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Tuesday, August 29, 2000
Heroes of China's Wasteland
Troops of the Tibetan Wild Yak Brigade sacrifice youth and health--and sometimes their lives--to protect endangered antelope from poachers seeking prized fur. But the force itself faces extinction.
By CHING-CHING NI, Times Staff Writer
KEKEXILI, China--Night falls. Headlights blaze. Hundreds of Tibetan antelopes, many
of them pregnant, gallop toward the deathtrap. Shots echo. Animals
shriek. Dust turns pink.
The poachers drive off. A skinned antelope wakes up dripping blood,
scurries a few steps, collapses.
Next day. Baby antelopes cling to life, nursing on the cold breasts of
mothers killed for their fur.
This is the ritual that fuels the lucrative trade in shahtoosh shawls
and scarves sold illegally in the West.
This is the memory that turns a ragtag army of husky Tibetan men into
weeping storytellers. This is the reason they cast their health and youth
to the wind, surviving on dry ramen noodles and melted ice, to hunt down
the hunters.
Calling themselves the Yemaoniu Dui, or the Wild Yak Brigade, these 32
guardian angels of the vanishing antelopes have come to personify a kind
of old-fashioned heroism fast fading in a changing country obsessed with
the pursuit of personal wealth.
But like the animals they're trying to protect, the Wild Yaks face
extinction. Threatened not only by well-armed poachers and forbidding
terrain, they've also become something of a rogue guerrilla force pitted
against a rival group set up by the government to do the same job. And
their past haunts them: Years ago, desperate for money, the Wild Yaks
sold some of the antelope fur they had retrieved from poachers.
Yet as their folklore spreads, for most Chinese it is their
imperfections as much as their valor that make their story so
spellbinding.
The men keep saying two Tibetan names over and over, like a prayer:
Suonandajie and Zhabaduojie, consecutive leaders of the troop, both cut
down in their prime.
Suonandajie--who, like most Tibetans, used only one name--was the
first to venture into the vast wilderness in western Qinghai province
called Kekexili, a Mongolian word for "beautiful young girl."
The rest of Qinghai is known for its harsh labor camps, sparse human
population and research centers for China's first atomic and hydrogen
bombs. The Dalai Lama was born in the province, most of which once
belonged to Tibet.
Nearly every inch is covered by sweeping grassland, much of it dry and
brown. Nothing grows for hundreds of miles except telephone poles. The
average altitude is 15,000 feet above sea level; icecaps and mountain
ridges are the only road signs. The skies are so tempestuous that a hot
summer afternoon could suffer the wrath of snow and hail. The winters are
a gamble with God.
In 1992, Suonandajie first targeted the illegal gold diggers who had
poured into the region by the tens of thousands. The gold rush that began
in the 1980s was like a plague of locusts on these vistas that had been
left undisturbed for many millenniums. In a flash, riverbeds were sifted
dry, rare animals were slain for food.
Those who couldn't find gold soon discovered something worth a lot
more.
The Tibetan antelope, or chiru, is an endangered species seen only
near the treacherous peaks of western China. This goat-like creature
produces the finest wool in the world. Its undercoat is of such high
quality that a shawl can be slipped through a wedding ring, thus gaining
the moniker "ring shawls."
Although the shahtoosh trade has been banned under international law,
the garments continue to be bought, almost exclusively outside China,
reportedly for $1,400 to $15,000 apiece. Poachers make less than $100 per
pelt--already a small fortune in China. But the price escalates as the
fur is smuggled abroad and sent to scarf makers and retailers.
Each shawl marks the death of at least three animals. Nearly 20,000
antelopes are slaughtered every year, but many buyers of scarves in the
West are still under the illusion that no animal is killed. In fact, at
the home of shahtoosh production in the Indian state of Jammu and
Kashmir, until June the only place in the world where it remained legal
to make garments from the wool, manufacturers still insist that the fine
fur is collected from bushes and trees after the antelopes shed their
fleece.
