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Anybody Seen a Tiger Around Here? - By Tim Cahill


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Posted 31 December 2003 - 10:55

"Anybody Seen a Tiger Around Here?" By Tim Cahill Part -I-

Anybody Seen a Tiger Around Here?


The Caspian tiger might still be out there, wandering the hills of eastern Turkey.

I WAS SITTING IN THE OWL, A SMALL BAR IN A SMALL TOWN in Montana, when I was lifted bodily from the stool-no small feat-and kissed exuberantly on each cheek. "Doctor C.! " Tommy the Turk said by way of greeting. He is a barrel-chested man, bald as a billiard ball, and he wore a blue-and-white woven wool cap, like a yarmulke. I assumed that he was back from one central-Asian war or another. People who know these disputes know Thomas Goltz. A war correspondent and author of certain distinction, Goltz is one of the few Americans who have met and inter-viewed the players in several shadowy and little-understood conflicts. He lectures frequently and once spent a day making the rounds brief- ing the spooks at the CIA. "I've got a quest for you, Doctor," Tommy said.
He showed me a clipping from the London Sunday Express. The lead sentence said that high in the mountains of Turkey "could he a secret which will stun scientists: the return from the dead of a lost species." The article quoted Dr. Guven Eken of the Society for the Protection of Nature: "The Caspian tiger is considered to be ex- tinct, but in southeast Turkey local hunters claim to have seen tigers in the mountains." We toasted Tommy's safe arrival back in Montana and discussed the idea of searching for the ghost tiger. As I recall, this involved a great many toasts. The next morning I woke up with some fuzzy recollection about an agreement to go to Turkey and search for the Caspian tiger with Tommy the Turk, a guy famous for covering wars. Was this a good idea? Would we get shot at? And what the hell did I know about tigers?
One week later, Tommy and I were in Istanbul, along with photographer Rob Howard, who is nicknamed-for reasons impervious to investigative reporting---the Duck. We were sitting at a caf& overlooking the Bosporus and talking with the afore- mentioned Dr. Eken. He was an Art Garfunkel-looking guy who confessed that he had never actually been to southeastern Turkey, didn't know the first thing about tigers, and didn't really actually have the names of any hunters who'd seen one. He'd only heard rumors.
So now we were tracking rumors of a ghost tiger. The less-than- helpful Dr. Eken sought to dissuade us. The southeastern part of the country was "sensitive," he said. "Security" could be a problem.
The problem, in a nutshell, involved the long-running Kurdish insurrection. Twenty million Kurds live in four separate countries, making these folks the world's largest ethnic group without a homeland. (The de facto statelet that has existed in northern Iraq ever since the United States made the area a no-fly zone doesn't really count.) The two dominant Iraqi Kurdish groups are largely sympathetic to Turkey and the United States. A third group, the Marxist-Leninist Kurdistan Workers Party, or PKK, which also op- erates in Turkey, advocates using whatever violent means are nec- essary to establish an independent Kurdish state. The PKK has been largely defanged by the arrest of its leader, Abdullah Ocalan, in February 1999, but pQckets of resistance still exist, especially in the remote, mountainous, little-inhabited areas of southeastern Turkey. The day before, for instance, two insurrectionists; had been killed by soldiers in a prolonged gun battle outside the town of Semdinli, near the border with Iraq. It was Tommy's impressionthat things were winding down in the southeast and that we could talk our way through most military checkpoints. Eken in- sisted that we at least talk with the Society's big-marn- mal man in Ankara, Ernry Can, a man who knew even more about tigers than he did, which seemed, on the face of it, to be pretty much a slam-dunk.
The rest of our brief stay in Istanbul involved sitting around in innumerable of- fices, smoking lots of ciga- rettes, while Tommy talked about tigers in exchange for press passes and letters of introduction. Foreign jour- nalists assured us that we probably couldn't get to certain towns in the south- east. Mostly, we were given to understand that the authorities didn't want to see another story in the foreign media excoriating the Turks for oppressing the proud and noble Kurds. This story is written and broadcast so often it actually has a name: the "cuddly Kurd/terrible Turk" angle. The Turkish military and police strove to suppress such reports, and only weeks earlier American and British TV crews had been expelled from the area. Our quest, we explained to our friends in the press corps, was about cuddly, terrible tigers, and as such, a different matter en- tirely. They were dubious.
In the past week, in fact, I had done some research on the Caspian tiger. Its dossier was fascinating, but surprisingly thin.

