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9-year-old Caine Monroy spent his summer vacation building an

elaborate DIY cardboard arcade inside his dad’s used auto parts store,

and asked people to play. The entire summer went by, and Caine

had yet to have a single customer, until one day, a filmmaker named Nirvan Mullick

stopped to buy a door handle for his car. What happened next inspired this movie,

and launched a global movement to foster imagination and creativity in kids everywhere.

Watch “Caine’s Arcade 2: From a Movie to a Movement”

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in more amazing kids! $15 plus shipping, order from our store.

We made Caine a new shirt that says “BOSS” that only he has.


~ The Haunting ‘Human Zoo’ of Paris, What Secret Things to do in Paris?

What Secret Things to do in Paris?
Paris Zoo
In the furthest corner of the Vincennes woods of Paris, lies the remains of what was once a public exhibition
to promote French colonialism over 100 years ago and what we can only refer to today as the equivalent of a human zoo.
In 1907, six different villages were built in the Jardin d’Agronomie Tropicale,
representing all the corners of the French colonial empire at the time–
Madagascar, Indochine, Sudan, Congo, Tunisia and Morocco.
The villages and their pavillions were built to recreate the life and culture
as it was in their original habitats. This included mimicking the architecture,
importing the agriculture and appallingly, inhabiting the replica houses with people,
brought to Paris from the faraway territories.

The human inhabitants of the ‘exhibition’ were observed by over one million curious visitors
from May until October 1907 when it ended. It it estimated that between 1870 up until the 1930s,
more than one and a half a billion people visited various exhibits around the world featuring human inhabitants.

In 1906, this Congolese replica “factory” was built in Marseille as part of a colonial exposition.
Congolese families were also brought over to work in the factory.
In February 2004 its remains were burnt down.
Today, the Jardin d’Agronomie Tropicale is treated as a stain on France’s history.
Kept out of sight behind rusty padlocked gates for most of the 20th century,
the buildings are abandoned and decaying, and the rare exotic plantations have long disappeared.
In 2006 the public was granted access to the gardens but few people actually visit at all.
The entrance is marked by a 10 ft Asian inspired portico of rotting wood and
faded red paint that stands like the ghost of a slain gatekeeper.
Visitors can instantly feel a sense of anxiety upon entering and quickly develop an understanding
that this is not a place that the French are proud of. A hundred years on and
there’s still an eerie presence of ladies clutching sun parasols and men in bowler hats arriving,
eager to see the show on the other side of this now crumbling colonnade.
Only some of the pathways remain clear of overtaking nature and they all lead to various vandalized monuments,
condemned houses with danger signs and abandoned paraphernalia that you can’t make any sense of.

A doorway to one of the houses at the Indonesian pavillion
Moroccan Doorway
Paris Colonial Stairs
Colonial Stairs
I sneaked over a fence into this eerie structure hidden at the back of the park,
a workshop where scientists and students came to study tropical wood brought back from the colonies.

More than thirty-five thousand men, women and children left their homelands during the high noon of
Imperialist Europe and took part in ‘exotic spectacles’ held in major cities like Paris, London and Berlin.
Entire families recruited from the colonies were placed in replicas of their villages,
given mock traditional costumes and paid to put on a show for spectators.
An opportunity to demonstrate the power of the West over its colonies, the expositions became a regular part
of international trade fairs and encouraged a taste for exoticism and remote travel.
Europeans gawked at bare-breasted African women and were entertained by re-enactments
of “primitive life” in the colonies. Here, anthropologists and researchers
could observe whole villages of tribespeople and gather physical evidence for
their theories on racial superiority.
The Tunisian pavilion.

While the villagers had come to Paris of their own free will and were paid to be on display,
they were equally oppressed, exploited and degraded. The distinction between person and specimen was blurred.
They were not guests here.
They were nameless faces on the other side of a barrier.
When the Exposition Tropicale ended its four month run in October 1907,
it is unknown how many of the participants returned home safely.
Villagers were enticed by lecherous agents or even mislead by their own village chiefs
into joining circus-like troupes that toured internationally. From Marseille to New York,
their vulnerability in a capitalist world was exploited every step of the way.

Some would eventually find their way home after a few years, but others would never make it.
If they didn’t fall victim to diseases unknown to them; smallpox, measles, tuberculosis;
they would die of adversity in an alien world.
There are rumors that one building, the Indochine pavillion, will be refurbished to function
as a small museum and research centre. It may be an intelligent solution to a touchy subject.
If the French government destroyed the gardens, there would be accusations of trying to cover up the past.
If they were fully restored, it might be construed as a commemoration to a France’s once very sinister use of power.

And so the garden remains, hauntingly beautiful; a neglected embarrassment.
Gardeners stopped coming a long time ago. Wild and verdant, mutations of untamed tropical plants plucked from their homelands are left to fester in a junkyard of French colonial history. They are the ghosts of this purgatory, waiting for a ticket home.

Address: Jardin d’Agronomie Tropicale, 45 bis Avenue de la Belle Gabrielle, 75012 Paris. RER station: Nogent-sur-Marne

Fascinating blog and photos. I wanted to share them with those who are fascinated with Paris and History.
I found this blog by accident-


Or messnessychic dot com!
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Karen Ellis