. Instinctively I touched the wound.

The driver put his arm around me.

“Come, my friend, I have a favour to ask of you.” He guided me away from the car headlights and into the shadows. “Open your hand.”

I opened my hand. Into it he placed a single silver nail. It was not a large nail, about an inch in length, and it sat lightly in my hand.

“You see there are men with dogs here.”

I nodded.

“Give this to one you like.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My friend, you do not have to understand.” He closed my pale white hand around the nail.

We re-joined the crowd. The excitement of the thin man’s arrival had died down somewhat, but an air of anticipation remained. Anticipation of what, I could not tell. Unable to break through the veil that surrounded me, I floated upon a sea of incomprehensible conversations. The dark faces of the men and women sparkled in the moon light, illuminated by knowledge beyond my grasp. My plans for the evening dissolved in the wash of my mind as I was swept away, lost in the air of the unknown, until a dog’s bark and an ill-placed rock sent me tumbling onto the ground.

Laughter rung out around me, shattering the illusion. A bolt of pain shot down my bloodied leg as I shuffled over to a rusted car to lean on. As I set about catching my breath, an arm reached out and helped me up. I almost fell straight back down, before the arm caught me again, setting me firmly on the bonnet of the car.

“Thank you.” He replied in a language I did not recognise.

“English?”

“No.” I turned to see the pox-faced man from the beach. While most here had dressed for the occasion, he was unchanged, still in his worn sandals and broken straw hat.

His face remained unmoving, but he offered me a hand-rolled cigarette. As he lit it, I realised we stood on the edge of the crowd. My embarrassment had already faded from their minds as the thrum of conversation returned. We smoked in silence, taking in the sounds and smells of the scene. His dog sat impassively by his side. I reached down awkwardly. Gently, I scratched behind his ear. His fur was coarse and dirty, but he reacted as all dogs do, leaning in, tilting his head back, eyes closing. I thought of my cocker spaniel at home, many miles and many weeks away. The pain drew me away from the dog, and I sat back up.

“Here.” I held out my hand. The man tilted his head, until I thrust my hand again. He opened his hand and I dropped the nail into it. For a moment, he did not react. Then he yelped and dropped it as if it were a hot tray.

“No, no, no…” His eyes watered at me before flicking to my left. I turned to see one of the men from the car staring at us, the whites of his eyes quite still. The old man bent down, picked up the nail, and walked away, his dog dutifully following behind.

Unable to follow him and unsure of what had happened, I felt a pang in my stomach and closed my eyes. At school we had played a game called Blind Man. A boy would be blindfolded and try to catch the others. Calling out, they would lure him into various obstacles, over which he would hit his shins, stub his toes, stumble onto his knees, all the while clutching impotently at thin air. This situation, this place, these people… Everything was operating on a level, in a world, that evaded my grasp. God, I hurt.

“Come, my friend, you must see the zoo.” I felt an arm across my shoulders once more. The crowd had drifted towards the sea. We followed them. Sickeningly curious to find out, yet horrified at what may come before, I walked as softly as I could, allowing the driver to set the pace. We emerged at a break in the crowd to see a large bowl-shaped indentation in the ground, about twenty yards across. Like a Greek theatre carved from nature, three of the sides were surrounded by a sharply rising ridge, with the fourth opening out to the sea.

In the centre stood the thin man. Illuminated by a single spotlight, he had acquired a long jacket that flickered in the sea breeze. He was addressing the crowd with a slowly building energy, playing them like a conductor working an orchestra. Appealing first to one side, then turning his focus to another, his voice was increasing in tempo, drawing us all in. I could not understand a word he said, yet I fed off his energy. He was speaking faster and faster, getting louder and louder, as the crowd started to cheer and stamp their feet. Then with a great theatrical flourish, he finished with his arms spread wide, jacket shaking, sweat pouring down his face. The roar that followed was deafening. Dogs cried out, women howled, and men beat their chests as they roared.

“Welcome to the zoo, my friend.”

