by James Callan
It hasn’t rained since the first week of November, and it won’t rain again until March, maybe April. In Thailand, in many places in the world, they call this the dry season. It’s slow. Static. Stasis. It’s the tropics, mummified. And yet, the transformation always comes, the flux in season that reminds us that nothing ever lasts; a perfect example of impermanence, an Eastern philosophy as reliable as the seasons. The sky will open up like a disturbed tomb. The cracked earth will soften. A monster will rise, ancient and relentless, active once again.
Far away, where I am from, there is a six-month winter where the locals groan about the climate through their frosted scarves. They scrape the snow and ice from their car windshields every morning before work. They labor to breathe in the lunar atmosphere, conditions like outer space. After Christmas, the new year, the Superbowl, any residual winter charm has long been exhausted. During this time, each regretful sigh becomes a spectral visitation that rises to disperse, to fragment into tiny particles. Inside the car there are heated seats, a blast of hot air. The morning commute is science fiction, a space pod with an artificial atmosphere.
Here, it is nothing like an urban, Midwest winter. Rural Thailand has its own beasts, its own wild hardships. Each step I take ushers clouds of orange dust up my ankles, a fake tan up to my knees. Every leaf, thigh-high to the floor, is veiled in dirt, robbed of its viridescence. It’s warm outside, drier than the sloughs of gecko skins that hang like skin tags on the walls, like old discarded condoms tossed wildly in the dark, left to molder, to petrify. The land is parched, which accounts for the animals’ water, the bowls and troughs, the pools for bathing, playing, and swimming, how they have gone stagnant, green, and foul.
After my shift at the sanctuary, I explore the half-wild, half-tamed premises. I sidestep the elephants, festooned with scars, walking an ochre road lined with brittle weeds. I venture across the sun-scorched acreage, arteries of macheted grass snaking through fields of banana trees. At the end of this maze, I hope to encounter residents I have yet to meet, animals outside my daily responsibility.
Ahead, I see a dust devil, amber and wild. I see great plumes of powdered dirt rise in profusion, mushroom clouds vaulting to the sky. Wildebeest herds come to mind, stampeding hooves by the millions. But this is Thailand, not the Serengeti. Elephants, then. It must be elephants. Something large, and lots of them.
The dust settles, and a solitary monkey fades into view. This little fucker caused a sandstorm? I mark the physical handicap of this tiny primate that moves like a maniac. With no apparent loss of mobility, the monkey darts and dashes, leaps and climbs, covering every inch of its enclosure like a well-sugared toddler. With one arm and one leg, only half a tail, the pint-sized primate is more athletic than a gold medal gymnast by any human standard.
I brush away the dust-covered plaque at my feet and learn its name is Bandit. Later, I’d hear his story, how he barely survived a house fire, how he wasn’t a pet, but a thief, a marauder of kitchens. On a luckless day, a woman shooed Bandit with a fiery branch from the wood stove, grazing silks that hung from the rafters. Like today, it was the height of the dry season, and the house set aflame like a blowtorch to tinder. Bandit escaped with his life, but lost more than he gained by breaking and entering.
I marvel at the creature’s perseverance. I am humbled by Bandit’s inspirational return to the fully mobile, fully acrobatic. Sudden and explosive, like the onset of my diarrhea after too much ripe mango, he rushes across the enclosure and reaches out through the bars. He touches my ankle.
As for his intent, I am left guessing, now blind with red dust that fills the air. So I walk away, fully impressed, moved by Bandit’s sheer tenacity, his indomitable will.
Down the road, my shoe comes loose. Now the other. I look down at my feet, then behind me where an orange dust cloud rises. Bandit! I curse the monkey. The little bastard has stolen my laces.
I can’t help but smile.
*
The animal sanctuary, by any standards, lacks an adequate enclosure for the Siamese crocodile. By my own standards, the sanctuary hardly has a single adequate enclosure among the hundreds scattered across all of its sprawling acreage. But when I say the sanctuary does not have adequate facilities for the Siamese crocodile, I mean that it did not anticipate housing a crocodile at all. The make-shift space for the ultra-rare, highly endangered, native species of Thailand is the result of a hurried, overnight rush job. What it comes down to is this: the sanctuary kicked out the Malayan snail-eating turtles, walked them across the road, and deposited them at the edge of a stream, one which during the dry season becomes a sun-baked, dusty culvert, and that was that. In with the rare, coveted, apex predator, out with the common, everyday, molluscivore.
My discovery of the new and coveted resident is accidental. I am not supposed to see the local Thai men carrying in the crocodile, the overbearing Dutchman who owns the sanctuary directing them frantically, but fluently, in their own language. When the tall, pale Dutchman dressed in loose-fitting, white cotton meets my gaze, he appears nervous, feels obliged to spill the beans. He offers up an explanation in an apologetic tone, an admission which I do not expect or even want.
“Siamese crocodile,” he says and stops, as if that is enough explanation.
“I had a Siamese cat once,” I offer.
