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The place names are a list of well-worn exotica: Zanzibar. Paris. Bali. Amazing deals! Airport taxes not included.
These are places that do not feature: Harare. Yamoussoukro. Kinshasa. These are places that require alternative travel arrangements.
Border official bribes not included.
I'm woken by a scritching at the door. I don't know what time it is, barely remember falling asleep reading a threemonth-old You magazine, with its gleefully scandalised headlines about minor league South African celebrities and moral degeneration in general. It's been doing the rounds on this floor for a particularly torrid piece on "Forbidden Love! My Zoo Story Romance", about some corporate banker and her reformed gangster lover – complete with Silver-backed Jackal. Sample quote: "The biggest challenge, after my parents, was getting over my allergies!" Tabloid journalism at its finest.
The lights are still blazing, which is no good for my generator. I make a note on my mental shopping list to get more petrol (along with food, any description), and stumble, cursing, to open the door.
The Mongoose is sitting to attention on the spot where my doormat used to be. Add another item to the shopping list. That's the third one in six months. Maybe this time I'll get one with an anti-theft charm woven in. There's a tailor in the flat opposite who has a real talent for it, as opposed to the placebos they sell at Park Station.
The Mongoose gets to his paws and pads off down the corridor towards the fire-escape. He pauses and looks back expectantly over his shoulder.
"Really?" I say. I'm wearing a t-shirt, panties and a pair of socks, and it's freaking cold out there.
The Mongoose sits down again and waits.
"Okay, hang on. For fuck's sake." I close the door and yank on my yellow leather coat with the ripped lining. Sloth mumbles sleepily.
"S'okay, buddy. I think I can handle Operation Retrieve Drunken Idiot Boyfriend on my own." Sloth makes approving chewing noises and goes back to sleep.
I button up the coat, deciding on impulse to forgo jeans. The coat only comes down to my thighs, but it covers the objectionable bits. I will come to regret this. Also not putting on shoes. Because Benoît is not just down the hall, he's all the way at the bottom of the stairs, lolling against them like a drunken cowboy, his pageboy cap tilted rakishly over his eyes, and necking a zamalek. The burst vessels in his eyes when he looks up to see me suggest he hasn't let up since this afternoon.
"Lost y'r shoes?" he slurs mournfully.
"It happens," I say. It's not worth explaining.
"I think they're st'len. Everythin' gets st'len h're."
"I think you're drunk. Want me to get you to bed?"
"Y'r bed."
"You really up to facing the sunrise bouncing off Ponte tomorrow morning at 6 am?"
"Sh'ld knock it down."
"Or get curtains. Come on, big guy." I wrestle him to his feet, using the railing for leverage. And then we start making our way, very carefully, up six flights of stairs, the Mongoose scampering ahead.
As soon as I open the door, the Mongoose scoots inside and heads for the warmth of my laptop. I let him get away with it, this time, mainly because I'm preoccupied with shuffling Benoît inside one lurching step at a time.
I try to get him onto the bed, and realise it's going to be easier to drag the mattress onto the floor and just tip him onto it.
"Want'd t' talk," he says, sprawling onto his back, narrowly avoiding concussing himself on the wall as he goes down.
"Plenty of time," I say, pouring some bottled water into a tin cup, because the landlord has shut off the water again. I tilt it into his mouth and he gulps it down. I tuck him in and position a wastebin next to his side of the bed for ease of puking, then peel off my filthy socks and climb in next to him.
"Y'r feet are fr'zin," he complains.
"At least they're not stolen."
It's at that moment that the generator splutters and gasps and runs out of gas, plunging us into darkness, and saving me from getting back up to turn off the light.
8.
Get Real: The Online Documentary Database
THE WARLORD amp; THE PENGUIN
The Untold Story of Dehqan Baiyat (2003)
User Rating: 7/10 (17,264 votes)
Directors: Jan Stephen Samara Khaja
Writers: Jan Stephen (narrator) Nikolai Wood
Interviews: Dehqan Baiyat Gul Agha Baiyat General Rashid "The Wrestler" Dostum Lt. Corp. Al Stuart Matthias Weems Brigadier Jon Chafe
[MORE]
Runtime: 180 minutes
Language: English / Dari / Pashto with subtitles
Company: League Pictures, London
Country: United Kingdom
Certification: Mature / Unrated
Genre: Politics / Culture / History
Aspect Ratio: 1.85:1
Sound Mix: Dolby SR
Filming locations: Afghanistan, Pakistan, New York, London, Guantánamo
Release date: 9 October 2002 (UK) on BBC1
14 March 2003 (US/Worldwide)
Awards: Academy Award Best Documentary 2004 Sundance Film Festival 2003 International Documentary Association 2003 BAFTA 2004 Genie 2004 Golden Gate Award 2004
[MORE]
Synopsis: Warlord. Icon. Patient Zero? The life and death of Dehqan Baiyat.