Tensions have eased signifi- candy between Kurds and Turks in recent times. Most fighting in the southeast has ended, and speaking the Kurdish language in public is no longer outlawed. Turkey's current elected president, Ahmet Necdet Sezer, has called for many reforms, including ending the ban on teaching Kurdish in schools. In the 1999 elections, Kurdish candidates won the mayoral seats of all major cities in southeastern Turkey, whereas before, Kurds were not even allowed a political party.
-Jv


Historically, the animal once, ranged from western China through the central-Asian "-stans" to Iran, Iraq, Azerbaijan, and Turkey. It was this Caspian variety that gave the striped cats their name: Romans supposedly captured them on the banks of the Tigris, called them tigers, and took them back to the Colosseum for their circuses. This subspecies of Pantera tigris-one of eight to walk the earth over the past few millennia-looked a good deal like the Bengal tiger, with khaki fur and black bands on its back and legs. It was a big animal; only the endangered Siberian tiger is larger. Males measured up to nine feet from the nose to the tip of the tail, and weighed in excess of 500 pounds. In winter, it developed a dis- tinctive bushy coat, which surely added to the various misgivings of travelers considering going mano a paw with one in the snow of a mountain pass. A carnivore status survey conducted in Iran from 1973 to 1976 failed to turn up any evidence of the creature. The last known Caspian tiger was shot in 1970 in the southeast- Turkish town of Uludere.
We took the night train down to the capital city of Ankara and talked with the big-mammal expert, Emry Can, who interrogated us fiercely@he thought we were hunters, looking to knock off the last tiger. Finally satisfied of our innocence, Can admitted that he himself had not been to the southeast, but was planning an expe- dition "next year, or perhaps the year after."
Anything we might find-tracks, confirmed sightings-would be of great significance, he said. Unfortunately, he had no idea where we might start our search.
And so, with no firm destination in mind, we flew to the major town in the southeast, Van, on the shores of Lake Van, the largest freshwater lake in Turkey. There we met up with Saim Guclu, chief engineer of the National Forest, Eastern Anatolia Region, a big, jolly man in his early sixties with a white mustache. Saim would provide a driver and transportation: a small Nissan truck with an extended cab and a forestry-department decal. We would pay for gas and fork over $300 for each day we shot pictures in a national forest. In other words, Saim seemed to be what he claimed, a forestry official, albeit one with his hand out, not an intelligence officer assigned to keep an eye on us. "I am ashamed to admit that I have never been to Uludere, where the last tiger was shot," he said. "We have done no inventory of the animals in these places. Of course, our department has existed only since 1994. Your pres- ence here is very helpful to me, you see."
Saim said he had pored over books and documents in the forestry department for information on the Caspian tiger and had found little there. It was dawning on me that it didn't take much to be an expert on this animal, and that I was getting to be right up there. "If we find evidence that the tiger exists," Saim said, "it will be a great thing, not only for Turkey but for all the world. Wildlife doesn't belong to any one country."
Unfortunately, not everyone shared Saim's enlightened views. "How dare you!" Tommy was saying to the soldier at one of the military checkpoints on the road to Uludere. We were in the forestry-service truck with Saim. and his driver, and we'd been stopped at the sununit of a pass. The soldier had just said, "Why don't you stay home? Why come here and stir up trouble?" By which we knew he meant, "We don't want to read any more cud- dly Kurd/terrible Turk stories."
"How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice before you know what my rmission is?" Something about this gave the soldier pause, and Tommy took advantage of the lull to trot out the passes and letters we'd smoked so many cigarettes to obtain. He explained about the tiger, and the conversation settled down into friendly ban- ter and an invitation to tea. We soon found ourselves in the wooden guard shack, smoking more cigarettes and laughing about one thing or another. My name, for instance, was a matter of great hilarity. In Turkey, no one is named Tim, but many are called Timur, in honor of the fourteenth-century Mongol who conquered much of this part of the world. He was known for his cruelty; he is said to have ordered the deaths of 17 million people between the Black Sea and Delhi. Historical mass murder was looked upon with a degree of respect. It was my last name that was the problem. Cahill is pro- nounced Djaheel in Turkish and means "ignorant." So Tommy and the soldiers sat around drinking tea, smoking cigarettes, passing around my passport, and laughing out loud at my name. Timur the Ignorant: It was like being called Attila the Dope.
We left the guard shack and plunged down a paved two-lane road onto flatter land and then drove parallel to the border with Iraq until we reached the turnoff to Uludere. The narrow road meandered up alongside a flowing green creek lined with white- bark poplars, and we passed an abandoned village of quaint stone houses, each with at least one wall leveled by artillery fire. "We don't know who did this," Saim said, "the PICK or the military. Whoever it was, let Allah strike them blind."
