Please Touch the Animals
I’ve always been somewhat on the fence about zoos. Ostensibly they help with captive breeding and foster connection between the public and the animal world, but such good intentions can be hard to justify when confronted with the sad reality of a tiger, elephant, or giraffe anxiously pacing a tiny cage. So it was with some trepidation that I hopped on the bus with the rest of my program to visit the Tsimbizaza zoo in Antananarivo. If US zoos so often fail to hit the humane-treatment mark, what would I be in for across the globe in a country that hasn’t bothered to pave all the streets in the capital city?
I couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised. Tsimbizaza zoo was delightfully decrepit, and most of the animals seemed almost voluntarily caged. Parts of the path had been washed out from the latest cyclone; the reptile house was hanging together by its tendons. At the boa enclosure, I spotted at least two snake-sized holes that the massive serpent could easily have escaped through, but it seemed content to wait for the next meal. Often, we were told, the larger carnivores are fed live chickens or guinea pigs. Live meat is a luxury that certainly isn’t available in most American zoos.
The lemurs seemed cheerful and appear to be reproducing prolifically. I won’t attempt to quantify the cuteness factor of real, live lemurs here on the page. You’ve simply got to get to Madagascar to see for yourself. Or in the case of Tsimbizaza zoo, feel for yourself, because touching the animals is actually encouraged at this zoo. I know what you’re thinking: that seems super unethical. But in the back of your mind, you’re also probably extremely jealous that a golden-crowned lemur carefully snatched a clover out of my hand with his teensy fingers.
Golden Crowned Lemurs
I encourage you to channel your inner pro-simian. If you were a lemur, all caged up, wouldn’t you get some enjoyment from a nice scratch on the back once in a while? A little diversion from the usual routine? If you still aren’t convinced, the idea of the lemur island will sell to even the most anti-zoo reader. Tsimbizaza zoo is combined with a botanical garden, featuring several lovely ponds. In fact, it was difficult at times to stay focused on the captive animals, as dozens of wild egrets and night herons congregated overhead in a massive rookery. Gene even got pooped on, such was the density of waterbirds.
At the center of one of these bird-laden ponds was an island, only accessible by rickety bamboo raft. Several lemur families live on this island, caged only by the water (which they will not cross due to their long, easily water-logged tails). Visitors are forbidden from visiting the island, but watching the lemurs jump around in freedom, even from a distance, was immensely rewarding. I almost threw out my arm launching small fruits across the channel for the lemurs to eagerly gobble up.
The ponds are great for the lemurs, the birds, and even the crocodiles, who are supposed to be caged. However, one large scaly bastard had been recaptured just two days prior to our visit, after escaping and living in one of the ponds for, wait for it, one year. I’ll say that again. A crocodile was loose in the zoo for an entire three hundred and sixty-five days. Talk about humane treatment! I can’t think of another zoo that gives its occupants such generous holidays from public display. Even the nefarious PETA would have to give Tsimbizaza a gold star.
Lemur Island
The nocturnal mouse lemurs too, are away from the public eye, as electricity issues prevent the opening of their bunker-like nighttime habitat. Or so our guide claimed. In reality, I’m almost certain that the softball sized primates have seized the facilities for themselves in Planet of the Apes fashion. We ended the visit with our zoo tour guide picking lovely white flowers for each of the women in our group.
“I don’t give flowers to men,” he said, turning to me and Gene with a laugh.
Alright then.
On the way back, we stopped by the police prefecture, to finish some visa extension paperwork. We stood in line to sign documents with our passport photos attached. I couldn’t quite see the point in all this trouble, because it was apparent that all the documents just went into piles on the floor. A loose wall outlet hung towards the haphazard stacks, itching to put hundreds of identities up in smoke. I casually pondered the possibility of snagging the dossier of an older Frenchman named “Olivier” off the top just in case my visa didn’t process in time.
With a mask and a hat, I doubt it would much matter if one of the WWI-era-gun-toting policemen stopped me for papers.
“Papiers?” He would ask, and I would flawlessly imitate a hassled Frenchmen, fumbling for my documents.
Having watched the French tourists in line for customs for over an hour when my plane landed, I’d say I can do a fair impression.
“Poutain, qu’est-ce que vous faites, policier de merde, allez, vite, vite, je n’ai pas toute la journée!”
The poor policeman would wipe his brow, trying to concentrate, but distracted by my nasal French growl.
“Olivier?” He would ask doubtfully, and here’s where I would clinch the deception.
Instead of pulling my mask up to better hide my less than middle aged face, I would actually pull it further down, frothing a bit at the mouth, to perfectly imitate the French tourist.
“Oui, j’suis Olivier!” I would sputter, snatching back the papers and continuing in a string of French expletives.
Alas I decided I’d rather not have Interpol on my tail while I’m here, and I left the visa documents alone on the floor where they belonged, as just another quirk of government here in Madgascar.
View of Downtown Antananarivo
I have already mentioned the state of the roads, but on an excursion out into la campagne, the roads deteriorated to a comical degree. It’s almost as if the roads were trying to be terrible. They were constructed in such a way that on flat, dry, hilltops the roads were inexplicably inundated. Perhaps from a lack of drainage? A consequence of the fine, red soil? An excess of pipi-sauvage? Luckily the trucks we were packed into sloshed through the mess with glee, but I felt a pang of sympathy for the Zebu carts that made up most of the traffic outside the city. We passed a couple obstinate Zebu who were intent on charging down the grassy hill, much to the chagrin of their driver.
At the end of the “road” waited Professor Lily’s permaculture farm, which was as different than a Midwestern farm as can be imagined. That is to say, it was lovely. Professor Lily has planted thousands of fruit trees, and after just a few years, many are fruiting. I won’t go into all the edible plants that were growing on his farm, because it would be easier to name the few that were not. I didn’t see any onions or almonds. Then again, I could’ve missed them. Professor Lily, an ornithologist by trade, has observed 26 species of birds on his property. The only improvement I could suggest would be to install a small mound in the middle of the rice paddy and chuck a couple of lemurs out there.
Prof. Lily presides over a corner of his farm
Tomorrow we leave to (hopefully) see lemurs in the wild, for a couple nights in Ankafobe Park. I’m not sure if they’ll get close enough to pet, but after the visit to the zoo, my expectations are through the roof.
Sugar cane! Scrumptious!