Goodbye Tiger Island

I met her in the Bangkok Airport, at a kind of diner-restaurant, when there were no seats except the one right across from her. She was quite pretty, with a Scandinavian face, light hair, and blue, but very sad eyes, and I made sure she saw my wedding ring so she felt a little less like I was trying to pick her up. She was wearing pretty Thai clothing and had a large satchel that I assumed carried everything she needed for her trip. She was, in fact, moving out of Thailand. Her name was Marta. I was simply going through Bangkok for a job interview in a small town, grabbing a meal and going on to my gate. Both of us, then, were suspended between flights at the airport.

She had been working at a place called Tiger Temple, a tourist resort run by a non-profit Buddhist organization, which had recently been taken over by the government. The government had moved in, closed it down, and removed the tigers, because, they alleged, some of the higher-ups were making money on the exotic animal trade. The government pointed to tools found in the rooms of the abbots, physical evidence, they said, of people taking advantage of the wild animals; this was illegal. The trade in endangered species was a sensitive issue.

The waitress came by and took my order, soup and Thai coffee. She gave Marta a quick look, as if she had already been sitting there, pining and not eating, for quite some time. She made no attempt to pressure Marta into ordering anything, and she didn’t. It was a typical airport diner, busy, noisy, an occasional spill of dishes and silverware in the background. One could hear boarding calls for flights to Asian cities: Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Hong Kong. In the airport hallway right outside the diner, people walked by in a steady stream, pulling or pushing luggage, often a little more than they could capably handle.

Marta had grown up loving tigers, she said, and had fallen in with a group of people who worked at the temple to improve the lot of the tigers who lived there. They had, indeed, made a better habitat for those tigers; they’d spent a lot of time, and $1.2 million that had been given to them by tourists and other sources, making a “tiger island.” A lot of money apparently had gone through the place anyway; the abbots didn’t really need to be taking extra money, or making a few thousand on the side. That’s what I asked her. Don’t you kind of assume that these monks above you are living the monks’ life, keeping a minimum for themselves, and helping humanity by keeping these tigers going? She said that that was exactly what she’d thought, and she went about her business, improving the lot of the tigers, and more or less not keeping track of what people above her were doing. Honestly, she said, she didn’t know any more, if they were really corrupt, or if it was just the government, wanting to get back at anyone who they didn’t like.

In fact, the Buddhists had a long history of antagonizing the government in Thailand, acting like they had a corner on ethical behavior, and being, unlike the government, not in it for the money. It seemed to Marta that they were all in it for the tigers. Everything they said seemed geared toward making those tigers’ lives better, with more space, so they could co-exist with the thousands of tourists who came through each year, tourists who had the legitimate desire, if not need, to connect to the animal kingdom. Marta had rationalized the idea of working for a large zoo: it was better for the tigers to have people building an adequate habitat and maintaining it. It was better for society, when people could see them and come close to them without danger. Her own proximity to the tigers had caused her to feel very close to one of them, an older male named Baht (Baht was also the name of the money in Thailand) – and she now was upset over the future of Baht and his other tiger friends.

A couple of times I looked at her in the afternoon light coming in from out by the tarmac. She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, overcome by profound sadness, and all, it seemed, over this tiger who she’d never see again. It seems the government had hauled away all the tigers, and had assured everyone that the tigers would be well managed. But if she couldn’t trust the abbots, how could she trust the government? Somehow she was sure that the tigers were doomed to a pretty miserable life, until the whole mess was straightened out. I sipped my soup slowly; it was delicious, and the Thai coffee also was very good. Marta showed no interest in food, mine or any, and was completely morose.

Finally, she told the story of the police evacuating the premises. It was generally believed among the people she worked with that the police hated the abbots, and that the police wouldn’t find what they were looking for, so the workers pretty much let the police in, and allowed them to search the rooms. They sincerely didn’t believe the police would find anything of interest. When they did, some of the things were easily explainable. People in the past could have been using these tools, or storing the bodies of tigers – maybe to prove they weren’t selling them in the endangered species market? But when they found tools used to cut tiger fangs, and pelts, it was pretty obvious that somebody was making big money from these tigers, even now. Marta’s stomach tightened just talking about it, because she’d known at that moment that she’d never see the tigers again.

There was another man in this story, a slightly older monk who had taken more than a passing interest in Marta, who had spent considerable energy befriending her. Though it was pretty clear now that the head abbot was guilty, the guilt of some of the lower monks was much less clear, she said. But she wouldn’t miss him so much, or any of the other monks, or even the exotic setting. She would only miss her Baht, her favorite tiger.

In the process of talking about it, she’d recovered her composure, but the infinite sadness of losing a loved one forever hung heavy in the air. I remember wondering, as she talked, if people ever recovered from these things.

But suddenly, from within the center of the airport, a young child came walking toward the diner, and when he got to it, he came right through the little entrance and walked up more or less directly to Marta. It was as if he’d been looking for her, or had simply decided she was the best person for him to talk to. He was about three or four, Thai, and he spoke to her in Thai; she answered fluently. Now, I don’t know Thai, so I had no idea what they were saying, but I could tell you that her Thai was very good, and it appeared, based on what she said later, that he was lost, and needed to find his parents. She kept him talking for a while; he was a very gregarious young boy, and while she was doing it she managed to catch the eye of an airport policeman who was walking by, and who came to take the boy off to where they deal with such things. The boy did not appear to be afraid of the policeman; perhaps this had happened before. He had cheered Marta up a little, though, with his earnest three-year-old view of the world. And she, for her part, trusted the policeman entirely to do the right thing, and reunite this boy with his parents.

Later, on my way to my hotel in the small town I was going to, I encountered a Buddhist monk begging. He was a kid, about twenty, with bald hair, carrying a bowl into which I put some baht. I looked at his eyes, looking for indication of sincerity, or innocence, or anything. Unfortunately I am not a good reader of Thai eyes or expressions, and I realized that this didn’t bode well for success, if I should get this new job. If there was a God, and he was impressed by one’s donations to a monk, perhaps my luck would be better. I sent out a prayer for Marta, for the boy, and for her tiger above all.

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