A coati (or coatimundi) at the zoo in Belize. Photo by Sherry Hardage

A spider monkey at the Belize Zoo. Photo by Sherry Hardage

Solo Traveler

While on a family trip to the Dallas zoo, in the late 60s, my father spotted a man cleaning out the yak enclosure. He asked if he could have a small bag of yak poop. The man looked at him in horror, as if he imagined those little round balls might end up as a joke in somebody’s spaghetti sauce.

I was in junior high at the time, and got away from that conversation as fast as I could. My father seemed to delight in finding new ways to embarrass me. Eventually the workman was persuaded to hand over a small paper sack.

Dad spread the yak bonbons out on newspaper and spray painted them gold. They were smooth and dry on the outside, much like rabbit scat, and took the paint beautifully. He then arranged them in a square dish, like a stack of cannon balls. They became quite the conversation piece. His clients couldn’t believe their insurance agent had gold plated yak turds on his desk.

In spite of incidents like that, I still have a fondness for zoos.

In India, my friend and I visited the national zoo in Delhi. In 1985, it was struggling financially, and though most of the animals seemed healthy enough, they weren’t in good environments. It wasn’t designed to be very safe for visitors either.

The large tiger enclosure was a simple row of vertical bars about six inches apart. Anyone could walk up and put an arm through the bars with a full-grown Bengal tiger prowling on the other side.

A boy, about 13 years old, ran along the side of the cage, holding a stick, thrumming the bars. The tiger raced along beside him, biting at the stick.

My friend Aroop wasn’t nearly as alarmed for the boy as I was. They quickly struck up a conversation. The kid was the son of the zoo director. Both he and the tiger were born about the same time, they’d been friends since childhood. He invited us to come into the back enclosure to pet the tiger.

In a dank, dark concrete room, the boy called through an open doorway. The tiger bounded in and flopped down against the bars that formed a cage wall between us. The boy reached both hands through the bars and scratched him vigorously behind the ears.

He invited us to do the same.

The tiger was calm and sweet as a house cat. But I’ve had sweet cats turn and bite me before. I was terrified. The boy assured me that the tiger liked it. I reached through the bars, very gingerly, ready to whip my hand out in an instant. His fur was long, and wet. He’d been for a swim in the grimy pool of his enclosure and was covered with tiny green plants.

Reaching down into gooey wetness and then deeper still to find his skin, I was wrist-deep in coarse orange hair. I expected a soft downiness next to the skin, like the fur on a German Shepherd, but it was coarse hair all the way in. I scratched, he rumbled. Some sources say tigers can’t purr like other cats, but it sure sounded like purring to me. The rumble was so deep, loud, and soulful, it vibrated his entire body.

In New Orleans the National Audubon Society has a beautiful zoo of local animals. Large magnolias and oak trees drip with Spanish moss, shading trails between exhibits. Many of the enclosures have elevated walkways for people, while the animals roam freely in the natural swampy environment

In 1985, there was a bayou exhibit featuring a swamp rat living on his houseboat. His laundry hung on lines, a fishing pole was propped over the deck, and the man sat in a wooden chair smoking a cigarette. He never once looked up at the people on the elevated walk. He wiped sweat from his brow and armpits, scratched various itchy spots, ate a sandwich, drank a beer, and generally allowed himself to be on display like any other animal. It was a memorable zoo experience.

The zoo in Belize is actually a private enterprise, so tickets are more expensive than public zoos, but well worth the trip. A woman who trained animals for a movie shoot developed it 25 years ago.  When the movie was finished, she was left with a number of local animals that were too tame to be released back into the jungle.

She built the zoo in a large section of Belizean jungle, to house her animals in a perfect natural habitat. The enclosure fences are discrete and encompass a large amount of land. The animals can’t leave, but they have plenty of room to move and hide if they want.

Every animal in that zoo was either injured, had been born in captivity, or for some other reason couldn’t be released into the wild.

The monkey display was an island of jungle, surrounded by a clearing the monkeys wouldn’t cross, plus an electrified fence to keep people out. It was a cool day when I visited, and all the animals were active, seemingly unmolested by our human presence. The fact that there were a number of babies in the enclosures said a lot for the quality environment the zoo provided.

It’s unfortunate that not all animals in the wild have good natural homes to live in. Zoos are, for many, the last chance to reproduce and maintain some variety in their gene pools.

Zoos give those who travel to foreign lands a brief glimpse of local animals we would never see otherwise, even if we were to traipse through their habitats. And I think it inspires children to empathize with animals and their plight. It is after all, up to today’s children to save habitats for tomorrow’s wildlife.

Editor’s note: Sherry Hardage lives in Los Alamos and has been traveling solo in the Americas, Europe, and Asia since she retired from Honeywell in 2009. She is a photographer, writer, and guide who organizes tours of Chiapas, Mexico through her website: www.mexadventures.com

Follow the continuing adventures on the travel blog: https:////sherryhardagetravel.blogspot.com/

Hardage welcomes comments via email: hardagesa@aol.com