And then we were in Uludere proper, passing ancient houses made of river rock and winding our way through streets crowded with tall, generally slender people with imposing hawk-like faces: Kurds. We stepped out of the truck and were immediately sur- rounded by men, all of them answering our questions at full vol- ume and at the same time. No one knew the man who had shot the tiger in 1970, but there had been a fellow who shot one in the sixties. He was dead. Forty years ago, the paved road we'd driven had been a mule trail. Uludere was now a big town. No one had heard anything about tigers for years.
An old man said there had been lots of tigers in the early six- ties. He had heard them at night while he tended his sheep. They made a sound like the bray of donkey. Not the heehaw sound, but the ahhhh noise they make. Someone else said the animal was so heavy it took three men to carry a dead one, that its track looked like that of a domestic cat, but bigger, with claws as long as a man's index finger. The big cat, he said, seemed to seize the snow: When its paws flexed, the pads would leave little snowballs in the middle of the trail.
We had been talking with the men for about ten minutes when the sub-govenor of the province arrived, along with several policemen. This self-inflated little turd threatened to confiscate our film and detain us until he could ascertain the nature of our business in Uludere. Saim, the Duck, and I retreated to the truck behind a solid wall of Tommy-talk while our driver fired up the engine. A cop put his hand on Tommy's shoulder, but he shook it off, jumped into the truck and said," Go, go, go!"
Back in Van, we were out of ideas. But it was a nice sunny day, and we drove to a dock about twenty-five miles outside of town and hired a boat to take us to the old Armenian church on Akdamar Island.
We'd heard rumors of a Loch Ness-type monster in the lake and we asked the boatman about it. "There are no monsters," he said, "but there are some very large snakes." I assumed he meant eels. "I have never seen one. My father did: He said it was as big around as a fifty-five-gallon oil drum and as long as this boat." The boat appeared to be forty-five feet long. "But," Saim said, "you are de- scribing a monster."
The island was rugged and rocky, and it rose out of the clear blue waters of Lake Van like a shattered sculpture. The domed church, built in the tenth century by the Armenian king Gagik Ardzouni, was surrounded by almond trees, the branches bare and gnarled in the winter sun. The lower walls were covered over in bas-relief. There were depictions of a naked man and woman in a garden, eating something that looked like an apple. There was a knight on horseback spearing something that looked very much like the Lake Van monster. Another sculpture showed a man being tossed from an open boat into the mouth of what could, once again, only have been the Lake Van monster.
More to the point, there were tigers all over the walls. Before the Armenians were eventually driven from the church by the Turks, they had painted animals around the upper dome: goats and wolves and tigers. Lots of tigers.
I sat in the sun, looking out across the lake at the shining, snow-clad mountains, and, thought how, at least in historical times, there'd been tigers here. Also apparently present had been Saint George, and Adam and Eve, along with Jonah and the Lake Van monster.
That night, we walked through the maze of cobblestone alley- ways off the main street ofVan and finally found a shop where one of Tommy's boots could be resoled. The cobbler, Mustafa, talked as he worked. He had never seen any evidence of a tiger around Lake Van, and he hunted birds in the mountains quite often. Still, Mustafa said, if we liked, he could call the most avid hunter he knew and invite him down to the shop to talk. Hahm was a man of fifty-six, a Jack Palance look-alike with long arms and hands the size of canned hams. He agreed that there were no tigers anywhere nearby and hadn't been for many years. He had heard rumors about tiger sightings to the east, however. We should talk to his hunting partner, a baker named Hamid Kaya. "Where does Hamid Kaya live?" Tommy asked. "Semdinli," Halim said.
We drove southeast, passing from checkpoint to checkpoint and moving ever deeper into the mountains. The road took us over a pass in what could easily have been the Swiss Alps with snow sev- eral feet deep. Far below, a narrow valley stretched out as far as the eye could see, and at its farthest extent, hard up against the moun- tains rising abruptly behind it, was the little town of Semdinli. Tiger town, terror town; take your pick.
We drove down the main street, an amalgam of two- and three- story buildings of the type that collapses during earthquakes. Small patches of sooty gray snow lay in the street. We parked next to the bakery and asked if Hamid Kaya, the bread maker, was there. Once again, we were surrounded by Kurds, a dozen or more of them, all wearing some variant of the tribal costume of baggy pants and a cummerbund.
Were we here to talk about the terror, they all wanted to know, and we said no, we were here to talk about tigers. We had read re- ports that there had been several recent sightings. Hunters, the paper said, had seen the animal in these mountains.
"Then they he!" one man shouted. "No one hunts here." The dangers, men on all sides explained, were simply too great. The mountain trails were mined. A hunter could be mistaken for a ter- rorist and shot by the military, or he might be mistaken for a mil- itary commando and shot by the terrorists. Since the insurrection began in 1984, more than 30,000 people had been killed. "No one hunts here:' a man repeated.

