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Call of the wild

April 17, 2011

If there’s anything tigers do well, it’s making delicious cornflakes.

They also happen to be champion sleepers, counting sheep and sawing logs for nearly 16 hours a day. And so it was on my visit to Tiger Kingdom in Chiang Mai.

: Go get ’em, tiger!

The good news is that I’m part cat, so I was able to snooze with them.

: Like goose down, but with teeth.

: He’s a tiger. I’m a cougar. It works.

My visit included some time with the big guys.

: What’s new, pussycat?

The medium tigers.

: Easy, tiger.

: Jungle fever.

And the babies.

: Five-month old.

: His favorite movie is “The Lion King.”

Along the way, I got closer to tigers than I ever expected. Probably a lot closer than humans should.

: This is gonna be hilarious.

: Don’t try this at home.

: Tigers just want some finger food.

Once again, I am in awe of nature and in love with the beauty that exists in our world.

: I almost wore leopard print today. Can you imagine the fashion faux pas?

: Zzzzz.

: Gorgeous. And I’m not talking about me.

A note about Tiger Kingdom: I was highly skeptical about visiting this place. I’d heard about other tiger parks where the tigers are drugged or abused to the point of total submission for tourists. I did a lot of research before I decided to give Tiger Kingdom my money, including asking the opinion of workers at animal sanctuaries I trust. The unanimous response was that I should go and decide for myself.

After my visit, I am much more comfortable with Tiger Kingdom and what they do. I do not think the tigers are drugged — I was happy to see they were not declawed either — but they are definitely not wild tigers. These animals were born into captivity and are quite used to human interaction. When the tigers are too big (age two), visitors are no longer allowed to get inside the cage.

After the tigers reach adulthood, many of them stay at Tiger Kingdom for conservation studies, though some are sent to zoo programs. I have mixed feelings about this. I realize that done well, zoos can provide incredible educational opportunities about our environment. I also know that there are few options for tigers who have been born into captivity — they obviously cannot be released into the wild. On the other hand, it’s heartbreaking that a majestic creature will spend the entirety of his/her life behind bars.

As much as I enjoyed my visit, I probably would not visit Tiger Kingdom again. While I don’t think the animals are mistreated, I do feel guilty for using them for my personal entertainment. My biggest problem is that I love animals so much, I just want to be close to them — and sometimes I forget how that isn’t the best choice for the creatures I want to protect. Maybe you can be a better person than I was.

It’s a complicated issue, and visiting Tiger Kingdom is a decision that everybody will have to make for themselves. If you are interested in visiting Tiger Kingdom, this fantastic blog post can give you more information about prices and what to expect.

Temple of the monkey

March 15, 2011

“We are welcome you to our tempal,” read a charming, hand-painted sign on a whitewashed wall.

That was my introduction to the monkey temple, located at the top of a mountain in Hampi, India. It had taken several hundred stairs to get there, a grueling hike under a suffocating sun. The air was so humid, it felt like a hot washcloth was stuffed down into my throat. I complained until I was humbled by the sight of temple workers, who were making the very same climb with bags of cement on their backs.

The monkey temple is the birthplace of Lord Hamuman, someone I’ve never heard of before and haven’t bothered to look up. But this dude is apparently quite powerful.

I don’t know if the temple was named for the monkeys, which are plentiful in the area, or if the monkeys came to the area for the temple. Either way, they exist in harmony.

I felt awkward about entering someone else’s house of worship — I’m not Hindu, and I didn’t want to offend anyone — and then I was invited inside the building by this priest. He was gracious and kind.

Inside, two men sat on the floor of a small room that was roped off from visitors. They played a combination of tambourines, bells and miniature coconut shells. As the robust music swelled, the men chanted something lulling and otherworldly. In another room, a handful of people said prayers and, in return, received a swipe of red paint on their foreheads.

I started to leave, but the priest encouraged me to stay. He passed around glasses of chai. The music stirred something inside me that I never knew existed, and I felt my heart explode with gratitude. I sat in lotus position under a fan and melted into the floor.

Every piece of it was so right: The curling incense smoke, the rhythmic bells, the heaving chants, the monkeys chattering outside the door, the view from the mountain top, the sweat rolling down my back and the fan cooling me down again.

With billions of people, congested cities and choking pollution, India was the last place where I expected to find peace. And yet, there it was, waiting for me.

A donkey story (Or how I was nearly an ass)

March 3, 2011

Maybe I’ve been in the developing world too long and have become immune to suffering — because I didn’t even notice the dying donkey on the sidewalk until I stepped over him.

The donkey’s gray fur was matted with sweat, urine and dirt. Chunks of skin were missing along the length of his legs. His mouth trembled with a large pink lesion, and his eye was weeping fluid. He panted. His ear flicked. He looked about two breaths away from death.

My friend Tanya stopped, pressed her hands against her heart and made sympathetic noises.

Then we walked on. There was nothing we could do.

After lunch we walked past the donkey again. I shook my head and turned away. He looked dead. We were too late.

But Tanya whipped a plastic grocery bag and a bottle of water out of her backpack.

She situated the bag underneath the donkey’s snout, careful to avoid covering his nostrils, and poured a small bit of water inside the bag. The donkey’s eyelid fluttered ever so slightly.

The donkey no longer had the energy to move his head, but the side of his mouth tried to slurp the water. Slowly, slowly, he emptied the bag.

