Another facet of our work is in the field of public education, which is in addition to the professional training we provide at Les Noyers. Our Education Officer, Phillip Coffey, was once on our ape staff, looking after our Orangutans and gorillas. The patience, kindness and understanding required in caring for the great apes stood Phillip in good stead as he developed our education programme for schoolchildren. More than 7000 children use the Jersey Zoo as a ‘classroom’ every year, and there are 7000 more who belong to the ‘Dodo Club’, a society for our junior members. Phillip and David Waugh are putting the final touches to a ‘Zoo Educators’ Course’ which will involve teachers from zoos everywhere, particularly those from developing countries. This is the first such course of its kind, and we are delighted that it is being held here and hope that it will be the forerunner of many more around the world.
We have a wide range of publications now which describe our diverse activities. There’s our scientific journal, Dodo, of which Jeremy is editor-in-chief, and he is always cracking the whip over the heads of our staff, students and visiting researchers to get their papers in on time, whether they concern the techniques of hand rearing a rare fruit bat or the results of a long-term study on the ecology and behaviour of an endangered species in the wild. There is our newsletter, On the Edge, which goes out to all our members three time a year, and a special newsletter for the Dodo Club members, the Dodo Dispatch. Every issue of the Dispatch has a large colour poster of one of the species we’re working with. We always do an extra print run of the posters, with a conservation message overprinted in the language of the animal’s country and these are sent out to schools, offices and shops in that country concerned to enhance local education programmes. To keep our former students of the International Training Centre in touch with us and with one another, we publish and circulate (now to nearly 300 people in 65 nations) a newsletter called ‘Solitaire’, which includes news about Jersey and our overseas projects, news from the students themselves about their work and notes on advances in conservation in these and other countries.
Of course, the staff do not spend all their time tending the animals, teaching courses or writing reports. In fact, they lead a fairly kaleidoscopic existence, for we send them out on field research trips and to supervise our in situ breeding projects. Thus Jeremy goes to Brazil periodically to keep an eye on our primate conservation work. David Jeggo goes out to advise on the breeding projects we have set up for the Caribbean parrot and to do censuses of wild parrot populations. Bryan Carroll (our Curator of Mammals) gathers information about fruit bats in the wild and Quentin Bloxam, our Curator of Reptiles, does similar work on reptiles in Madagascar and elsewhere. Sometimes the ways of obtaining the information we need are bizarre and would not occur to the average conservationist. For example, when we sent our Research Assistant, William Oliver, to do a field study on the pigmy hog, he found there was only one way of finding out about their private lives. He caught a pigmy hog and put a radio collar on it. Then, on elephant back, he would make his way through the tall grass and find out from his receiver how the tiny pig spent its days. Tracking the smallest pig in the world who is wearing a radio collar while you are perched on the back of an elephant is surely a rare experience for any conservationist.
So this is our multifaceted approach to species conservation, and it is no more nor less than what all other zoos in the world today should be doing to help save endangered species. But we have been greatly aided in our work over the years by developing two strengths for which I’m sure other conservation organizations envy us. The first is that we have managed to attract – and more importantly to keep – a wide variety of highly talented and dedicated people, and the second is that I am fortunate enough to write books which have become so popular that many doors have been opened to me which remain firmly closed to other organizations.
I think the secret of our fine staff is that we are not just ‘another zoo’. We have laid down for ourselves certain goals and work towards them steadily, and this, I think, makes us unique and it is this that appeals to the people who join us. But on the whole we have been lucky in that staff tend to find us rather than the other way round, or at least they seem to swim into our net. The case of our Trust Secretary, Simon Hicks, is one very good example.
Simon, when we first met him, was director of that excellent organization the National Conservation Corps in the UK. People who feel deeply about aiding conservation can join this and give their time and skills for no financial reward, the reward being in cleaning out polluted rivers and village ponds, planting against erosion, building fences, dams and bridges and doing similar backbreaking but essential conservation work. Simon had brought a team over to help with some jobs we were doing. Tall, well built, with big blue eyes and curly red hair and a snub nose, thickly freckled, he arrived with his team and displayed an enthusiasm which was incredible. He vibrated energy in an almost tangible way. It was like standing next to a dynamo, not one of your paltry little dynamos but one of the sort they use on the QE II. He had enormous charm and handled his team with an efficiency I have rarely seen equalled. I was impressed. I consulted Jeremy and John Hartley. They had been impressed too. The work of the Trust had increased enormously and we urgently needed another man at the top to take over some of the load from Jeremy and John and it seemed that Simon was heaven-sent, if we could get him.
‘Let’s have another look at him,’ I said. ‘Let’s get him over again on some spurious excuse: advising us on reshaping the water meadow, or something.’
‘Do you think that’s necessary?’ asked Jeremy, always cautious.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Remember, Jeremy, the morning face on the pillow may look quite different from the one of the night before.’
Jeremy blushed. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said, doubtfully.
So Simon joined us and it was an infusion of the new blood we needed. His wild enthusiasm, his refusals to be beaten by any project suggested, however difficult or improbable, his sheer exuberance were boundless. It was neatly summed up by a South American friend. I said that she must meet Simon, as it was an experience no woman should miss. I phoned down to his office.