"Anybody Seen a Tiger Around Here?" By Tim Cahill Part -I-



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Posted 31 December 2003 - 11:02

"Anybody Seen a Tiger Around Here?" By Tim Cahill Part -II-

Anybody Seen a Tiger Around Here?

"I have been in the mountains," said a distinguished-looking older man wearing a wool sport coat over a pink sweater. Musa Iren, seventy-two, said he had seen a tiger in the mountains not far away, near Yaylapinar. That was eight years ago, and he had tracked it through the snow for two days.
"Do they make a sound?" Tommy asked. "Like a donkey," Musa said. He made an ahhhh sort of sound.
"Describe the tracks." "The tracks were like that of a cat, but as big as my hand, and the claws were as long as my index finger," Musa said. Tommy and I passed a significant look. "Anything else?"
"Yes:'Musa said. "When the tiger walks, he seizes the snow and leaves small balls of packed snow in the middle of the track."
"This is true," said another older man, named Cirkin, who said he shot a tiger, also near Yaylapinar, forty years ago. It required thir- teen rounds from a shotgun to kill the animal, and three men to carry it.
"These animals are not extinct," Musa said. "I guarantee you they are up there. Not just one or two, but many."
There was some general scoffing about this but another man came to Musa's aid. "Because no one hunts-it is sixteen years now-the animals are coming back. Even here, near town, we see more bears and wild goats and wolves and wild pigs. Why not tigers?9'
There were now fifty or sixty men gathered about, all shouting out their opinions. "Listen to me,"Musa said. "You know the vil- lage of Ormancik, on the border with Iraq? Four years ago, a man of that village, HaJi Ak, killed a tiger. He brought me the skin, and I had it in my shop for two years. I could not sell it and gave it back to him."
I was wildly excited as I wrote place names in my notebook: Yaylapinar, Ormancik, Ortaklar. It was at precisely that moment, of course, that we were arrested by the police.
Tommy the Turk-in a typical effort to seize control of the situation-refused to get in the police car. "We'll walk, thanks," he said, as if the officer were a pal who'd just offered him a ride. The crowd had melted away, and we trudged slowly behind the police car as it moved past a green army tank and down a steep hill to- ward the station.
Inside, the two-story cement bunker was a maze of corridors, with cops coming and going every which way, but down the longest hallway was a central office where a man in a stylish suit sat behind an imposing wooden desk. This had to be the chief, and Tommy bulled past the cop who had detained us, rapped once on the open door, and strode in. "Please tell me exactly what is going on here:' he said in Turkish. "We need to know," the chief said in near-perfect English, "what you are doing in our town." As it happened, the chief was a sucker for Tommy-talk, and we left with his personal phone number in case there was any more trouble. He also called the mil- itary commanding officer of the province, Colonel Eshrem.
We were escorted to the army post that dominated the town, and then through a leather-padded wooden door studded with brass tacks, and then through a second padded door, like a kind of air lock. Certain military and police officers we'd met had re- garded our mission as a highly laughable cover story for some nefarious activity or another. The colonel, however, not only believed us but thought the search for the Caspian tiger was a worthy goal. He was a man given to folksy aphorisms. "You search for the tiger," he said. "We say time spent searching for treasures lost is never time wasted."
Regrettably, the colonel could not allow us to travel any farther down the road to Yaylapinar and Ormancik. The two PKK insurgents killed recently had been shot between Semdinli and Ormancik. That was just last week. The rebels were all over the area, and a military strike was planned against them within days.
Still, the colonel thought it would be a grand thing if tigers still existed in the midst of war. There was, he said, thinking aloud, a military exercise the next day. Several village guards, armed Kurds loyal to the government, would be meeting up with his soldiers and continuing on to Yaylapinar. "So, you could get to Yaylapinar with them;'the colonel said. He didn't think the danger would be too great.
"And tonight;' the colonel said, "you will please be my guests. Sleep here, in the barracks."
And so I spent a night in a Turkish military barracks, which, I know, sounds like a fantasy out of a John Rechy novel. (Actually, our private rooms were better than those of any hotel we'd seen.) But the next morning, we were finally on our way, searching for the tiger ... with a military escort. We rode with a Captain Milbray in a jeep Cherokee, between a truck full of uniformed soldiers and an armored personnel carrier, as the convoy made its way along the side of a ridiculously steep slope. Hundreds of feet below, a river churned over the floor of the gorge, and burned-out military vehicles littered the banks.
Captain Milbray didn't buy our tiger story, not even a little bit. "I've been out in these mountains for four years;'he said. I've seen bears and wild goats and wild pigs, but never a tiger. And none of my men has ever seen one."
"Have you ever looked for one?" I asked. "No '" the captain said. "Well, two days ago I shot one. But I ate

