Free Babylon's Ark by Lawrence Anthony

unremitting our workload would be. It was enough to exhaust an ox, sheer backbreaking, muscle-tearing drudgery. We had no proper buckets, so we lugged the precious liquid up with whatever we could find, mainly just rusty cans. It took ages to slake the thirst of a single animal, leaving no time for long-term projects.
    If we didn’t sort the pumps out soon, more animals were going to die as my ill-fed men dropped from exhaustion. It was as simple, or difficult, as that.
    I took Husham aside. He was an impressive handyman, as his jury-rigged viaduct system currently keeping the animals alive attested, and I asked if it was possible to fix the pumps. If so, what did he need?
    â€œBatteries,” he said, looking at me as if I were some crazed alchemist. “And a dynamo for the generator.”
    Batteries? A dynamo? May as well place an order for Beluga caviar. Just the thought of trying to procure something as obscure as a dynamo—a direct-current generator—in a city plunged into anarchy was laughable.
    We broke for a canned lunch and I wandered off alone, seeking some respite from the sun’s furnace under a giant eucalyptus. I leaned against the trunk and looked up at the sky. Two Black Hawk helicopters walloped past nose to tail overhead, and in the distance I could hear guttural machine-gun staccato.
    Hey … this was like Apocalypse Now , dammit—and in my head I heard the first bars of “The End,” the haunting Doors anthem that kicks off the movie, keeping beat with the thudding chopper blades.

    An image of the elephant herd back at Thula Thula, which I loved like a second family, flashed so vividly in my mind that for a moment I thought they were standing next to me.
    What the hell was I doing here? This was all wrong; this war was supposed to be over. I had known I wanted to make a stand to help the animals of Baghdad, but from the safety of Thula Thula I hadn’t realized the full extent of the everyday military hostility in this city. Just a few days ago in Kuwait I had seen cheering crowds on TV welcoming American troops and toppling Saddam’s statues.
    But this image wasn’t reflected here on the ground. In fact, the only area under American control was a few blocks around Saddam’s palaces, the park, Al-Rashid, and the conference center—and even that was as dodgy as a sack of rattlesnakes. The rest of the city was a wretched hellhole. Firefights were ongoing, we could hear them all the time, and people were dying violently all over the place.
    I also had begun to realize just how dangerous our trip from Kuwait along those desolate back roads had been. It was an absolute miracle we had made it to Baghdad in one piece.
    I sat under the tree for several more minutes, daydreaming of home. Then with immense physical effort, literally shaking myself like a wet dog, I yanked my wild-flying thoughts together. There was work to be done. There was no point in feeling sorry for myself.
    The younger tiger’s cage was just ten yards away and I noticed the majestically striped feline staring quizzically at me. This tiger, Malooh, was the most stressed of all the zoo’s afflicted inhabitants, hissing and snarling if anyone got too close.
    â€œDon’t worry, fella,” I said aloud. “You and me are going to get through all this just fine.”
    Just saying that made me feel better. I hoped the tiger did as well.
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    BACK AT THE HOTEL that night, I had supper with the Kuwaitis and then knocked on the smashed door of Alistair McLarty’s room.
    â€œCome in, boet [brother],” said the South African.
    Inside his room, lounging on the disheveled, grimy beds, were
three of Alistair ’s colleagues. They introduced themselves: Bob Parr, Peter Jouvenal, and another man who only gave his name as Nick. They were British ex—Special Service soldiers, hired to film the war as it unfolded at the front lines for the U.S. Department of