“Exceedingly rare,” he pants out each word on a heavy breath. “Only 1000 or so remain.” I can only assume we are back to crocodiles, that we have moved on from cats. “Please,” the guy is more than a little worked up, “keep this to yourself. No gossip. No American loud talk, okay?”
I am tempted to tell him I’m Canadian. Sometimes I do that just to throw people off, embarrass them a bit after they brand me an American and find out I am not, even though I am. It always makes me laugh; the shower of apologies that follow. Even Canadians fall for it. No one really hates Americans as a rule, they just think they do, until they find out they are Canadians, and realize that Americans are just people like any other, just another great ape among the billions.
Speaking of Americans, it was interesting to hear what the Dutchman said next, when he told me, “The USA will pay one million dollars for a healthy Siamese crocodile.”
Like gemstones, like most things on earth, humans assign value in correspondence to scarcity. I believe I decipher the Dutchman’s game, his motive to pawn the rare, native crocodile for a nice, lump sum. A trade of Thai natural resources, a living being, for a small fortune. While I’m sure that any American zoo that can afford to fork over one million dollars can adequately—or at least more adequately than this so-called “sanctuary”—provide lodging for a single crocodile, I consider the precarious ethical and legal implications involved in the transaction. This Siamese crocodile has been plucked from its native environment, the only true place it can help to rectify its own dwindling population. To steal an animal from its natural environment and whisk it away, alone, to live out its days—likely indoors—in order to make a profit. While the animal may serve as an educational ambassador for its species, a vehicle to prompt and inspire the public to acts of conservation (i.e. donations to the zoo or an equivalent establishment), that explanation is really just a fancy way of falsely justifying the acquisition of another popular attraction.
The thought occurs: the Dutchman doesn’t give a stale stroopwafel about the rare reptile he has hastily plopped into an undersized, filthy pool. But then I second guess myself, second guessing the intentions of the Dutchman. One million US dollars is a lot of money. Seven figures transcends most enviable salaries. In Thailand, one million US dollars is an exorbitant amount of money. I consider how one million US dollars—thirty something million baht—could transform the sanctuary from a tropical purgatory to a well-polished, reputable sanctuary. The Siamese crocodile, in effect, could play the part of the martyr, like Saint Stephen, like Joan of Arc, like Jesus Christ. The rare reptile could barter its freedom, or, more accurately, have men barter its freedom, in exchange for a massive, sanctuary-wide upgrade, an improvement to the quality of life for dozens, hundreds, of individual animals.
Or: the Siamese crocodile could trade its freedom for an extension to the Dutchman’s already ample dwelling, a new car perhaps, a paved drive instead of that long, dusty trail. His Thai wife is festooned in jewels as it is. Perhaps the Dutchman could placate the much younger woman with an extension of her collection, fine silks thrown into the bargain. Who is to say what is the intention of the Dutchman, what will be the fate of the Siamese crocodile? Whatever the outcome, I cannot help but think that removing the animal, endangered or not—perhaps more so because it is endangered—is a bad idea, an act rooted in greed. I think men—Dutch, Thai, American, or otherwise—would do more good by observing a rare creature from afar, appreciating the moment, acknowledging the honor of sharing the same space, and gently, unobtrusively moving on.
To each their own devices. Crocodile, turtle, man, elephant, monkey. The list goes on.
*
I join some of the other sanctuary volunteers on an excursion to a nearby night market. On the way, we drive down a dirt road bisecting the jungle, the sun low in the sky behind us. There are perhaps a dozen of us, maybe fifteen, and we are loaded, knee-to-knee, in the open-air cargo bed of a truck that belches black fumes. I am aware of my discomfort, my ass impacting hard on the wood-plank bench with each bump over the rough trail. I am acutely aware of the heat of the evening, the heat of the close-pressed bodies, the sweat, and the smell of dirty, young travelers.
There are monkeys on the side of the road. Wild monkeys who, compared to the captive ones at the sanctuary, are tame, docile, neither bored nor insane, but free. There are monkey babies, females nursing them, big males puffing their chests, and juveniles playing, by all appearances having a ball. There is an inconspicuous orgy of monkeys on the edge of the forest. It looks a little rough, definitely a bit loud, but more than anything it looks like a lot of fun. These monkeys are the first of their kind I have seen in a state of joy. It is nice to see.
If only Jaw, the “trouble maker” macaque, were among them. An incarcerated resident of the sanctuary, he has been removed from others of his species, isolated to solitary confinement in an unadorned cell where his ennui simmers into bouts of violence that are now limited to himself. Here, in the wild, in the company of his brethren, no one would have to side-step his well-aimed beams of urine, his hair-pulling or irksome pacing, his antics which stem from boredom and enforced solitude. I imagine his skinny fingers pawing the soil, examining, lifting up the broad expanse of a fallen banana leaf he has excavated from the mud. Then I think of his calloused feet, his scabbed-over knuckles, his hardened body, made rough from a concrete base, a row of vertical iron bars. My eyes become wet and the jungle blurs, green and abstract, a work of art that incites sorrow.