That's a lie, according to those who patrol the thousands of miles of
great empty expanses here. There are simply no trees onto which that much
fur could cling. And there is no way to get near the creatures without
shooting them. The Wild Yaks say they've talked about the idea of
domesticating the wild animals but realized that they don't have the
resources or the knowledge to do so.
When Suonandajie reached Kekexili in 1992, about 200,000 antelopes
roamed the highlands, running in breathtaking herds of hundreds and even
thousands. Now, perhaps fewer than 50,000 are left, their packs cut down
to just a few dozen each, at most reaching the low hundreds, said members
of the Yemaoniu Dui.
On a numbing winter's night six years ago, Suonandajie and his team of
four men captured 20 poachers and seven trucks loaded with up to 800
fresh kills. As they were making the long trek back to civilization, the
captives turned on them. Suonandajie was shot dead as he was reloading
his gun.
Zhabaduojie, Suonandajie's brother-in-law, picked up the mantle.
"The Tibetans have a tradition--the unfinished business of the dead
must be completed by the living," said Aoyang Rongzong, who watched his
friend painstakingly round up 59 men to join him in the cause.
A year later, Zhabaduojie was found dead in his home with a gunshot
wound to the head. The official conclusion was suicide. To many, his
death remains a mystery.
After the deaths of the charismatic Suonandajie and Zhabaduojie, the
earthy Liang Yinquan took over the leadership.
The 47-year-old looks like a burly Santa Claus in Chinese army green.
In his youth, he was an ace cavalry cadet and police detective.
Zhabaduojie personally recruited him from the lowlands to be his deputy.
But up here near the ceiling of the world, Liang feared that he could
never measure up to his Tibetan predecessors.
One of three Han Chinese in the group, he's the only one not raised in
the high-altitude climate. The thin air still makes him woozy. If he
could afford it, he would be popping pills to protect his bad heart.
"After Zhabaduojie died, everybody was afraid I'd leave," Liang said,
sitting in his concrete-floored living room, beneath his favorite poster
of Chairman Mao. "It would be the end of this army. I was torn. Can I do
it? Can I lead this team? Then the men got on their knees. I didn't know
what to say."
Since then, the Yemaoniu Dui has cracked 92 cases, confiscated 8,601
antelope skins, 101 vehicles, 114 rifles and semiautomatic weapons, plus
140,000 rounds of ammunition, and taken 376 suspects into custody.
Although the brigade desperately needs the firepower--its 32 members have
a total of five guns--all of it has gone to the state, as have the
confiscated skins.
"Despite our efforts, we were able to prevent only 20% of the antelope
skins from reaching the market," Liang said. "At this rate, the antelopes
will be wiped out in eight to 10 years."
Group Gets By on a Pittance
And by no means is the future of the Yemaoniu Dui assured. There's no
money because the county of Zhiduo that the group reports to is dirt
poor. Of the 32 men, only eight make between $85 to $146 a month. The
rest are temporary workers drawing a pitiful $32 a month. That's too
little even for the no-frills lifestyle in their home base of Golmud.
On that pittance, the brigade patrols a wide swath of the crater-like
plateau of Kekexili, a jurisdiction covering more than 30,000 square
miles. The Wild Yaks make the rounds about 20 times a year. Each trip
takes anywhere from a week to two months to complete. Just gasoline and
repair costs eat up more than $2,000 per journey. The county can afford
to give only about $37,000 a year; the rest comes from private
contributions in China and abroad, this year totaling about $60,000.
"Without these donations, we cannot survive," Liang said. "But this is
still not enough. We are still about $34,000 in debt."
Compounding their troubles, the state created a nature preserve three
years ago, to better protect the area's endangered species. According to
the Wild Yaks, not only did the office-bound bureaucrats leave out the
most important breeding ground for the antelopes, they created a separate
agency to carry out the anti-poaching mission. That left the Yemaoniu Dui
in a state of limbo. Tensions began to brew.
The Wild Yaks claim that the well-financed rookies patrolled just once
in three years. Not only did they not catch anything, the Yaks say, they
embarrassed themselves this summer by running out of gas and having to be
rescued.
