The 6th Feb 2010 WriteOnSite Winning Entry
I'm never quite sure whether or not I should approve of zoos. They got a lot of bad press once, didn't they - people talked of tigers pacing round and round restrictive cages, of intelligent monkeys driven to self-harm by sheer boredom, of delicate species failing to thrive when they were deprived of space and freedom.
Still, the children wanted to come, and it was pouring with rain - and to be perfectly honest I didn't really know what else to do with them. Now we're here, I can see that as zoos go, this is probably quite a good one. There are wide open areas of tattered grass, which an imaginative lion might pretend was a corner of some vast savannah, and the penguins are frolicking in a pool which my six year-old looks at with envious longing. I reach out a cautious hand to restrain him, and suggest we should go and find the snakes.
'Look!' one of my daughters cries with delight as we push through a plastic door and enter the steamy torpor of the reptile house. 'That crocodile looks just like Mr. Beavis!'
I have to smile; she's absolutely right. I'd know those untidy teeth anywhere, and the way the heavy-lidded eyes regard me with the complete absence of anything remotely like sympathy enhances the likeness to our landlord. Sprawled on the sofa in his overheated flat, Mr. Beavis is probably even now anticipating the conversation I shall have with him tomorrow, when I try to explain that once again I won't be able to manage the full amount due...
'Let's go and find the monkeys,' I suggest, suddenly anxious to escape from the thick tropical fug into cleaner air. We make our way between cages filled with glorious birds of all shapes and sizes, some with extraordinary plumage and others with amazing cries. It reminds me a little of the telesales room where I sit every day, gazing at the sky beyond the plateglass windows, listening to the raucous nonsense of some of my colleagues. They'd all fly away if they could - but where would any of us go?
Finally we come to the monkey cages, and within minutes my kids are imitating the hilarious antics of the funny little creatures inside. They rush up to the wire and make faces; they stick their tongues out, wiggle their behinds, shriek at the tops of their voices - and the monkeys are highly entertained.
'You understand, don't you?' I whisper to the adult monkey who sits close up against the wire, just beside me. She looks worn, somehow - like a stuffed toy who's been loved too much, but in her case there probably hasn't been too much love. Her eyes are tired, and she gazes at me with infinite patience, enduring my intrusive curiosity because she has no choice.
For a moment my heart breaks for her. I wish I could magic her away from here and place her gently in a leafy forest, high above the red earthen floor, where the wild birds would swoop and cry, and where she would take the time and trouble to groom herself while her offspring played. But she's been here too long. I know just how she feels.
'It's a jungle out there,' I whisper to her, by way of apology. 'It's safer behind bars, believe me.'
She looks dubious, and I'm not sure she's convinced. I feel a heaviness in my soul, a hopelessness as profound as hers. I call the children, and we make our way reluctantly back to the high-rise, where we can lock ourselves in before dark, and be safe.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.