JANUARY 15, 2016
Washington’s Panda Obsession
BY ROBIN WRIGHT
The National Zoo’s newest panda cub, Bei Bei.
When I was little, I wanted a panda for my birthday. Last August 22nd, which happened to be my birthday, the National Zoo, in Washington, sent out an alert on e-mail, Twitter, and Facebook: its female panda, the gentle Mei Xiang, had gone into labor. I signed onto the zoo’s Panda Cam just in time to hear an eek-y squeal from the back stall where Mei had built her nest. It was the birth yelp of a baby boy. A four-ounce butter stick, pink-skinned and blind, slipped from his mom’s womb and slid across the floor.
At a formal ceremony hosted by Michelle Obama, he was given the name Bei Bei (“Precious Treasure”). The former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright tweeted a selfie wearing a giant panda brooch. “Guess I’ll have to call it Bei Bei now,” she wrote.
The panda prince finally makes his public début this week. He’s now eighteen roly-poly pounds of black-and-white fur. He recently found his legs, and waddles, unsteadily, around the panda house. His eyesight is still weak. He keeps trying to climb up walls painted with mountain scenes, which he can’t distinguish from the real rock formations in his den. But he’s a spunky little guy. Bei Bei alternates between tagging behind his mom and pawing persistently at her to play, even after she swats him away. He’s particularly enamored of his first toy, a red ball that he likes to wrap his body around.
There’s something about pandas, the world’s rarest bear, that captivates the famous, turns the powerful into putty, and wins over skeptics. In 1956, Elvis Presley travelled with a huge stuffed panda on a twenty-seven-hour train ride from New York to Memphis. On the first leg, the bear was photographed in its own seat. At night, the photographer Albert Wertheimer later recounted, the bear was strapped into the upper berth in Elvis’ compartment, its legs protruding through the webbing, as Elvis listened to acetates of his recent recordings in the lower berth. The next day, Elvis, not yet a national icon, perched the bear on his hip and used it to flirt with girls as he strolled through a passenger car.
Chris Packham, a British naturalist and the host of a BBC wildlife program, has led a campaign to let the species die out, because of existential challenges in breeding, food, and habitat. There are only about sixteen hundred pandas left in the wild, and some four hundred in zoos and breeding centers around the world. “Here’s a species that, of its own accord, has gone down an evolutionary cul-de-sac,” Packham said, in 2009. The world pours millions into keeping them alive, at the expense of other, more vital animals that would better insure global biodiversity, he argued. “I reckon we should pull the plug. Let them go with a degree of dignity.” But Packham conceded that the panda has disproportionate appeal. “It’s big,” he acknowledged. “And cute.”
Washington, a city centered on crude, self-absorbed politics, melts over its panda bears. The first pair was gifted from China, in 1972, to mark the thaw in relations after President Nixon’s visit. They generated the zoo’s first panda groupies, some of whom are still active four decades later. Ling-Ling and Hsing-Hsing bore five cubs, but none survived. When Hsing-Hsing developed arthritis, a nearby Starbucks donated blueberry muffins, in which zoo vets hid his daily medicine. That became his favorite food. The capital of the world’s mightiest power went into serious mourning when the pair died, in the nineties. Local schools made sympathy cards to send to the zoo. The pandas’ pelts are still kept in a Smithsonian vault.
By then, pandas had become the unofficial symbol of Washington. “It’s a power town, and pandas are a power species like no other,” Brandie Smith, the zoo’s associate director for Animal Care Sciences, told me. “They’ve become synonymous.” In 2000, Washington opted to rent another pair from China—initially at a million dollars a year, plus hundreds of thousands of dollars annually for joint research, and more for feeding, caring and staffing the pandas.
The couple arrived with fanfare. They flew from China on a specially equipped FedEx plane called Panda One, with a large bear painted on the fuselage. Mei Xiang (“Beautiful Fragrance”) and Tian Tian (“More and More”) got a police escort—and live television coverage—as their motorcade made its way into town. I worked at the Washington Post when their first cub, Tai Shan, was born, five years later. Few would admit it, but Post reporters regularly checked Tai’s antics on the zoo’s early, grainy Panda Cams. (They’re high-def now.) His squeals often echoed in stereo across the newsroom.
Bao Bao, a little girl, was born in 2013. Six weeks later, the government shut down because of a congressional budget dispute, and Bao Bao’s Panda Cam feed was turned off. The National Zoo, one of the few in the country without an entry fee, depends on government funding. The Internet feed was dark for sixteen days. “Our national nightmare is over,” NBC reported, when Republicans and Democrats finally reached a budget compromise. “The Panda Cam is back.” Within ten minutes, it was reaching its maximum capacity, of eight hundred and fifty viewers. The crisis led The Economist to conclude that pandas, despite their non-existent sex lives and self-destructive diets, are far more appealing than “costly, bumbling Washington politicians.”
For all their charm, however, pandas are far from profitable. “They don’t make money,” Steven Monfort, the chief scientist at the Smithsonian Conservation Biology Institute, told me. “Every zoo that ever had pandas realizes they will not make their money back. Just building the infrastructure for pandas costs many millions of dollars, in addition to the cost of supporting, caring, and feeding them. The reason zoos do it is more intangible, including reputation and public draw. But those are worthless unless you can do something to help the species.”