The Golden Rule of Zoos

My-travel-partner-who-musn't-be-named-unless-someone-is-going-to-pay-me had two days left in Thailand; we had to make it count. We had to top go-karts, eating some of the greatest food that’s ever been processed by taste buds, varying levels of interaction with prostitutes, ping pong shows, lady boy bars, long distance motor biking, near incarceration, and epic beach trips. There was only one possible grand finale for this manly adventure through Thailand: a drive-through zoo.

We stayed at Oat’s sweet high rise apartment once again, and woke up at 8 to cheer him on in his ‘sports arbitrage’ (read ‘betting on basketball spreads’) and to have some McDonald’s delivery, as per usual. Seemingly out of the blue, Oat and Pap announced that we would be going to a zoo—a drive-through zoo at that. Having never steered us wrong up to this point, we immediately and emphatically agreed.

We hopped in Oat’s immaculate (and now totaled, I just recently found out) car to take on Bangkok traffic once again. At this point we were seasoned traffic veterans, ready for the miles of slower-than-walking driving; we packed ample snacks, water, and highly caffeinated syrups—Redbull© was actually originally Thai, and still comes in the original form in Thailand: a small medicine bottle of a thick, non-carbonated sweet syrup that has, like, 5 cups of coffee’s worth of caffeine. For me, Thai Redbull was soooo 2008, so I had branched out to some of the other, even more powerful and vitamin supplemented, syrupy, liquid, amphetaminal beverages (they cost around 30 cents, why not!?).

As we approached the heart of Bangkok, Oat told us we were to pick up food for the animals; I was flabbergasted—I was sure that not even a place as 'laid-back on regulations' as Thailand would allow you to feed large and dangerous, albeit likely sedated, animals. Oat assured us that this was perfectly fine and we went into the market and went on a shopping spree: fish (for the large birds), bananas (for the primates and oddly enough rhinos), and lots of greens (for the antelopes and deer and what have you). After deliberation, we decided it would be best to also get some chicken… for the lions, tigers, and bears (not a joke nor an intentional Wizard of Oz reference).

We arrived, and, in order not to miss the shows, went to the amusement park portion of this giant tourist site before the drive-through zoo. Inside there were numerous animals that I had never seen in person, and some I hadn’t seen even on TV. While American zoos like to keep a distance between the zoo-goers and the animals (presumably for both parties’ health and safety), in Thailand that seems to not be so much of a priority; most animals could be petted by an intrepid tourist because of the considerable distance between bars and the less-than-considerable distance between clothed and non-clothed animals. The tiger cage had a small tunnel under it that would allow you to come up into the middle of the tiger family’s lair; on the way down the stairs, people of my height could actually put their face about 3 inches away from a really pissed off tiger’s face—their teeth are mad big and mad sharp, yo.

We saw a dolphin show and a spy adventure show, the former was a pretty standard Seaworld© type show. The latter on the other hand, was a wild, no holds barred series of explosions, hypersexualized encounters, water splashes, and bouts of bad acting loosely centered around a plot of an Asian James Bond saving the world from an evil former military general who nearly gains control of all the nuclear weapons in the world-- I get the feeling it was unlicensed and violated at least a few of Ian Flemming's right's ownerships.

Then came the time, the finale, the drive-through feeding zoo. My travelling-partner-not-to-be-named-unless-I-get-a-book-deal and I, in the backseat, readied the foodstuffs. As we drove on the gravel road cut out of tropical, jungly, flora, we started realizing that this zoo also followed the golden rule of zoos: DON’T FEED THE FUCKING ANIMALS was presented in slightly less words over and over and in every language and script imaginable. We de-readied the foodstuffs by shoving them through the middle seat trunk access point and hiding what we could under the front seats; the security checkpoint was arriving. Luckily for the golden rule breakers, smugglers, and terrorists of the world, the security was utterly equatorial; a slight glance and as little body movement as possible to wave us through was employed (can you blame them… it’s hot, and they have on full uniforms, and they probably make like 8 dollars a month).

Our food worked perfectly, we lured exotic animals of all sorts within arm’s reach. The banana-eating rhinos (!)(?) were larger than Oat’s Toyota, the fuzzy bear who was either sipping codeine syrup or being injected with daily sedatives hoisted himself up on his hindlegs and rested on the car, the herds of herbivorous quadrapedals (antelopes and shit) stuck their heads into all the windows, lured in by leafy Asian vegetables. The lions and tigers were—likely for the best—heavily sedated, and lax security was watching from a distance. We gave the chicken breasts to the security guards as we left—security guards were often the recipients of our leftovers; they seemed to appreciate them.

Some things are universal in the human condition; the philosophers that tell you ‘truth’ doesn’t exist are a bunch of godforsaken liars—and probably homosexuals, too. Cultural and moral relativism are bullshit—as proven by every zoo in the world instating, and every mischievous young person in the world breaking, a truthful, universal rule of animal-viewing establishments, THE golden rule:

Don’t Feed The Animals.