‘Si,’ I said. ‘I’ve a lady from South America here and I want you to meet her. Can you pop up for a moment?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Simon, his voice clearly audible across the room where we sat. ‘Jolly good, yes, be up in just one second.’
I put down the phone.
‘Now listen,’ I said.
Distantly one heard a bang, followed by what sounded like a rumble of thunder. Then there were two more bangs as from cannons of magnitude. This was followed by a thunder of feet on the stairs leading up to the front door of the flat that sounded as if we were being invaded by the entire Russian army, newly shod, followed by a bang on the front door that surpassed all previous bangs. My friend jumped and spilled her drink.
‘Simon believes doors were designed to obstruct people who are trying to get things done,’ I explained kindly.
He strode into the room, refulgent as a volcano, and crushed my friend’s hand to a pulp. He talked and laughed and told jokes with immense charm for about ten minutes while he gulped a cold beer.
‘Well,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘must go, I’m afraid – got a crowd of volunteers to lick into shape – sorry I can’t stay, see you again I hope. Jolly good. Splendid.’
He crushed her hand once more into his thumbscrew-like grip and left. She sank back on the sofa and listened to the rumble and bangs of his departure as one would listen to the retreat of an army.
‘What did you say he was called?’ she asked.
‘Simon,’ I said, ‘Simon Hicks.’
‘You should call him Hurricane Hicks,’ she said firmly, and so Hurricane Hicks he has remained.
Simon’s enthusiasm for his new job knew no bounds. Vibrating like a harp, in no time at all
he had reorganized our animal adoption scheme so that, instead of just being a welcome but small contribution to the upkeep of various creatures, it now showed a handsome profit and we had a large waiting list of creatures for adoption. This scheme works on the principle that you adopt an animal, pay a contribution to its upkeep and get your name put up on the cage or enclosure. It seems to be particularly suitable for harassed parents or godparents who, as Christmas or birthdays roll around, cannot think of an original present, so they adopt an animal in the name of the youngster concerned. It works on a sliding scale, of course, so that a frog does not cost as much as a gorilla and, although the amount does not in any way represent the sum we expend on the creature’s upkeep per annum, it is a most useful contribution towards it. It also gives both adults and children a sense of helping us in our work and a certain pride in coming to see ‘their’ animal.
When I originally started our sister organization in America, we had called it SAFE (Save Animals From Extinction), but we had to change it to the more pompous title of Wildlife Preservation Trust International since the Americans felt that SAFE sounded too like a prophylactic. Simon, however, had no such inhibitions and immediately patented the name and invented a new way for people to contribute to our work. He had cards printed for each species; each card had boxes labelled, for example, ‘veterinary care’, ‘maintenance’, ‘return to the wild’ and so on. People contributing could put a tick against the aspect of our work that most interested them and the money would be spent on that particular section of the work.
As well as these activities, Simon decided that he should go on the training course alongside our overseas students, and this he diligently did, cleaning and feeding the animals on every section in the zoo and, as he got more knowledgeable, taking groups of visitors around and telling them about our work and about the biology of the animals. He is, however, possessed of an enormous innocence, which makes him the perfect fall guy, so after listening to him talking to a group of Trust members (unbeknownst to him) I called him into my office. ‘Simon,’ I said, ‘I want to talk to you very seriously.’
‘Yes, what?’ he said, a look of alarm on his face.
‘It’s these lectures you give to Trust members,’ I said. ‘I was listening to you the other day.’
‘Oh, my God, you weren’t, were you?’
‘Yes,’ I said severely, ‘and while the bulk of your lecture was all right, I do feel you shouldn’t have told all those poor people falsehoods.’
‘Falsehoods?’ he croaked.
‘Well, maybe not falsehoods,’ I conceded, ‘I mean, you may really believe that snow leopards come from the Sahara.’
He gazed at me and suddenly realized I was pulling his leg.
‘My God, don’t do that to me,’ he said, ‘you made my mouth go dry.’
It was at this period that Simon got into a complicated situation with our Orangutans. Our huge male Sumatran, Gambar, was extremely territorial and very possessive of his wife Gina. He now got it into his head that Simon – whose hair, roughly speaking, is Orangutan colour – was an undesirable male who had lewd designs on Gina. Whenever Simon approached, Gambar would hoist himself on to the bars and swing to and fro like a giant, ancient sporran, banging the hanging lorry tyre that swung from a chain in his cage to and fro with enormous thumping sounds, and then round off this terrific territorial display by grabbing Gina and, to Simon’s acute embarrassment, mating furiously with her. It got to the point where Simon refused to go near the cage when taking Trust members round.
‘Oh, look, Orangutans,’ they would cry, espying Gambar from a distance.
‘Yes, yes, jolly good,’ Simon would say, feverishly. ‘But I must just show you the lemur wood first.’
Simon confessed to me that Gina had such an accusing look in her eyes when Gambar was mounting her that it went straight to his heart.
‘It’s awful,’ he said, ‘it looks as if she’s blaming me for it.’