Full Summary: (SPOILERS) Dehqan Baiyat was a New York film student turned machine gun-toting, motorcycleriding Afghan warlord who became notorious in the late '90s, not for his opium trafficking or his brutal tactics in fighting both the Taliban and NATO troops – but for the penguin always at his side.
After rumours began circulating among British troops of a warlord accompanied incongruously by an Antarctic bird in a flak jacket, investigative journalist Jan Stephen tracked Baiyat down to the opium fields of the Helmand province and spent two years with him in desert and mountain hideouts, trying to uncover the mystery of the man and the bird.
This documentary tracks the life and death of Dehqan Baiyat. Descended from an Iranian clan that once fought against Genghis Khan, he became known, incorrectly, as Patient Zero for what was then called the Zoo Plague and, later, AAF or Acquired Aposymbiotic Familiarism.
Baiyat was filmed on several occasions at public
gatherings feeding his penguin strips of meat he claimed was the flesh of his enemies. It was said that he could torture a man without touching him. The rumours intensified: it was claimed to be black magic, genetic modification, Hollywood special effects. Or all of the above.
After the assassination of his penguin in a Taliban
ambush, his very public death by the "black cloud" (or Siah Chal in Persian) was televised internationally. It was the first time the event had been captured on camera, and it caused widespread panic, leading to the establishment of quarantine camps in many countries and executions in others.
Unfairly compared to Gaëtan Dugas, the Canadian flight attendant alleged to have been at the centre of the spread of HIV in the US, Baiyat was, in reality, simply the most high-profile case in an epidemic that had nothing to do with disease.
Initially suspected to be the eccentric quirk of a charismatic and self-indulgent sociopath, other theories postulated that the outbreak of the animal phenomenon in Afghanistan was a result of the fallout of Pakistan's nuclear tests in the neighbouring Chagai Hills in 1998.
Now, it's believed that cases of the animalled may date back to as early as the mid-'80s, based on anthropological reports coming out of New Guinea, Mali and the Philippines. The earliest recorded case, uncovered in retrospect, was that of notorious Australian thug Kevin Warren, who was gunned down by police during an aborted bank heist in Brisbane with his 'pet' wallaby in 1986. Coming out of the animalled closet twelve years later, Baiyat was not so much the start of it all, as the poster boy.
But who was Baiyat really?
The film interrogates not only the mythos that sprang up around Baiyat in the turmoil and chaos of Taliban-led Afghanistan, but also everything we understand about the animalled and the ontological Shift that happened around him.
Featuring interviews with embedded journalists, mujahidin leaders, British troops, Taliban fighters and the Baiyat family, the film is an unflinching portrait of a man at the public centre of the Shift.
QUOTES:
"Why did I come back from film school in America? [Laughs] Because my father asked me to. Because this is my country. Because here I am a rock star. I have 18,000 men under my command. People respect me. Whole villages come to pay tribute. Because here I can fuck or kill whoever I like." - Dehqan Baiyat
"Think of it as my mascot. Let's say you have your lucky rabbit's foot. I have my Penguin. You keep your rabbit's
foot safe in your pocket. I keep my Penguin safe in
customised body armour."