The rookies concede that the Yemaoniu Dui has more experience but say
that they also made forays, albeit shorter ones, into the mountains and
didn't return empty-handed. In return, they criticize the Yemaoniu Dui
for having in the past sold the antelope skins it confiscated and for
continuing to wear police uniforms when not all the men are certified.
"If the government guaranteed our funding, we would never have done
such a thing," Liang said of the pelt sales. "That was when we first got
started. We had nothing. We sold 20% of what we caught so we could
protect the 80% that still faced death. We don't do it anymore--why do
they keep mentioning it?"
As for the uniforms, the government can't afford to make everybody
full-fledged police officers, Liang said. Out on the frontier, criminals
would never fear them if they didn't look official, so they wear the
uniforms.
According to Liu Zhong, a director of the new organization, any
conflict between the two groups should be minimized by the fact that they
share the common goal of protecting the animals.
"I think it would be best if we combine the two forces," Liu said.
"The leaders have already discussed it. It's just a matter of time."
As to why the Wild Yaks were left out in the first place, nobody
knows. Nor does anyone deny the pioneering effort that has made the
Yemaoniu Dui legendary among a fledgling wave of Chinese
environmentalists and college students.
Even though most of the men haven't been paid since May, they continue
to work. As always, they use their own meager savings to buy food and
clothing for the long trips. Most settle for cheap ramen noodles, salty
pickles and buns, which become frozen bricks by the time they bite into
them.
Shabby Homes and Chronic Ailments
Until last year, the whole gang, including wives and children, lived
in a rundown three-bedroom apartment above the group's shabby office.
They finally managed to buy a block of simple brick homes so that the
married could have their own space while the 16 single men squeeze two or
three to a room.
All of them have stomach ailments from irregular eating habits and
severe arthritis from wading through icy rivers and falling asleep
soaking wet.
Then there's the race against time to catch fast-driving poachers,
some armed to the teeth. The Yemaoniu Dui have their five guns and five
rickety vehicles. Their prized stallion is a 10-year-old Toyota Land
Cruiser that has already clocked more than 150,000 miles. If Buddha is
willing, maybe it could run another 10 years.
A rich brotherhood bonds the men and keeps their spirits surprisingly
high. No one thinks twice about sharing, even if it's just a chipped cup
of Tibetan butter tea or a few cheap Chinese cigarettes.
Their members include ex-military and a man once put away for
participating in a brawl, high school graduates and herdsmen who never
went to school, and even two men who are reformed poachers.
"I gave the prime of my life to Kekexili. I have no wife, no children
and nothing to my name. I have no regrets," said Jiangwenzhaxi, a
29-year-old Tibetan with the physical bearing of a Harvey Keitel. He gave
up a chance to go to a traditional Tibetan medical school when he
enlisted in the brigade five years ago. "I tell my parents we eat well
and live well here. Otherwise they would never let me stay."
If they were to leave the Yemaoniu Dui, the men could probably land
better-paying jobs. All of them drive, and most can fix cars. Nearly half
the original 59 men have already quit for health or family reasons.
Riga is so handsome, he might be a teen idol in another life. He
nearly left the group when his girlfriend agreed to marry him early this
year. Then he went on a fund-raising trip to Beijing and nearby Tianjin.
"A 6-year-old girl told me she loved animals and donated her entire
savings of $365. A taxi driver who found out who we were told us, 'You
work so hard, the ride is on me.' How could I leave now?" said Riga, now
happily married to his girlfriend, who worries about him but supports his
career wholeheartedly.
As for his buddies who wonder if they can hack it anymore, all they
have to think about is the carnage that drew them here.
"Even the poachers don't have the heart to watch the abandoned babies
die," said a wild-haired Garenqin. "Some even cut out a dead antelope's
nipple and stuck it onto a soda bottle filled with powdered milk. We
tried feeding the babies too. But they can't make it, not without their
mothers."
Copyright 2000 Los Angeles Times
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