enclosure, beckoning. As I approached, they became excited, waddling back and forth in their small space. Directly above them was another cage: In it was a porcupine and an empty clamshell. Neither cage contained food or water.
Three feet away was another, larger enclosure, about sixteen square feet. The four sides were mesh wire, and the floor was concrete. In it, eleven monkeys on short chains were clipped to the wire walls in such a way that they couldn’t reach each other or the floor. They were all clinging to the wire mesh. The floor beneath them was immaculate, with no sign of feces. Like the other cages, there were no food or water feeders.
As I scanned the scene, all seventeen animals fell silent, staring at me.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
In the lobby, I passed Jon, Natalie, and Guy, already dressed in swimsuits and sarongs, on their way to the pool. I headed for the front desk and asked for the hotel’s manager. The young man didn’t speak English, and my Indonesian was limited to basic niceties. After a brief interchange that involved me mimicking a monkey, I understood that the manager, Mr. Agus Tabah Wardhana, was away for the day. I was given an appointment for the next day at 2:30 PM.
I walked into the dining room and through the swinging doors of the kitchen, where I was again forced to play charades with a chef who spoke little English. Ten minutes later, I left carrying food for the animals: a bucket of rice that I understood was for the geese and another bucket of sliced fruit for the monkeys and porcupine.
First, I stopped at the gray-colored monkey who was chained to a tree and handed him a slice of watermelon. He snatched it from my hand, took a bite, and responded by drawing his lips back into a huge, toothy smile.
Nearby, the geese honked for my attention, pleading to be released. The presence of a nearby pond, and their inability to get to it, must have been torturous. I tossed the rice from the bucket into their enclosure through the wire.
The sign on the porcupine’s cage read “Twinkle.” I took a slice of watermelon to a corner of the cage and pushed part of it through the wire.
“Twinkle,” I called.
The porcupine’s nose lifted but he didn’t leave his corner. I walked around and dropped a piece of the fruit through the wire in front of the quilled animal. He sniffed at and quickly took it, his milky-white eyes revealing his blindness. When he finished, he turned to me, asking for another piece. I obliged. For a nocturnal animal, his situation was dire. He had no water, no den, and nothing to shade him from the hot, blinding sun.
The gray-colored monkeys were long-tailed macaques, named because their tails are longer than their bodies. In Indonesia, they’re also called crab-eating macaques because they swim and dive for crabs. I have interacted with macaques on many occasions in Bali; they are omnivores, and females dominate their social groups.
They were fearful as I neared, quickly snatching the fruit I offered and devouring it while keeping their eyes on me.
A man appeared, carrying a broom. He smiled at me and nodded, seemingly pleased at what I was doing. I assumed he must be the animals’ caretaker.
“Where is the water?” I asked, knowing he probably didn’t understand English.
I looked around. There wasn’t a hose; just an empty bucket outside the monkeys’ enclosure.
“Water,” I asked, pointing into the bucket. He didn’t seem to understand. I picked an empty water bottle out of a trash can and pretended to drink. He smiled, walked away, and returned ten minutes later with an unopened bottle of water, which he handed to me, apparently thinking I was asking for myself. I unscrewed the cap, unlatched Twinkle’s enclosure, righted the clamshell, and filled it with water.
Now the man smiled and nodded; he understood. He left again and returned with a bucket of water, putting it into the enclosure with the geese. I pointed to the monkeys, and he pointed at the water bottle I was still holding. Confused, I gave it to him. He proceeded to walk around the monkey enclosure and toss spurts of water in each animal’s face. The monkeys recoiled. Only one opened his mouth, catching a bit of the water thrown at him. The others went without.
The next morning, after a restless night, I waited for the restaurant to open. I had a coffee and a glass of pineapple juice, then swept the buffet of fruit and bread and took it to the animals.
This time, when I called Twinkle, he greeted me like a lost friend, running toward my voice. I pushed a piece of cantaloupe through the wire. As I watched him eat, I wondered if I might be standing too close. I’d pulled plenty of quills from the faces of dogs who’d interfered with porcupines. I understood the pain Twinkle was capable of delivering, but I couldn’t help but tempt fate. I put my index finger through a hole in the wire and scratched the top of his head. To my surprise, he leaned into the scratch like a dog.
Tempted to release the geese, I didn’t, fearful that this unauthorized act would interfere with the negotiations I hoped to have with the hotel’s manager. Instead, I fed them the equivalent of a loaf of bread.
As I neared the monkey enclosure, the tiny creatures with big eyes reached their arms through the metal bars, hands open, begging for a morsel of food. I walked around the cage quickly, handing each one a piece of watermelon, cantaloupe, or banana. They snatched the fruit with one hand, while holding on to the wire with another, and ate hurriedly.
I still hadn’t formulated a strategy for my meeting with Mr. Tabah, the hotel’s manager. I didn’t know what I was going to ask him to do. The previous night, I’d asked Guy for advice; he speaks fluent Indonesian and has lived on Bali for a good part of his life. Guy warned: “Indonesians will tell tourists one thing and do another. They know that you will leave. If that menagerie is bringing them money, they will not shut it down.”
Mr. Tabah, a tall, thin man with a high forehead and wearing wire-rimmed glasses, greeted me with a handshake in the hotel’s foyer at 2:30.
“I understand you are concerned about the monkeys,” he said. “How may I assist you?”
“Yes. I’m concerned for the monkeys, the geese, and the porcupine,” I replied.
“Why don’t we walk to them and talk along the way,” he suggested, motioning toward the door.
As we walked, I made a point to summarize my credentials: I had decades of experience working directly with animals in shelters and sanctuaries, among other things, and perhaps most of all, I had 150,000 animal-loving social media followers. Mr. Tabah seemed to understand that these followers represented a powerful force.
“Mr. Tabah, you have a very beautiful, special hotel,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied.
“But I’m very disappointed to see such poor treatment of animals. It has ruined my vacation, not made it better. People come here to see animals in their natural habitat, enjoying life — not caged.”
“I understand what you’re saying.” He nodded.
“You do?”
“Yes. You are not the first person who has complained,” he said. “Many have complained and noted their displeasure when reviewing the hotel. But this is a complicated situation. This zoo was started by the man who started the hotel, and he’s been very proud of it. It has been a difficult subject to discuss with him.”
Mr.
