Rescuing Ladybugs. Jennifer Skiff
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try to get tourists here because they bring money. I hope you might write story to bring people here and maybe that money help bears.”
With those words, the path forward became clear, and I resolved to follow it. The key to unlocking the cages was to convince the communist government that there was a financial incentive in treating their native animals with compassion.
“Will you help me talk to the government about this situation with the bears? Will you work with me?” I asked.
Tom placed his hands together in prayer and bowed. When he lifted his head, he was smiling. “Yes. We work together. Thank you, Miss Jenny.”
Before leaving Laos, I presented Tom with a handwritten letter of introduction to Nousay Phoummachanh, a minister secretary for the government and deputy director of the National Ethnic Cultural Park. It extended my gratitude for inviting me to visit. It included my credentials, a description of what I’d witnessed at the park, and a personal offer to provide advice on how to build the country’s tourism trade.
Mount Desert Island, Maine, USA
I returned from Laos with a redirected purpose. Back home in Maine, I tacked a photo of the first bear I met on my office wall. His cries were embedded in my memory, and I decided to call him Fri, the Lao translation of “free.” His rescue was now my priority.
Within days, a fax arrived from the Ministry of Information, Culture, and Tourism in Laos, a response to the letter Tom had delivered. It justified the condition in which the bears were found by stating that there were costs associated with the care of the animals but that money to feed them would be welcome. It also said the government would welcome help to increase tourism to Laos.
My thoughts raced. How could I help increase tourism to a communist country and also free the bears? Laos is naturally beautiful; it has a warm climate and is home to wild elephants, bears, and exotic birds. Those qualities attract tourists. Caged and tortured animals do not. Ultimately, I wanted the bears rehabilitated and released into the wild, but I knew that wasn’t possible. There were no rehabilitation centers for large animals in Laos. There was only one solution.
That night I called Tom, whose role with me had changed from minder to government liaison. I told him that when people travel, they want to leave a country with a positive impression, yet the poor treatment of the bears went against everything Laos, and Buddhist culture, stood for. I suggested the creation of a sanctuary where the bears from the cultural park could live on several acres and where tourists could view them from a distance. Then I offered to build it.
Tom seemed excited by the idea and suggested the Laotian Ministry of Defense might be the correct office to grant land for a sanctuary, not the Ministry of Information, Culture, and Tourism. He offered to meet with representatives of both departments.
Two weeks later I received a fax from the Ministry of Defense. It read:
Dear Miss Skiff,
The Department of Defense will make land available if you will build a sanctuary for bears. Thank you for your interest in Lao tourism.
Lao PDR
It was almost too good to be true, too easy. I was skeptical and excited all at once. I had easily cleared what I’d thought would be a major hurdle. The next step was to find the person to build it.
Through research, I discovered Victor Watkins. In 1992, while working for the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA; today known as World Animal Protection), he’d initiated the first international crusade to help captive bears. The campaign, called Libearty, worked in conjunction with other animal welfare groups to end the practice of dancing bears in Europe and Asia, bear bile farming in Asia, and bear baiting in Pakistan. The campaign’s goal was to expose the exploitation of bears in an effort to get public and government support to end these cruel practices.
Victor had also helped design and build the first bear sanctuary in the world, which had enabled the Greek and Turkish governments to eradicate the use of dancing bears in their countries by providing a home for confiscated bears. Victor Watkins was my man. I picked up the phone and called him in London.
Victor was sympathetic to the cause, but I didn’t have him at “hello.” I explained my intentions to liberate the bears in Laos. When I finished, Victor peppered me with questions: Who would build the sanctuary? Who would pay for staff costs and ongoing food and medical supplies in a third-world country where many people didn’t have those amenities? I had no answers, but I was sure of one thing: I was talking to the single person who could help.
As he politely wrapped up our conversation by wishing me well, I panicked.
“Please, may I meet you?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t commit to a project like this, but yes, we can continue the conversation. I’ll be at the Karacabey Bear Sanctuary in Bursa, Turkey, next month. It’s a permanent home for former dancing bears. Can you meet me there?” he asked.
I looked at my calendar. I was scheduled to be reporting for CNN from a Greek island off the coast of Turkey. It was meant to be.
I called Jon in Australia and asked if he wanted to meet me in Turkey.
Karacabey Bear Sanctuary, Bursa, Turkey
The combined scent of pine and cedar hit me like a spray of perfume as I stepped out of the car at the Karacabey Bear Sanctuary, nestled high in Bursa’s mountains. Victor was waiting, and he embraced me like a long-lost friend. He was younger than I expected for someone with his accomplishments. He looked like he was in his late thirties and had light brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was casually dressed in a collared, short-sleeved shirt and jeans.
As we toured the facility, Victor explained that it had been built in 1993 for a single purpose: as a place to release dancing bears kept illegally in Turkey by displaced Roma populations, often derogatorily referred to as gypsies. The moment the sanctuary was ready, Victor had led a late-night raid to rescue a dozen European brown bears held captive in Istanbul. The mission took eight hours as police and veterinarians worked together to tranquilize the bears, cut their chains, and load them into crates — all during a downpour. After another six hours of traveling, the bears were safely in Karacabey, free from their torturers.
The bears were big, over six feet tall when standing. Most of them were covered in light brown fur with rounded, upright ears. I found it hard to comprehend that these beautiful animals had ever been under the control of human beings. But as Victor explained, most of them had been stripped of their defenses. Their keepers had burned holes into their snouts with blazing metal rods so they could be controlled by a nose rope or ring. Their teeth had been knocked out and their nails removed. And they had been beaten into submission.
In the outdoor enclosure, I could see ten bears. Some were playing together while a few were in rough shape, mentally. One was walking in circles and two were rocking, exhibiting the same behavior I’d noticed at the cultural park in Laos. Victor explained that they suffered from a form of posttraumatic disorder.
The root of the cruelty and suffering they’d endured was an age-old problem: poverty. After centuries of persecution in Europe, many Roma people didn’t have homes or jobs. Some stole bear cubs from the wild because they knew people would pay to watch the bears dance. If people hadn’t paid, the abuse wouldn’t have continued. It is the same as when people pay to take selfies with chained elephants, captured dolphins, tethered monkeys, or lion cubs. Money drives exploitation.
“Let’s talk bear sanctuaries,” Victor said. “Write this down. It’s what you need to know.”
I fished a notepad and pen from my handbag and wrote the following:
1. Sanctuary should include natural bear habitat/forest.
2. Fence. Can be weld-mesh fencing or stone walls. 2–3 meters high. Fence