There is a farm near Wafra that, if truth be told, is more zoo than farm. To begin with there is a row of cages teeming with monkeys and green and yellow parrots. Under the palms there are wiry, rickety pens for the goats and chickens. Of course, chickens care nothing for pens and stroll anywhere they like. And there is what can only be described as big black squirrels in small wooden cages, along with four horses and two very unfriendly lumpy camels. In what pretends to be a barn he has a place for the snakes, but snakes being snakes spend a lot of time anywhere they want. Wandering here and there are multi-colored dogs and cats who, seemingly, are the best of friends, as well as two very gray tortoises who, so he tells me, haven’t moved more than two meters in days.

Saleh didn’t mean to make it into a zoo, not really, it just turned out that way, and now, after all these years, it is too late to change, to make everything go away. It just happened as more and more creatures were given to him, sometimes gifts, sometimes not. One day he woke up to find a pair of falcons at his window, “and if falcons could talk they would have asked for some food, a swallow of water would be nice,” he said, laughing at his own joke. From his farm that is more zoo than farm I can see a tiny line of highway in the distance, trucks moving bug-like towards the Saudi border. On a clear night, you can see the soft glow of Kuwait City, or at least that is what Saleh tells me. And sure enough, that night is clear and starry and as we walk past the goats and lumpy camels that sudden grow excited because they think they are about to be fed, he tells me to look that away, pointing, and I do and see something like a glow. He says, “See, I told you.”

I turn this way and that until finally I say, “But Kuwait City is the other way. You’re pointing west into an empty desert.”

Saleh considers this for a moment, looking first one way, then the other. We can hear the monkeys arguing, one of the camels grunts, while two cats come out of nowhere to worm around our ankles. Finally, he says, “Is it? Then what’s over there?” Motioning, “What’s that glow all about?”

We consider this together in silence, until I say, “No idea.” By now the monkeys have woken the sheep, the peacock, the rooster begins his flapping, crowing, thinking that with all the noise it must be morning.

“You know this is more zoo than farm, right?” He shrugs and kicks one of the cats away. “I’ve become popular, you know. I mean, not me personally but the place. This what you call a zoo. People come from all over to spend the day, bring the kids, grandma and grandpa. If they want to give me a donation for the animals, to feed them, of course I accept, but if not and they simply want to wander around, that’s okay too.” That’s when something like a deep growl comes from the deep desert’s darkness. “And what was that?” I ask.

More shrugging on his part, but then he points off into the night, saying, “Not sure. It comes and goes whatever it is.”

One of the dogs begins to whimper. I wait to hear it again, but nothing. “Comes and goes, you say?”
“Yes, just like that. By the way, one of the big black squirrels died the other day. We called him Harvey. Not sure why. Just Harvey the squirrel. Not sure why. I just went out in the morning, doing my usual walk about, and there it was motionless, stiff. None of the other squirrels seemed to care one way or another, as if to say: ‘What do you expect, and by the way, what’s for breakfast?’ So I am on the lookout for another squirrel, or at least something round and fuzzy. Kids love that stuff, you know. A rabbit would be nice.”

As a rule, the authorities care nothing about Saleh and his farm. As long as the animals don’t attack people or run dangerously wild in the desert, onto the road, who cares? So, it’s not the police Saleh is worried about.

“Ok, so what’s the worry?” I ask. “Teenagers. They are always trying to steal a monkey or two, squeezing them through the wooden slats of their cages and into their backpacks.” More cats come out of the shadows to see what is going on, not to mention the big black dog named Charlie, whose doggy smile is like a sneer. “I’ve caught them more than once, you know. Teenagers who think it great fun to stuff a monkey in their backpacks. Like some kind of computer game.”

So, there you have it, the farm that is more zoo than farm and if asked if it ever really was a farm, in the traditional sense of the word, Saleh looks off towards the barn, as if barns know something about answers, before saying, “Probably—rows of palms all up and down the road, a kind of farm but nothing like now.” And he wanted to say more, was preparing to say more, when the monkeys suddenly begin screeching. This sets Saleh off into a trot, muttering as he goes, “Teenagers.”

Photo by Dan Dennis on Unsplash.