it. Even the skin." "What a good joke, Captain," Tommy said.
Presently, the road branched off to Yaylapinar. We stopped for a moment, and suddenly a dozen heavily armed Kurds appeared out of nowhere. They came pouring down the slopes at a dead run, swathed in baggy pants and turbans and curnmerbunds, carrying knives, grenades, and automatic weapons. In the space of thirty seconds we were surrounded, and even though I knew they were with us, it was a little unsettling. This is how fast it can happen to you out here, I thought. And then the Kurds piled into a truck, and we were moving again.
The road dropped into the valley of the Pison River. There were patches of snow on green grass, and cows grazed in the fields. As we pulled into Yaylapinar, dozens of people converged on the jeep. Someone put out white plastic lawn chairs, and Tommy and
I sat down and interviewed a man named Zulfigar, who'd shot a tiger, a female, perhaps ten years ago. "The mark of this animal," Zulfigar said, "is that when it walks, it seizes the snow. The claws are as long as my first finger."
Other men were butting in now, talking about tigers in the old days, and even Captain Milbray seemed to catch the fever. "When you shot the tiger," he asked Zulfigar, "was it before or after your military service? Before or after your first child was born?" In this manner he ascertained that the tiger had been shot not ten years ago, but more like forty.
Still, Captain Milbray was no longer mocking us. "Why," he asked Zulfigar, "did you shoot the tiger?"
"In those days, he who shot a tiger was a hero." "These are not those days," the captain said. "Today, he who shoots a tiger is my enemy. I will see that he goes to jail." As quick as that, I threw an arm over the captain's shoulder, and we thanked each other in the manner of Alphonse and Gaston. We went to another village, Ortaklar, then returned before dark to the army post at Semdinli, where the colonel was waiting to de- brief us. About that time, there was a knock on the padded door. A young officer stood at attention and reported that some village guards in Umurlu had seen a tiger. Word about our visit had ap- parently spread. "When was this?" the colonel asked.
"Five days ago." "Ahh, I don't believe this," the colonel said. "I was there three days ago. They would have told me." "Not," I suggested, "if they were out hunting when they should have been guarding the village." "Just so," the colonel said. "Have the men come to Semdinh."
There were three of them. And yes, they'd been hunting wild goats instead of standing guard, which is why they hadn't said any- thing to the colonel.
It had happened about four miles north of the village, in a labyrinthine area called the Honeycomb Chffi. The youngest of them, a thirty-year-old named Nuri Durmaz, had moved off to the west alone. "There was a little snow," he said, "not a lot. I was about halfivay to the peak. There was an overhanging wall, like a cliff, and I saw something 100 meters away. I couldn't see its head, but it was big. It would have taken two, maybe three men to carry it."
"What color was it?" Tommy asked. "Like my pants," Nuri said. He was wearing khaki pants. "It had black stripes on the legs and resembled a large cat." "Did you shoot it?" I asked.
"No. I was in a bad place. If I only wounded it, it could have torn me apart."
"What did you do?" "I went to get my friends."
And here Nuri's friends chimed in with descriptions of the tracks: claws as long as a man's finger, the little ball of snow in the center of the print. It wasn't the only such creature up in the Honeycomb Cliffs, said one of the men. He'd seen the same tracks in about the same place almost exactly a year ago.
I brought out some pictures I'd copied for just this purpose. There was a drawing of the Anatolian panther, also thought to be extinct; a photo of a- lynx, many of which still roam these moun- tains; and one of a Caspian tiger, taken decades ago in an Iranian zoo. Nuri discarded the panther and the lynx. "This one," he said, holding up the picture of the tiger.
"What do you think?" I asked Saim. "I'd say 50 percent credibility."
The Duck and I both put it at a 70 percent sure thing. The colonel said, "I don't have an opinion to be expressed in a per- centage, but I believe in nature. This is a wonderful thing for Turkey and the world. I will inform my lieutenant in charge of the area to monitor the situation. I will give him a camera and ask him to use his night-vision goggles whenever possible."
