The Snake Park
12/02/2005
(This is one of a series of articles I wrote dealing with memories of an African childhood. To read the first of these, click here)
Many long years ago, when I was busy growing up in Harare, Zimbabwe, there was a place known as the Snake Park that everyone would visit occasionally, to while away their leisure time. It was about fifteen miles from the city and a pleasant ride through rolling hills and farmland to get there. To be honest, it was a rather seedy, run-down place, but it was one of the few entertainments of those days.

Contrary to its name, it was not a park but a building. At the entrance was a cage with a baboon inside. He must have led a fairly miserable existence, being unable to escape the ogling visitors who passed his cage but he had developed a very effective technique for fending them off. Pretending no interest in any gathering crowd, he would sit there, perhaps chewing on a piece of sugar cane or merely gazing off into the distance. When a suitably large number of onlookers had assembled, he would get up, apparently completely unconcerned, and then suddenly turn around and push his rear end right into the faces of the adoring multitudes.

A baboon's bottom is not the prettiest sight in the world. With cries of disgust, the crowd would fall back and melt away. Our baboon friend, having established his privacy once again, would return to whatever pursuits with which he chose to pass the empty hours.

Inside the building there were the usual rows of glass display cases containing representatives of all the snakes of Zimbabwe, as well as a few from other places. The only one that I can remember is the spitting cobra, for he had attempted so often to avenge his imprisonment on his captors that the glass was obscured and milky with the poison he had hurled at them.

But the spitting cobra was not the highlight of our visits. That was reserved for the crocodile.

There were three or four crocs kept in a sunken area with concrete walls. It contained a small pool with a sandy beach and a few reeds to make it seem a little more realistic. One of the crocs was the largest that I have ever seen, so much so that he dwarfed his companions. He was a monster and children would delight at his fearsomeness while they remained safe.

The old croc had developed his own survival tactics in common with the baboon at the entrance. He knew from experience that he could never hope to scale the walls to vent his rage on the crowd. But he had a secret weapon and had learned how to use it. Just occasionally, when the buzz of onlookers became too much, he would heave his great bulk to the wall, stand up as far as he could go and open his mouth wide.

The inside of a croc's mouth is quite interesting. It is not pink as is ours but a vivid yellow color. The rows of teeth, too, are quite impressive but it was not this that caused the crowd to fall back in horror. It was the smell of his breath. He had the most fetid and disgusting breath imaginable. It would smack his admirers in their faces, causing them to gag and turn away, revolted.

I often wondered whether he was aware that it was not his ferocious appearance that scared people but his oral hygiene. His friends were far too small to have broached such a delicate subject with him. Whatever his thoughts on the matter, however, he knew for certain that the technique worked.

This was the Snake Park as I remember it from my childhood. In later years, they extended it to include a large area for birds. I visited it only once, as a teenager, for reasons that will become apparent.

The bird area was outside the main building and consisted of a collection of outdoor cages and huts connected by pathways. We wandered these paths, looking at the various occupants until we arrived at the largest construction, the parrot house. This was a rectangular building with the entrance at one of the two short sides. Inside, there were rows of cages down both of the longer walls of the rectangle.

Like all parrot houses, it was fairly noisy in there. All of the parrots were cackling and calling at each other in typically parrot fashion, having a raucous parrot get-together, in fact. We wandered down one row of cages, being greeted by the occupants with more catcalls and jeering. They were a lively bunch, I do admit.

At the far end of the row, just as we turned the corner to return along the opposite wall, we came to the macaws. They were blue macaws, huge birds, much more impressive in both color and size than anything we had seen so far. And they were silent.

In all that cacophony of sound it was only these, the mightiest of all parrots, that had nothing to say. They seemed a little depressed at the state of the world, as if the mindless chatter of the other birds was far beneath them. I decided to cheer them up.

Now, in those days, I fancied myself a pretty good imitator of animal calls. I had never heard the call of a macaw but I reasoned it could not be much different from that of the other parrots. They might be a bit louder, I thought, when one considered their size. So I spoke to them. In a fairly loud voice, I said, "Rawwwwk!" to them.

To this day, I do not know what that means in macaw language but I do know that it means something, for they all took notice immediately. By the nature of their response, I must either have insulted them or told a joke that was hilarious to any self-respecting macaw. They replied in kind.

I realized immediately that I had seriously underestimated the volume of sound that a macaw can achieve. A macaw can be, if he wishes, the equivalent of a foghorn going off within a few paces. They were deafening. I had started a chorus of "Rawwwwk!" that filled the available space and threatened to blow the roof off the building. The other parrots went silent in awe.

The wall of sound issuing from the macaws was so loud that we fell back instinctively. Then it occurred to us that we would be identified easily as the instigators of the commotion, being the only human occupants of the building at the time. We ran for the exit, remembering to slow our pace and to saunter outside as if the racket issuing from the building had nothing to do with us. All the way back to the gate the noise followed us. At any moment we expected to hear shouts and the sounds of pursuit as the attendants realized who was responsible for setting off those macaws. Even as we piled into the car, we could still hear them shouting their defiance at the world.

I never returned. The powers that be must have deduced the culprits by now and be waiting, even as I write, to pounce upon me with writs and charges of disturbing the parrot peace. Such is my guilt.

(to read the next of the African Memories articles, click here)

Clive

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