‘Never mind,’ I said consolingly, ‘just think how famous you’ll be when Gambar makes his final move. The News of the World will pay you handsomely for your life story.’
‘What?’ said Simon. ‘What final move? What are you talking about?’
‘You’ll be the only man in history who has been sued for alienation of affections by a Sumatran Orangutan,’ I explained.
The popularity of my books has opened many doors for me, particularly among what are loosely classified as ‘the famous’. It helps enormously if you know that the big boss of an organization is an avid fan of yours because you can then, quite unblushingly, phone him directly and ask him to do you a favour, instead of having to crawl slowly up the sticky and often obstructive bureaucratic ladder. Also, one person can lead you to a dozen others who may be of help, so the whole thing takes on the aspect of a daisy chain. The problem of finding a suitable patron for our then fledgling American sister organization was a case in point.
It was at about this time that Tom Lovejoy, having built up the American Board to a fine cluster of supportive and generous people, decided that what was now needed was a figurehead, someone well known to Americans and a person who would add lustre to the organization. Tom phoned me to discuss the matter.
‘How about Prince Rainier?’ I suggested. ‘He likes animals and he’s got his own zoo in Monaco.’
‘His wife would be better,’ said Tom shrewdly. ‘No one in America has heard of Prince Rainier, but everyone’s heard of Grace Kelly.’
‘Very true,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know her.’
‘I bet David Niven does,’ said Tom, ‘and you know him. He was your gorilla’s best man, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but I hate asking friends to trade on their friends, as it were.’
‘He can only say no,’ said Tom philosophically.
So I phoned David and asked his advice.
‘I hate getting my friends involved in things like this, Gerry,’ he said, ‘but I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you an introduction to her, but after that you’re on your own, and I shall tell her so.’
‘Marvellous, David,’ I said, ‘that’s fine. All I want is the door opened and then Tom and I can do the rest. I’m sure it will be OK. Tom’s got almost as much charm as you have.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere with me, Mr. Durrell,’ said David severely.
‘The trouble with you second-rate actors is that you don’t recognize the truth when you hear it,’ I said, and rang off before he could reply.
In due course Princess Grace agreed to see us and a date was fixed. Tom was jubilant.
‘Good ole little Miss America,’ he said.
‘She hasn’t agreed to anything yet,’ I warned him, ‘and for God’s sake don’t go around calling her little ole Miss America. She’s a princess, goddamit.’
‘Only by marriage,’ said Tom.
‘You must learn, my dear Thomas, that the ones who become princesses by marriage are sometimes more conscious of their dignity and position than those who have been born to it.’
‘Will I have to curtsey?’ asked Tom.
‘No,’ I said, ‘much as I would enjoy the sight of you curtseying to Princess Grace, I think it is something we can spare her. However, as you are so uncouth, I feel the least I can do is to give you a few lessons in how to behave when we meet her. I will give them to you when we meet in France.’
As it is not every day that you are invited to the palace at Monaco, I felt we ought to do the thing in style. Therefore, I and all my female entourage (my wife, my secretary and a long-time friend) were ensconced in an extremely lush hotel within note-rustling distance of the casino. Having jockeyed our tastebuds into a turmoil of expectancy with a delicate kir as an aperitif, we entered the dining room preceded by a most satisfactorily obsequious maître d’hotel, and surrounded by a garland of attentive waiters. The de
licious cucumber soup, cold as a polar bear’s nose, had been delicately sipped and the waiters had, in solemn silence, placed in front of us the fresh salmon poached in champagne and cream, when Thomas Lovejoy made his appearance. He looked like the sole survivor of one of the more unpleasant Mesopotamian earthquakes. At the sight of him the maître d’hotel uttered a tremulous squeal such as is wrenched from a tiny guinea pig trodden on unexpectedly by a shire horse. I must say that I had a certain sympathy with the man.
In one hand Tom clasped what seemed to be all his worldly goods incarcerated in a briefcase, which had apparently been constructed out of the skin of an ancient crocodile suffering from leprosy. His suit looked as though it had been slept in by seventeen tramps and then discarded as being of no farther service. His shirt was fish belly grey, except for the area around his neck, which was black. His tie – at one time I have no doubt a magnificent piece of neckwear – looked as though it had been seized and thoughtfully masticated by one of the less intelligent dinosaurs and then regurgitated. His shoes completed the whole ensemble: Charles Chaplin had spent years trying to get his shoes to look like that without success. Carunculated and furrowed as any chestnut, the toes standing up like flagpoles, the soles in imminent danger of losing their grip on the upper part of the footwear, they were shoes in which you felt – should you be so unwise as to investigate them closely – might lurk any number of communicable diseases.
‘Well, hi there,’ said Tom, packing his unsavoury body into a chair. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
My female entourage regarded him as if he were a toad found lurking in their soup. There they were, clad in silks and satins and raiment fine, delicately made up, exuding expensive scent like a newly-mown summer hay field and into their midst had lurched the Phantom of the Opera.
‘We hope you’re not going to meet Princess Grace at the palace looking like that,’ they said ominously and simultaneously.
‘Why,’ asked Tom, puzzled. ‘What’s wrong with me?’