Two men slid down into the pit from opposite sides, each holding a dog by its collar. On the side closest to me was a tall man, with a squat dark bulldog-looking creature; on the far side a shorter man clutched onto a smaller mongrel. Each dog was straining on their collar, legs reared, teeth shining with saliva. A small tight knot began to bend itself together in my stomach.

There was a flurry of activity. Men surged together, shouting out numbers, waving pesos in the air. I was almost knocked over in the rush, only staying upright by dint of clinging onto the driver. It seemed that we alone were unmoved in this flash feeding frenzy.

As the din faded, a countdown began. At first, it was simply the thin man. Yet as he progressed more and more voices joined in. Men swivelled towards the pit, stretching over one another to catch a glimpse of what was to come. Then as they reached the final chant, both men in the pit released their dogs and ran back up the sides of the bowl, pulled over the lip by a tangle of arms.

The dogs flew at each other full of fury and rage, roaring themselves into an unholy union of torn skin, sprays of blood, and ripped flesh. There was no strategy, no reason, just anger and hate. The crowd cried out in joy. Repulsed, yet transfixed, I could not bring myself to look away from the maelstrom before me. Never before had I seen such unadulterated passion for violence. It stood raw before me, a hurricane of animalistic feeling destroying everything in its path, yet sucking us all inescapably towards it. The cries from the audience poured forth into the pit, filling it, drowning the beasts in this ever-deepening storm of vitriol.

The dogs no longer looked like the dogs you and I know and love. No, they had become demonic hounds summoned by a vengeful feral spirit, their eyes wide, heckles raised, fangs baring. As I stared in horror at the spectacle, the image appeared to take on a reddish hue. I half-imagined smoke would start to swirl around them, that they would grow horns and forked tails, before turning on us all. Yet, I soon realised that it was only (only!) the blood matting their fur.

With time, the smaller dog started to tire. Its panting grew laboured, as blood poured from the back of its neck. It had sustained a clear injury on its right hind leg. Around the crowd, people stopped accepting bets. It was over.

Only it didn’t end.

We stood, waiting for the final blow to be dealt. With each passing moment the sight became more pitiful, more lamentable. The smaller dog had enough energy to prevent each killer strike, whether by twisting backwards or diving away into the red dirt. It could no longer attack, only cling desperately to life. The night was quieter now.

When the end arrived, so did the calm. Applause and cheering broke out once more. The gruesome reality of what we had witnessed faded into the crowning of the winner. The tall man tumbled into the pit, drinking in the acclaim, before leading his champion on a victory lap. Yet my attention was drawn to its defeated opponent. The shorter man had grabbed his dog by the scruff of its neck. He dragged it away from the spotlight to the cliff edge. He paused. Then with a heave, he hurled the lifeless corpse into the roaring tumult below.

With the stage cleared, a succession of further acts soon followed. They followed the same gruesome script, with the dirt beneath growing ever redder and the cheers becoming ever drunker. With horror I realised that each successive scene disgusted me less and less. The shock of the first fight had faded and with repetition came normalisation. The driver would make comments in my ear, like a boxing commentator (“He looks strong, my friend, but the smaller one is clever, very clever, and he will win.”), and I started to see it less as an indiscriminate mess of animalism, but as an intricately bloody battle of wits.

The latest victor was clambering up the side when the driver slipped me a small bundle of notes.

“Go to that man,” he pointed at a man in a loud Hawaiian-style shirt taking bets, “give him these, and say “pequeno”.”

Jostling through the crowd, I reached the man and held out the notes.

“Pequeno.”

“Pequeno?” The man laughed and snatched the money out of my hand. He scribbled a slip and handed it back to me.

“4/1, 50,000, PEQUENO”

It was only when I handed the slip to the driver, that I saw the pox-faced man. He had slipped into the ring without fan fair, and he too held his dog on a leash. It adopted the same pose as the other dogs had, front paws off the floor, teeth exposed, snarling, but did not appear to pull and strain as the others had. In contrast, his opponent, a darker, snappy creature, the smallest we had seen thus far, appeared to be on the verge of taking flight. It bounced on its hind legs as if it was being offered a bone rather than a fight to the death.