A Bombay Day

I arrived in Mumbai at noon or so, and I’m not gonna lie, I was a little worried. Apparently, through a miscommunication on my part (read on the part of the unorganized Indian immigration people), I was at risk of facing big fines and deportation for violating the rules of my Visa. I inched along in the hot, crowded, semi-fan cooled immigration line; each step closer to the start or abrupt end of my Asian adventures.

I finally got up to the desk, and he stamped my passport and I moved on. Done.

I got out to the taxi stand and got a prepaid ticket to my hotel, which cost about 4 dollars. All the cabs were vintage 60s big body cars, and everyone had slacks and mustaches, which combined to give the effect that I had been transported back in time (I have had the feeling since, numerous times, that India has really gone all out to keep the 70s going). As the cab driver screeched out of the parking spot and immediately started honking his horn at anything moving in his line of sight, I knew I was in for a treat. We got out into Mumbai traffic, which was dominated by 100s of little auto rickshaws; 3-wheeled vehicles with a covered and sometimes enclosed back with a bench seat. Both the rickshaws and the cabs are done up in classic black and yellow cab designs. The driving style on a typical Mumbai street is inching forward as much as possible, disregarding lanes or intersections, and laying down on your horn, as a greeting, as a warning, as an inspiration for the person in front to inch ahead more.

My first non-airport Indian experience was quite sensuous, there were the clouds of dust (and smog), the loud and busy construction projects, the abrupt acceleration and braking of the cab, the drone of car horns, the smell of… I’m not sure, and the woman in their brightly colored saris all around. I took in a deep breath to emphasize my feeling of aliveness, and then thought to myself that whilst sitting in Mumbai traffic is probably not the best time for deep breathes.

We couldn’t find the hotel at first, so I got extra time to take in the bustling streets of Andheri, the suburb I was staying in. My accommodations here were probably one of the cheapest options in all of Mumbai, which is actually a really expensive city. I stayed in a dorm that was for Indian business men travelling on a budget; there were 18 beds but there were never more than 6 people staying there, the bed cost me 4 bucks a night, and the ‘hot water’ was actually hot (I have gotten used to cheap hotels in the developing world shamelessly lying about amenities, so when said amenities actually exist its quite a happy occaision). The mean streets of Mumbai were pretty overwhelming, so I slowly weaned myself into them, spending time in the dorm bed doing work, and then slowly expanding my bubble by walking up and down the surrounding streets.

On the second day I headed into downtown Mumbai, at the midday rush hour, on the most crowded train system in the world. It was absolutely hectic. There were literally 3 times more people on these train cars than the most crowded subway car in New York that I have been on. No personal space, whatsoever. I literally had an Indian man’s head in my armpit while I was holding an overhead handle, and he was applying slightly more pressure than I found comfortable. Getting on and off these trains is quite fun, you get to yell and push and all that good stuff; the most fun is trying to get off the train as a large crowd is also trying to get onboard. They even have ladies only train cars so that presumably wandering hands aren’t constantly violating women, which would be way too easy to get away with. The fare on the 35 minute train ride was 8 cents.  

I walked aimlessly around downtown Mumbai for about 8 hours, stopping and grabbing snacks and chai along the way; the snacks ranged from 5 to 15 rupees, or 10 to 30 cents, and the Chai is good enough that I had to remember to monitor my intake as to not get heart palpitations from all the caffeine (I mean, when they are everywhere, delicious, and cost like 4 to 10 cents for a cup, why not have 12?). On my walk around I got to see some great art-deco architecture, as well as some really grand colonial structures. I walked through one neighborhood that seemed quite out of place; blocks away from grand buildings and affluent society were long winding roads jam packed with women selling produce, men loitering and adorning mustaches, children running around, and lots and lots and lots of livestock doing their thing. At one point I was watching a guy sharpen knives with a bicycle that he had rigged up into a sharpening device and I felt someone bump into me; I turned to acknowledge this person and it was a goat. A walk down this street was not unlike a petting zoo in terms of density of cows and goats and chickens… there were even a few pigs!

As the sun went down, temporary clothing stores started popping up everywhere; I bought a few proper button-up shirts because it seemed everybody in Mumbai was wearing one and because they cost like 3 bucks a piece (they were nice enough that I didn't even attempt to haggle, but I probably could have got them for 2); I would be such a rampant consumer if stuff was so cheap in the States.

I got a train back up to Andheri around 9 or 10 and there was much more personal space to be had this time around. Then, after being taught about the meter system on rickshaws by a guy I met at a restaurant, I was confident that I wouldn't get ripped off on a ride from the train station back to the hotel (the actual price is NOT what the meter says, 100 on the meter is equal to 11 rupees or 22 cents, and then it slowly goes up from there, a 45 minute ride is less than 2 dollars if you know what you are doing). I got back completely exhausted from the onslaught of Mumbai and slept for 11 hours straight. I woke up the next morning (read afternoon) recharged and ready to explore the hip, beachside suburbs of North Mumbai.