Listening Earth Blog

What is the purpose of zoos? Education? Conservation? Entertainment? Or mere business enterprise? Sarah and I were left pondering this question after a recent visit to Jugong Bird Park in Singapore.

It was a sweltering hot morning, and despite arriving early, we were among tens of dozens of people queuing to enter. The entrance fee was around $30 each adult, and the turnstiles were doing brisk business.

We first looked in on the nocturnal house, and our hearts sank. In an enclosure about the size of a largish living room were half a dozen Boobook Owls, blinking in the dim light. These beautiful little owls are found commonly in the Australian bush, and we often hear them calling on our home bush block. Here they were not calling, no cheery “mo-poke…mo-poke…mo-poke”, only silence. The next ‘room’ was even smaller, and held a pair of Siberian Fishing Owls, huge birds for such a tiny space. They could not have had room for flight. Ditto the next; a pair of Snowy Owls, their habitat imitated by an airconditioner.

We were beginning to feel uncomfortable, that we had made a mistake coming here. Next we came to a man-made lake with several dozen pink flamingos. The park brochure touted this as a great backdrop for your wedding photos. Sarah and I had only once before seen flamingos, hundreds of them feeding serenely on a shallow lake at the Rann of Kutch in India. It was one of the most memorable nature experiences we have had. Silent, slow-moving, hardly disturbing the waters, the flamingos were like ghosts on a mirror. Here they squabbled and chased each other. Every bird had its primary flight feathers clipped.

On to the South East Asian aviary. Immediately upon entering the large enclosure we felt assaulted, the noise and smell was overwhelming. After a few minutes Sarah excused herself to wait for me outside. After 2 months in the field, becoming attuned to the sounds of wild forests and photographing wild birds, what we experienced here came as a rude shock.

Firstly, every bird looked disheveled, their plumages dirty, unkempt, sometimes with big tufts of feathers missing. This is common in aviary birds, yet you never, ever see it in the wild, where birds (unless sick or with very worn feathers) look healthy and vibrant, their plumage aglow. Here they looked motley and distressed.

Next: behaviour. I have seen birds of different species chase each other in the wild. The honeyeaters around our home do it, as they are quite territorial and will scud after smaller birds. But what we saw here was utterly unusual; birds of different species actually fighting; feathers flying, lots of scolding and fluttering. I have never seen this kind of behaviour in the field, where each species has its place in the environment and lives in a balance, essentially ignoring other species.

Lastly – and this was the decisive insight for me – it was a cacophony in there. Squawking, scolding, hooting, cackling… where was the delicate balance of sound that one encounters in wild landscapes? Where were the sonorous and musical voices of the forest? Where was the sense of space, that symphony of sounds that makes up the wild soundscapes we’d been recording the last months? It was a continual din in there, without regard to time of day or any organic rhythm.

Truth was, this aviary sounded like what it was – a madhouse. With what we now know about how birds us acoustic spaces to communicate, it is not surprising. Humans get distressed by continual noise, or the need to yell over a din to be heard. These birds were inmates packed into an unnaturally small area, in the company of species they were not adapted to co-exist with. Its not surprising they behaved as if demented.

Sarah and I left, disturbed by what we’d seen and reflecting on the experience. Over the years, we have visited quite a few zoos, some of them with good reputations. But invariably we’ve felt the same sense of disquiet at seeing captive wildlife. This was just the final straw.

So, what have we concluded about the purpose of the world’s zoos? Education? How can zoos possibly teach us about nature? They are not natural. If you want to understand something of nature you have to spend time in it. Quietly, and with your senses open to looking, listening, smelling. Nature lets you witness it when it is ready, and patience is essential. The rewards of finally seeing a rare animal or bird, or discovering some magical insect, cannot be duplicated in a captive environment of instant gratification.

Conservation? I have grave doubts. Captive breeding programs cost a lot of money. I am convinced that if that money were invested in maintaining and developing wild habitat, then all the species dependent on that place would be protected, not just the cute target species. This zoo maintained a small breeding colony of Bali Starlings, a species numbering only dozens in the wild. The specimens here looked as disheveled as the rest, and probably could not have survived if re-introduced into the wild.

Entertainment? Well certainly, judging on the numbers of visitors. Although it depends upon what one finds entertaining. How about the sight of a lone penguin, being walked along the pedestrian pavement in tropical heat, surrounded by a mob of jostling tourists wanting their photo taken holding its flipper?

No. In the end, zoos are about money. They are simply another money making venture. Think about those turnstiles and do some math. Like any business, strategic investment will return greater profit. Hence the most successful zoos often put a lot of money into their exhibits, attracting greater visitation numbers by displaying high-profile species, constructing elaborate habitats, and adding high-tech components into their displays.

In our professional life, we have contributed sound recordings to zoo exhibits. In one recent project, we created soundscapes for all the habitat areas of the newly-opened Sydney Wildlife World in Sydney. Having worked behind the scenes, I have to say that, despite some knowledgeable and caring staff, the enterprise as a whole was money driven. It is about tourism dollars. It has to be, it is a multi-million dollar investment on prime real estate on Sydney harbour. To us, the fact that it seemed more architecture and technology than nature, and ultimately a souless place, possibly explains why it has not been a success, despite its state of the art design, tourism potential and heavy promotion.

After all these experiences, Sarah and I have come to a decision. We will never contribute our work to a zoo again. Jugong Bird Park is the last zoo we will ever visit. We want to experience nature as it is, and share that with our audience. Just to be in a forest where we know tigers live, and NOT to see one, is more fulfilling than seeing a captive animal padding aimlessly around its enclosure while people gawp at it.

On reflection, it seems to us that zoos are also an expression of our own human hubris, our pride. Look at what we can make, all of nature for you to see. But ultimately, being in nature is a humbling experience. At this time in our human history, even more than learning about nature, we need to discover a healthy relationship with nature. For we are a part of nature, not its lords and masters.

In holding nature captive, we diminish our own spirit.

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