Roar and Snore
By Bristen Jones

    Cool mist greets us. Tropical birds bicker overhead, as if debating who has the most magnificent tail feathers. Steam rises from the leaves and soil, making the air heavy with heat. The weight of my over-packed sports bag, pillow, sleeping bag, and my favorite stuffed animal, Kitty Bear, burden me. Beyond the steamy aviary, I spy a menagerie of shops ahead. Misters sprinkle their incoming customers, momentarily relieving them from the monstrous heat.
    As I plod along the path, a diverse group surrounds me, including two Japanese men carry cumbersome photography equipment. Despite a language barrier, I realize, through their nods and bows, they are filming a documentary about the San Diego Wild Animal Park.
    Large family groups make up the majority of the visitors. Curious small children skip to the front of the group.
    "What kind of rhino is that?" asks a little girl in braids.
    "That's the black rhino," a tour guide answers.
    "But it's not black!" the girl observes.
    "It was covered with mud when it was spotted initially by zoologists."
    Sulky teenagers slowly shuffle, eyes focused on the ground. One boy tries to stomp on a harmless beetle.
    "Why come to an animal park if you're only intention is to kill innocent insects?" I ask myself, as my mom comes to the beetle's defense.
    For the most part, the adults complain of the heat and of the hefty weight of their family's camp gear.
    "Hey, wanna go sneak in some beer tonight?" a man asks with a trying-to-be-cool look in his eyes.
    Elderly couples lag behind. Thinking of my grandma's arthritis, I wonder if she'd be comfortable sleeping on the ground as we will tonight.
    Ahead lies a grove of tan and jade tents, lined up as perfectly as a designer's garden. They overlook Kilima Point, the wide East African exhibit. Our tour guide, a short young women with a high-pitched voice, reads off our tent numbers. As my parents and I search for our tent, I smile at our closest neighbors, the slim cheetahs with their marigold fur and the cocoa wallabies. Just feet from our tent, they laze about, absorbing the late-afternoon heat.
    Our guide sweetly squawks over her microphone which blurs her words into incoherent blobs. Scurrying to see what is happening, my family follows the mob. Finding ourselves at the amphitheater, my family plops down on the sun-drenched metal seats, cooled by misters.
    Elephants balance on small blocks of wood and dance to music. After each trick is performed, the elephants receive treats of fruits or vegetables. Unlike Dumbo's trainers, the keepers speak with love and respect. As I watch the show, I remember one of their trainers was killed recently by an elephant. A bronze sculpture gleams nearby in her honor. The keepers make no mention of her, but I notice we are no longer invited to hand feed the elephants, which are now separated from us by a newly dug ditch.
    "Wasn't a keeper killed by a elephant a while ago?" blurted one of the rude men I had seen earlier.
    As the moon rises, I savor my surroundings from the ledge at the end of Kilima Point. The expanse of savanna is dotted with zany zebras, galloping gazelles, and gracious giraffes.
    I get in line for our outside buffet dinner, filling my plate with a garden burger, salad, and a few peanut butter cookies, as others grab ribs and steak.
    "How can people eat meat at a zoo?" I ask myself, a vegetarian.
    Nocturnally trekking, our guide unlocks gates, taking us where only keepers are allowed. We venture down the dreary steps where a tiger delicately laps water from its trough, yearning for comfort from the burning night. The enclosure smells strongly, like a huge litter box. Music shimmers in the distance, entertaining the remaining day visitors at the park. As I ascend the trail, rainforest leaves enclose us. My eyes dance at the lacy pictures cast through the foliage by the stars.
    Waking up from the steamy day, the lioness stretches. On a huge, broad rock, the male lion lazily licks his paws. We are so high above them, they look the size of newborn kittens. We pass by three botanical greenhouses of fragrant herbs and Chinese plants. Hiking up a dirt road, we find a jungle of Baja Californian cacti, thriving in the melting heat. Jack rabbits dart among the ancient trees, frolicking in the glossy night. Our lanterns flow down the descending trail, leading us to the zebras. A skunky odor scares us toward our campsite. Shadowy gloom from scattered pines and spruces darken the path. The heat and I collapse at the campsite. I am reassured of my choice of career as zoo veterinarian.
    The music stops.
    "The park is closing," the loud speaker repeats over and over. After the regular visitors leave, the lights go out throughout the park. Only the lantern-lit tents glow like giant green gumdrops.



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