Making the world safe for big cats

Alan Rabinowitz was on a routine mission deep inside a Burmese jungle when news reached him about the attack. In a nearby camp of rattan gatherers a juvenile elephant had just been set upon by a tiger. The intrepid wildlife expert from New York decided to investigate.

Sure enough, the still-jittery elephant calf had rake-style claw marks on its flank. Mr. Rabinowitz peeled off from his obligatory government escort to track the attacker. Near a bank of thick undergrowth, he had "a gut feeling," he says. "I was looking at the jungle and sensed a presence in there watching me. I don't think it was intuition; it was knowing my animal so well."

He threw a rock into the tall grass. Suddenly there was a mighty rustle, followed by the receding sound of a large animal sprinting through the forest. Closer inspection revealed the fresh pug marks (paw prints) of a tiger having lain in wait.

Rabinowitz was relieved – but not for the reason you or I would have been: He was glad the tiger was there. "When we start bringing the number of tigers up," he says, "they're bound to have run-ins with people." And that's great, he adds, because friskier tigers may testify to a beleaguered species on the rebound – even if that causes problems for villagers in the area.

"I didn't go to Myanmar [Burma] to help people," says Rabinowitz, director of science and exploration for the Wildlife Conservation Society based at the Bronx Zoo who recently passed through Bangkok, after spending two months in Myanmar. "I went there to save tigers."

And save them he does. Ironically, though, that invariably entails helping people. Take Ah Puh, a Lisu hunter expert at trapping tigers in remote northern jungles of Burma. The area is populated by impoverished ethnic minorities who often exchange exotic animal parts with Chinese traders for their most prized commodity: salt.

As recently as the 1980s, dozens of tigers were poached every year in Burma's forests; today, only around 80 remain, Rabinowitz says. They, too, are doomed, he adds, unless locals like Ah Puh endorse his message of wildlife conservation.

So, hiking into backwoods hamlets, he told tribesmen (through interpreters) about the long-term ecological benefits of livestock husbandry over traditional ways of hunting. He then gave them fast-breeding piglets.

"Turns out pigs there can't just wallow in their filth like back home because they get killed by parasites," he notes. "But now locals know how to raise pigs in the jungle. As do I."

Loath to tell hand-to-mouth hunters never to stalk game at all, he brought slides and printed posters to showcase endangered species: the Asiatic black bear, the clouded leopard, the sambar ( an Asiatic deer).

Ah Puh was among the persuaded, Rabinowitz says. Having traded in his crossbow and poison arrows, the Lisu man now earns a living helping the American's locally recruited team of wardens to pinpoint sites for the infrared ray-triggered cameras that monitor tigers.

"One of our wardens just reported seeing a mother with two cubs," Rabinowitz says cheerfully.

That's solace enough, he suggests, when facing his critics who often don't approve of his tactics in conservation. Human rights advocates, for example, accuse him of being a dupe of Burma's repressive military regime.

Built like Rambo, with ruggedly handsome features, Rabinowitz has the storybook look of an explorer. His talisman is a jade sun god pendant from Mayan temple ruins that he stumbled upon in Belize's Cockscomb Basin, where he tracked jaguars and set up the world's first reserve for the spotted cats in 1984. He has other physical mementoes – including a boxer's nose – from a litany of adventures, including a crash landing in the jungle.

The dashing figure that Rabinowitz cuts is at odds with his Brooklyn childhood. A stutterer, he was the target of playground ridicule. To fend off tormentors, he began lifting weights and taking boxing lessons at age 10. Between kindergarten and sixth grade, he says, he stopped talking altogether. To people, that is. After school, he'd lock himself in his room and pour his heart out to his pet turtles, hamsters, and gerbils. "I made a promise that if I ever got my voice," says Rabinowitz, who still occasionally stutters slightly, "I'd use it to try to save animals."

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