Again, Tanya filled the plastic with water and tipped it enough to drain into the donkey’s mouth.

By now a small crowd had formed around us. People who were hurrying to catch the bus, vendors from local stalls, women with babies in their arms, taxi drivers, businessmen on their way home from work — they all stopped. One man said the donkey had been there for three days, but this is the first time anyone paid any attention to him.

My friend Deborah started on water duty, while Tanya and I carefully hoisted the donkey’s head and neck up a few inches to give him a better angle for drinking.

One leg kicked. Then another.

“Water makes donkey strong!” said a man on the street, who stopped to watch the commotion.

Another man walked along the sidewalk and picked handfuls of grass and weeds. He brought these greens to the donkey and laid them beside his head.

Two more men lifted the donkey a few inches off the ground, then positioned him a few feet away on flatter, less rocky ground.

“It’s better,” one man said, nodding to the donkey. “More comfort.”

The donkey guzzled nearly four liters of water and looked remarkably better. He still didn’t have the ability to stand, but he no longer looked pained. Tanya looked up the number for a donkey rescue organization and told them how to find the dying animal.

It was a valuable lesson for me. When I thought there was nothing I could do for this poor donkey, there actually was. And it also demonstrated how action becomes inspiration, and inspiration becomes further action.

I don’t know if Tanya saved that donkey — but she certainly made an impact on every person who stopped on the street and witnessed her compassion. And that includes me.

Heavenly creatures

December 13, 2010

When the tourism office in Rwanda asked what day I’d prefer for my gorilla trek, I purposely chose a Sunday.

Better than any church or cathedral, Parc National des Volcans is my kind of spiritual place. Sandwiched near the border of Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo, the majestic landscape is carpeted with flowers and lush greenery. The horizon is dominated by ancient volcanoes. The hum of birds and insects acts as a choir.

Many of the last remaining mountain gorillas call this place home. Because of that, this is also where famed gorilla researcher Dian Fossey lived and died.

Permits to see the gorillas are expensive, only eight people can see each gorilla family each day, and transportation can be brutal — which makes planning difficult and complicated. I hesitated to even do this at all, because it sounded like far more trouble than necessary. Besides, I’ve seen gorillas in the zoo.

But, my husband talked me into going. He said I would regret it if I came to Rwanda and didn’t see the gorillas, and I decided he was right.

On the day of my trek, several groups of people were sorted and matched up with guides, then we all took off in search of our different families. The families are tracked each day, so every guide has a good indication of where to go.

See this mountain? That’s where my group had to trek in order to find our gorillas.

We slogged through knee-high mud and thick tangles of stinging nettles that had to be sliced with machetes. The slopes were steep and slippery enough that many of us climbed on all fours — gorilla-style — occasionally clinging to bamboo stalks to keep from tumbling back down again. My boots felt like they were caked with molasses.

Because the terrain can be dangerous, my group was also accompanied by armed guards.

Here’s my bad-ass crew. Fo shizzle.

Then, magic.

My first glimpse of a gorilla in the wild.

The mud, the fatigue, the expense … all worth it for this.

Just a few arm lengths away from each other, this gorilla and I were sharing the same air. I could hear him breathe, and I could smell the musky scent of his fur.

I’m moved to tears just thinking about it again.

It didn’t take much longer before we located the silverback, Charlie.

And his baby.

And a mama, who was quickly joined by two more babies.

There were gorillas everywhere, all around me, eating, playing, climbing, even charging past me and grabbing my shoulder.

For the first time, I felt like I truly understood the meaning of the word “awesome.” The entire experience was inspiring, overwhelming, dizzying. It must be what some people feel when they are moved to speak in tongues.

Every part of this was holy.

This is my idea of heaven and the kind of perfection that exists within it.

Thank you, gorillas, for letting me inside your home.

And thank you, world, for never-ending adventure.

The lion, the bitching and my wardrobe

November 21, 2010

Maybe it’s because I’m a Leo, but I’ve always had a special affection for lions.

So when other travelers told me that Kruger National Park in South Africa was like one big lion’s den, I said bring it. Just call me Daniel and toss me in there.

Only it wasn’t. I know that driving around game reserves are one big crap shoot anyway — the animals aren’t exactly paid to stand on the side of the road, tap dancing for the humans’ entertainment — but I expected something. Anything. Even a vague hint of mane in the distance would have made me happy.

Then we happened upon this scene, in which a randy male lion was trying to woo his female prey in the middle of the road. (Cue the Beatles’ “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?”)

But, like any big game sightings at Kruger, the scene quickly became a crazy traffic jam, with each vehicle creeping through the lanes, cutting each other off, honking, yelling and inching forward until every human was thoroughly pissed off and every animal was terrified.

As we drove away, I spilled my hot coffee all over my brand new shorts, prompting a cartoon bubble of !^%$@#^%!#%^$# to burst from my mouth. Now what was I going to wear as I traveled through Africa?

So my car continued making circles around the park, frustrated, angry, sad. The horny lions were okay, but not as satisfying as we had hoped. (And definitely not as satisfying as it was for the cats.)

The gravel road seemed too bumpy and endless. We were hot and mad. We decided to screw this lion stuff and head back for camp.

Suddenly a lone lioness emerged from a thick clump of grass.

We were the only car on the road. It was just us and her.

We locked eyes. For a moment, everything was completely silent, the world on pause. Then the lioness found a satisfactory shady spot underneath a tree and plopped down.