The man stood on the cusp of the spotlight so, as much as I squinted my eyes, I could not see his face. The countdown hit me unawares; before I knew it a cheer went up. The smaller dog was released and hurled itself forward. Yet the pox-faced man seemed as unaware of the countdown as I was, only releasing the leash as the smaller dog came within a foot of his dog.

The timing, intended or otherwise, proved to be perfect. Dropped from the tension of the leash, the sandy-coloured dog fell onto his opponent, sending it sprawling across the arena. Through the crowd, I picked up a faint whimper, which I took to be from the smaller dog as it pulled itself back onto its feet. Yet it was the smaller dog who continued to attack, nimble and ferocious, while the larger dog seemed afraid to attack, never going onto its front legs.

Once, the larger dog appeared to tire of this constant assault and launched forward at the opponent, only to stutter, raising its front left paw as if it had just been stepped on. Sensing the opportunity, the smaller dog flew in, knocking its opponent to the ground. I turned away, unable to watch. As I did, I saw the man in the Hawaiian shirt reluctantly handing over a large envelope to the driver. The realisation hit me as the crowd cheered. All the pieces fell into place.

“You bastard…” I started to hobble through the crowds towards where the driver was stood. Anger coursed through every fibre of my being, overriding every other emotion, every other feeling. It drove me forward, through the crowds, and into the face of the driver. He looked at me in amusement, even as I swung for him.

He dodged and for a split second I recognised the man who had sat on my left in the car. It was like being hit by a bus. I flew, sprawling backwards, over the lip, and collapsing into the dirt. Looking over, I saw the pox-faced man still cradling his dog, only now the shadows hid his scars.

Gritting my teeth, I crawled through the blood-soaked dirt towards him. He did not notice my approach, only looking up in surprise when I had reached them. I extended my arm and gently brushed the pad of the dog’s front left paw. Freed for a moment from the pool of red, the silver shone brightly in the glare of the spotlight. Pain overwhelmed me and the light went out.

A hand shook my shoulder. It was not a gentle shake, but nor was it a shake that intended me harm. I pushed myself onto my hands and knees, while my eyes adapted to the light. The pox-faced man was bent over me. Everyone else had gone. The pit was empty. He placed his arm under mine and pulled me to the side of the arena.

We struggled in silence, inching up the sides, falling back as often as we progressed, having to take breaks when I cried out too much. Yet he did not leave me. After what seemed to be an eternity, he pulled me out with one final gargantuan effort and we flopped into the dirt once more, panting and gasping for air.

His car was the only one left. It was a yellow taxi, caked in rust and dirt. We sat in the front for a moment, catching our breath, as he rolled two cigarettes. He finished his. Mine went out before it was halfway through. Too tired to move, I left it, sat limply, stuck to my lips.

We drove in silence, the lights of the island slowly returning, before crescendoing as we entered the international quarter, filled with hotels, embassies, and luxury stores.

Upon reaching the hotel, I touched his shoulder. He understood and stopped the car. I turned to him to say something, but there was nothing to be said. I had nothing to give him, no words of comfort, no consolation. His expression was unchanged. In two days, I would set sail, never to return. He would never leave.

I got out of the car, turned away, and closed my eyes. I heard the engine spluttering into life followed by the slow crunching of the tires. My body ached. I stood there until the sounds had faded away, disappearing into the undergrowth of the urban soundscape. Nothing is as transitory as peace. I opened my eyes.

“There you are.” The XO was smartly dressed in mahogany leather boat shoes, light beige chinos, silver diving watch, and a half-smoked cigarette drawled across his fingers. He was swaying slightly. “Thought you were too good for us, eh?”

I collapsed into his arms, smearing blood onto the chest of his freshly ironed blue and white striped shirt.