The truck rumbles on and, packed within, we bump and sweat our way along the road. On either side, innumerable shades of flora blur into solid, emerald walls with the motion of the vehicle. Behind us, a vapor trail of orange dust lingers in the wake of our passage, the ghost of the road rising out of itself. Then, without warning, the jungle foliage to our left sways and parts for a passing train of giants. Our driver brakes and pulls over to the side of the road. He aims to treat the city slickers, dazzle the Western tourists. In this, our driver does not fail. There, before us, bombarded in a flash of cameras in the dying light, a bull elephant leads several others. The bull watches us with curiosity, perhaps contempt. Then it trumpets loud and shrill into the bruised, indigo sky, charging our cram-filled truck.
Many of us scream, some invoking God, others claiming we are all going to die. The woman nearest to me jumps into my lap, wrapping me tightly in her arms. I am pleased with this arrangement, but even more pleased by the sight of the charging elephant. Our driver, as if planned, hits the gas just in time and laughs loud into the deepening night. I watch the bull elephant become smaller as we speed along, shrinking down to the size of a featureless dot before dwindling into nothing at all, which reminds me of its species' future.
The woman stays on my lap for a few more minutes before the moment passes, before her courage returns, before she blushes, offers an apology, and disengages her limbs from my body. I am bereft of her warm proximity in the cooling evening, but remain deeply invigorated by this moment we have all shared. The bull elephant charging our truck, like the elephant-headed Ganesh, Remover of Obstacles, has been vitalizing, almost mythical in its excitement. I never once felt fear, but elation in the face of the mammoth’s threat.
I reflect on the elephants at the sanctuary, the mahouts who dominate them, who inflict their wounds, and then treat them, painting them violet with iodine. I dwell on their sad, defeated gazes, their intelligence and willful spirit that lies comatose within them. I think of what they have lost in living as they do, guided by bullhooks and kicks. At the sanctuary, I offer them my pity. I offer them a wide berth, respecting their size, their reasonable motive for violence against man, their intellect, which suggests they are capable of careful planning. On the other side of the road, with a chain-link fence between us, I can feel their energy bursting at the seams, a muted psyche like a flame withheld to a tiny stove, a torrent subdued by a dam. Then I consider their wild brethren: spirited beings that cannot be dominated, leviathans with legs, parting the land with the steps that carry them. They are dignified, plowing ever onward, each one a remover of obstacles.
I’ve seen hundreds of elephants over the course of the years that span my involvement with captive wildlife. In zoos, in sanctuaries, and in dreaded circuses. But until this evening, I have never seen a single elephant existing as it is meant to be.
An elephant is only an elephant when it is free. All other elephants are elephants waiting to be elephants.
*
Back in the USA, at my favorite Thai restaurant, Tuk Tuk, I sit under an ornate, gold-framed image of the late King Bhumibol the Great. In life, he was well-loved. In death, he is remembered, honored, and remains well-loved. His spirit is unshackled, unbarred by a golden frame. His image remains, but his essence is free, perhaps beyond the bounds of samsara. As I eat my green Thai curry, sitting next to King Bhumibol the Great, it is impossible to avoid the recollection of my time at the sanctuary. As I consider the animal residents, the cyclical bonds of samsara, I cannot help but wonder: for them—for any of us—does freedom come only after death?
Outside, the night air is frigid. It is the dry season in Thailand, but here, in the Midwest, it is winter. My breath escapes in the cold, dispersing like a passing soul. I walk the salted streets and gaze upward. The stars are out but faded, filtered by the brazen storefronts and illuminated windows. Looking up at all those pinprick flecks of light beyond the city, I consider the magnitude of the cosmos and become baffled. It makes a man feel small. It makes the world feel small, a solar system insignificant, almost like nothing.
Then I have a bit of a Disney moment. I think of The Lion King, Mufasa’s wise words to Simba, his son and heir to the kingdom. I reflect on the feline monarch’s mystic wisdom, his explanation to his son as they look up into an expanse of widespread stars. The rich voice of James Earl Jones reveals that they are the great kings of the past, ancestors that have lived and died, now residing in the sky, eternal, to watch over their kin.
I like that. I extend the idea to encompass all living things, not merely lions, not merely the royalty of the animal kingdom. I think of friends I’ve lost while working in zoos, in animal sanctuaries scattered across the globe. In a familiar constellation, I see fire foxes blazing in the sky. I see culled meerkats glittering down upon the earth, radiant diamond sparkles never to be extinguished. Who knows, maybe Timon himself? Can animated animals die? Can they live? I think of the elephant graveyard Simba and his friend, Nala, boldly, foolishly adventure to. I think of all elephant graveyards, not animated, but real. I think of elephants, wild and tame, free and imprisoned, elephants that are elephants and elephants that are waiting to be elephants. I think of a broken Jaw, a “trouble maker” macaque, and hope that he finds freedom before his death.
I look up to the stars and hope that I look up to the free spirits of those that have lived and died on this earth. I hope all elephants, macaques, and meerkats, all beings, all lives, eventually find freedom in the end, in the boundless, black sky above.
****