Roaming on the Wild Side
Lately, I have noticed that on most nights, I tend to watch one television channel more than any other. Nope, I’m not talking about the overhyped and ridiculously cheesy Pinoy Big Brother on ABS-CBN (although I have to admit that I’ve caught a couple of episodes so far, being the natural born nosy person that I am). Instead, I have decided to reach out to the other members of Kingdom Animalia by spending dozens of hours on Animal Planet. I have even acquired a peculiar liking to the song “Roam,” a B-52’s hit from the 80’s that serves as the channel’s official jingle. It goes: “Boy mercury shootin’ through every degree/ Oh girl dancin’ down those dirty and dusty trails/ Take it hip to hip rock it through the wilderness/ Around the world the trip begins with a kiss…” And you thought 80’s music was all about corn ball pop beats and crazy outfits, eh?
Apart from graphic specials that show lions goring over hapless herbivores on the African bush, and documentaries about the intelligence of chimpanzees, what really makes me hooked with Animal Planet is a show called “Growing Up Wild.” Growing Up Wild follows the stories of zoo keepers and other ordinary folks who embark on the heroic task of taking care of orphan baby animals. To date, I have watched stories about people acting as surrogate parents to three zebra foals, a pair of lion cubs, a litter of wolf pups, and even an abandoned walrus calf. Raising wild baby animals is a Herculean task filled with sleepless nights and enormous challenges, and the show cleverly and effectively depicts this struggle. In the end, the human care takers prevail, and their animal offsprings outgrow their fragile childhood.
The most touching moments in Growing Up Wild are when the surrogate human parents finally release their “babies” in their natural habitats. I remember this Aussie zoo keeper in his mid-20’s with multiple facial piercing as he fondly held on to the Tasmanian Devil that he’s raised for the past eleven months for one last time. “This guy has been a great part of my life for the past year, and it will be really difficult to let him go… I’m so proud of him,” the Aussie bloke replied with his voice cracking and struggling really hard to keep his tears from falling.
Watching the above mentioned scene would likewise make my eyes well up and sends a couple of sniffs from my congested nose. I even remember a time when I actually cried when on one episode, a middle-aged woman bade farewell to her baby zebras. “Run like the wind,” she whispered, clutching a pale blue handkerchief as the three nimble zebras sprinted towards the sun-baked grass of the savannah. I could withstand a tear jerker of a movie like “A Walk To Remember” and “Magnifico,” but not the closing moments of Growing Up Wild. I guess I’m just plain crazy that way.
For some time now, I have been raving so much about Growing Up Wild and Animal Planet that my friends are starting to associate me with the cable channel. Whenever I hit a rare winner in our badminton games, they would kid: “Wow! Yan ang lupet ng Animal Planet!” Once, I “taxipooled” with my officemate and I sang Roam over and over. It wasn’t long before she was singing the same song, too, although unwittingly.
Now that I’m in the throngs of a mid-20’s life crisis, I am seriously considering a career in wildlife conservation or even a Masters degree in biological sciences should I decide that I’ve had enough of rocks, faults, and volcanoes. But of course, every positive concept attracts a negative counter-attack, and as usual, it comes from my worst critic, the Queen of Pain and Tardiness (QPT). She blurts, in hyper speed: “That will never happen because you’re hopelessly jaded and cynical. So what makes you think you’re capable of taking care of species other than your own? And besides, you’re such a carnivore with your steady diet of Jollibee Chicken Joy and cheeseburgers!” (Again, QPT does not really mean all the mean things she tells me. She just exists to criticize everything that I do, and in return, I do the same to her. Criticism, when viewed positively, could actually make our lives better. I think.)
True, I’m not PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) material simply because I insist on attaining my protein requirements from farm-bred animals. And I’m horribly mortified by poisonous reptiles and prey-gobbling constrictors. That could seriously jeopardize my dreams of being a wildlife person. But then again, dreaming is free and harmless, and if I do indeed fulfill it, I’ll make sure that I’ll be the gigantic blue whale of the seven seas, the mangy lion of the African bush, the cunning tiger of the Bengal swamps, the irresistibly adorable polar bear of the Siberian tundra, and the majestic swooping eagle of the blue, vanilla sky. In short, I’ll be the best damn wildlife conversationalist on this side of the planet.