– Dehqan Baiyat
"This romantic idea you have of some, I don't know, playboy magician warlord is all wrong. He's a drug dealer, a rapist, a killer and a spoilt little shit with his own private army and a bunch of tribal hocus-pocus pulled out of his arse." - Lt. Corp. Al Stuart
VIEWER REVIEWS: (1218 total)
[Flagged for moderation]
20 March 2010
Username: JodieStar1991 10/10
AWESPOmE!
gr8 movie!!! IT made me hot for zoo s3x!!!! Found gr8 site for free zoo p0rn!!!! Check it out!!!! See for yuporself!!!!!!!!!!!! http://zoo.Ur78KG
[3 Comments]
[12 out of 16 people found the following review helpful]
14 February 2010
Username: Rebecca Wilson 7/10
An unflinching perspective on a troubled ( amp;
troubling) icon
The third in Jan Stephen's Conflict Quartet (Israel / Liberia / Afghanistan / Burma) is perhaps the most harrowing for its no-holds-barred close-up of a man reviled, adored and mostly misunderstood.
Baiyat's role in determining public reaction to what the media called the Shift cannot be over-emphasised. Where some saw a romantic figure, a film school drop-out turned freedom fighter, others saw a symbol of the unknowable. For a time, before the animalled hit the tipping-point, Baiyat became the embodiment of the question of human morality.
But was the Penguin his Jiminy Cricket or the devil on his shoulder?
It's an issue the film skirts, or rather Baiyat skirts in the film, turning cagey whenever the topic turns to the bird, leaving this viewer wishing the filmmakers had… [MORE]
[9 Comments]
[126 out of 527 people found the following review helpful]
28 December 2009
Username: Patriot777 0/10
Give me a break
Get it together, people, apos aren't human. It's right there in the name. Zoos. Animalled. Aposymbiots. Whatever PC term is flavour of the week. As in not human. As in short for "apocalypse". This is part of the stealth war on good citizens disguised as apo rights.
It's in Deuteronomy: Do not bring a detestable thing into your house or you, like it, will be set apart for destruction. Utterly abhor and detest it, for it is set apart for destruction. Also Exodus: Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.
Do I need to spell it out for you? Familiars. Hell's Undertow. Destruction of the detestable. God is merciful, but only to actual, genuine, REAL LIFE human beings. Apos are criminals They're scum. They're not even animals. They're just things and will get what is… [MORE]
[1031 Comments]
[720 out of 936 people found the following review helpful]
23 December 2009
Username: TuxBoy 10/10
Cannibal penguin FTW! That is all.
[118 Comments]
[MORE REVIEWS]
Recommendations If you enjoyed this, Get Real thinks you might also like:
• The Shift (2001)
• Des Anges au Bestiaire (1998)
• Zoologika: Perspectives from Chinese prisons to Chicago's ganglands (2007)
• Great White Totem (2003)
• Traffic (2006)
• Warlord of Kayan (1989)
• Steering by the Golden Compass: Pullman's fantasy in the context of the ontological shift (2005)
• Claws Out: The Rise of the Animalled Rights Movement (2008)
9.
"Can I just say, wow! I am so surprised you called!"
Maltese is driving up Empire at a fair clip, about 50 kays over the speed limit in an old Mercedes in '70s gold, with the Dog on his lap, head out the window, tongue flapping. They insisted on picking me up, even though it would have taken half the time if I'd caught a taxi.
"Mm. We thought we were going to have to hunt you down," Marabou says from the back seat. Her bird flexes its wings and refolds them, feathers scraping the roof. The car isn't really built for carrion-eating storks needing to stretch to their full wingspan. There is a horrible smell in the car, a sweet and rotten undertone to the scent of leather and the Maltese's citrusy cologne. He notices me wince and mouths the words "Bird breath" with a wrinkle of his nose.
Sloth makes a grumbly sound in the back of his throat, his claws padding my arms like a cat. This is why I can't play poker. Nothing like having a giant furry tell to ruin your bluff. I try to keep my grip on the door handle casual as the car races up Empire and barrels through another orange light. Sloth buries his face into my neck. I focus on the newspaper headline posters to fight back carsickness. CORRUPTION CASE POSTPONED. HOMELESS MAN BURNED TO DEATH. AIRPORT DRUG BUST.
"I still don't like little dogs," I say.
"That's okay," says Maltese says, remarkably chipper. "You won't be working for us anyway."
"I might not be working for anyone at all. This is just a look-see."
"You're such a tough guy. I love it."
We pull up to a boom marking the entrance to a gated community. The uniformed guard has a Rat in his pocket, its pink snuffling nose poking out just above the Sentinel Armed Response logo. Zoos do okay in the security sector, especially with Sentinel, which is the largest and therefore, as a matter of practicality, the most open-minded armed-response company in the city.
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