Nuri said, "The next time I see this animal, I will kill him for you." "I don't think you should do that," the colonel said. This was expressed as an order. But then the colonel softened his voice. "If these men publish an article, and if peace is established, you will find that people with cameras will come here, and to your delight they will put much money in your pocket."
"This is true?"
"This is true."
"I can almost smell that tiger' " Tommy was saying. We were now on our way to Iraq to try to enter the Honeycomb Cliffs from the southern side of the range.
The colonel had been kind enough to give us a glimpse of a classified map. Unfortunately, the cliffs were also ground zero in the war against the PKK, and there was no way he was letting us get anywhere near them. But Tommy and I had noticed that the cliffs stretched into northern Iraq. So we'd bidden goodbye to our military friends and started driving along the border with Iraq toward the town of Sirnak. Saim was in a state of high excitement. The colonel, he said, had told him that if he were ordered to do so, he, Colonel Eshrem, could use his resources, including heli- copters and substantial manpower, to search for the tigers. If Saim, acting as a forestry-department official, were to write to the colonel's superiors, that order could come through in as little as three or four months.
"I asked him what was the best way to word such a request:' Sairn said, "and the colonel even dictated the letter for me." I gath- ered that forestry agents couldn't always count on enthusiastic cooperation from military officers.
At Sirnak, we parted in an orgy of embraces and kissed cheeks. Saim refused to accept any money, despite our agreement. He was a man of great honor and emotion, and he wouldn't take our lucre, "for the sake of the tiger." He said, "You have done a won- derful thing "
We hired a car and driver in Sirnak, then made a run for Ormancik and the border. Tommy was confident there would be no problem getting into the Kurdish-held territory: He had worked with several aid agencies, helping Kurdish refugees when Saddam Hussein rolled his tanks on his own people after the Gulf War. Tommy still had friends among the former refugees, and, in fact, the cap he wore, the one I had always thought of as a yarmulke, was a treasured gift from an Iraqi Kurdish general.
At the border, however, a Turkish official refused to stamp us out of the country. We spent two days there while Tommy worked the public phones, calling his friends in Ankara in an effort to, in his words, "find someone who'll squash this little prick for me. "
For two days, I sat against a wall while Tommy stood at the phone, talking Tommy-talk as only Tommy can talk. "Look," he was saying to some English-speaking Turkish official in the capi- tal, "We're not actually going into the mountains." (Not unless we could get into Iraq, he failed to say.) "We'll just be doing what we did in Turkey. We talk to the police and to the military and to the people in the villages. We raise people's consciousness, get them thinking about what it means if this animal still exists."
Day two at the border was now slipping into day three. "All we really want to do is make people aware of this magnificent crea- ture " Tommy was saying.
@itting there, listening to all this, it occurred to me that maybe that was enough. For now. Maybe, as the colonel and Sairn had said, we actually had done something wonderful. People should be made aware. Because, in my almost-expert opinion, the tiger is out there.

Tim Cahill is the author of seven books, mostly travel related, including jaguars Ripped My Flesh, Pecked to Death by Ducks, Pass the Butterworms, and Hold the Enlightenment: More Travel, Less Bliss. Cahill is also the editor of Not So Funny When It Happened: The Best of Travel and Misadventure, and the co-author of the Academy Award nominated IAMXfilm, The Living Sea, as well as thefilms Everest and Dolphins. He lives in Montana, and shares his life with Linnea I-arson, two dogs, two cats, and a host offriends.

"Anybody Seen a Tiger Around Here?" By Tim Cahill Part -II-



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