inter hasn’t come yet, but as the leaves fall I start to think about it, and about folk tales, which are most enjoyed during the darkest months of the year. Winter is a time for gathering and reflection, of staying close to home. I may be huddled under a comforter most of the time, but it’s still my favorite season for reading.
There’s something magical about snow falling, transforming the world outside. It’s conducive to a kind of inner storytelling – the sort of daydreaming that kids engage in when they’re trudge home from school through the snow, imaging they’re on a journey in a far-off place. (Probably adults do a little bit of that, too.)
I love to read Russian and Asian tales during the winter. These cultures have fascinating snow creatures – like the Yuki Onna, the mournful ghost woman who lures unsuspecting travelers in winter storms; or the tiger, who is lord and master over the frozen landscapes of the Far East. Indigenous people from Russia, China, and Korea all worship the tiger, for good reason. In the last few years that animal has loomed large in my consciousness, ever since reading John Vaillant’s extraordinary nonfiction book, The Tiger: A True Story of Vengeance and Survival.
The story tells about a man-eating Amur tiger who was shot and killed in the last years of the 20th Century, but it’s also about so much more: the conditions in the Soviet Union after Perestroika, desperate poachers, the Chinese black market for tiger parts, the roots of our primal fear of large carnivores (including the universal interest in dinosaurs evidenced in small children), the history of tigers in the Far East and their relation to men, and of course the tiger of legend and dream.
In fact, it’s Vaillant’s own fascination with how the supernatural seems to weave its way through this particular case in Primorye (the easternmost province of Russia that borders China) that makes his narrative so haunting. Things happen that can’t be readily explained by the known facts regarding animals, and ultimately we’re left to wonder if scientists really know more than the Udeghe people, who have their own ideas about why tigers behave the way they do.
This is a very Russian story in many ways, filled with unforgettable, often tragic characters: Yuri Trush, the head of a unit called Inspection Tiger, charged with investigating forest crimes; Vladimir Markov, the first victim, whose mistake of scavenging a tiger’s kill sets the events of the story into motion; and the tiger himself, whose physical and behavioral characteristics are described at length. (After reading this, one has a better understanding of why dried tiger penises are so coveted as a means of enhancing male virility – even Viagra was named after vyaaghra, the Sanskrit word for tiger.)
Vaillant’s descriptions are often breathtaking, and link the tiger inextricably to the landscape:
When the tiger met Markov, he would have been in full arctic mode: thickly furred in a way his southern counterparts would never be, he was insulated by a dense, woolly undercoat laid over with long, luxuriant guard hairs. From certain angles, he appeared as bushy as a lynx. His tail was a furry python as thick as a man’s arm. This was the winter tiger: not the svelte, languorous creature of long grass and jungle pools, but the heavy-limbed sovereign of mountains, snow, and moonlight, resplendent and huge in his cool, blue solitude.
This is also a story about a hunt. Hunting is a core topic of many folk and fairytales, but has become somewhat less popular as a theme for stories today. This is a shame, because hunting is a kind of narrative in itself, one that’s only partly about death. With the shedding of blood, and the consuming of flesh, there comes transformation. The animals we eat become part of us, and we –if we’re eaten – become part of them.
In the case of Yuri Trush and the tiger, stalking occurs on both sides: they share the roles of hunter and hunted. Certainly, the final confrontation is as pulse-pounding as any moment I’ve ever come across in a book, and one is left in the end with the sense that it’s not quite “over.” I’ll refrain from saying too much about the book because I encourage those who haven’t read it to do so. It will alter your perception of how we as humans relate to the natural world.
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I started thinking about Vaillant’s book again when I recently came across a Korean movie directed by Park Hoon-jung, also called The Tiger, which echoes many of the themes brought up in the nonfiction story. The film has a subtitle: “An Old Hunter’s Tale,” and as it suggests, it’s also about a man, Chun Man-duk, who lives on a mountain in the early years of the 20th Century with his teenage son.
Once upon a time, Chun Man-duk (portrayed here in a wonderful performance by actor Choi Min-sik) was renowned as a hunter. But the death of his wife and the arrival of the Japanese army in Korea have reduced him to a drunkard, and he now gathers herbs to survive. This does not sit well with his son, who hopes to marry a local girl and can’t win her under their present circumstances. It’s a classic conflict between two generations, with the added knowledge that Chun Man-duk and his son represent two sides of Korea itself: the legendary past and the grimly realistic present. They will never be reconciled without bloodshed.
Of course there’s a tiger, too. In this case, it’s an enormous male tiger, the last surviving in Korea, who’s known as the Lord of the Mountain. He is coveted by the local Japanese leader, Governor Maejono, a rabid collector of animal skins and trophies. The governor will deploy every last soldier to bring the beast in by any means possible, but when the tiger continues to elude them (killing dozens of men along the way), the army turns to local hunters, particularly Chun Man-duk, to help out.
One needs an open mind to appreciate the many virtues of this film, for it definitely has its flaws. Its view of tigers tends to skew towards the anthropomorphic, which fits the tone of Korean folk tales, but may irritate viewers who prefer realism. There’s also more graphic violence than was needed. And the film suffers somewhat from the CGI, which jars next to the stunning footage of the Korean wilderness.
That said, suspend your disbelief. This movie’s worth seeing.
More than in any other culture, the tiger is central to the life and lore of Korea. Its creation myth tells of a tiger and a bear who both wanted to be human, and were challenged by the son of the ruler of Heaven to live 100 days in a cave, eating nothing but garlic and mugwort. The tiger soon gave up, but the bear endured and won the challenge. She was transformed into a beautiful woman, and eventually gave birth to Tangun, the legendary father of Korea.
Condemned to remain in animal form, the tiger would always maintain an uneasy relationship with humans. The last known specimen in Korea was, in fact, shot around 1922, but tigers are still firmly a part of the national identity. Korean folk tales often begin, “Long ago, when tigers smoked long pipes . . .” And there are many, many tales that feature tigers as characters.
While they may be ferocious, the tigers of folklore are also somewhat gullible. In one story, a woodsman is ambushed by a tiger. Instead of running, he thinks fast and bows low to the animal, greeting him as a long-lost brother. Moved by the man’s respect and lack of fear, the tiger not only spares his life, but from that day on helps him to hunt his food.
Ghosts of this kind of symbiotic relationship haunt the cinematic tale of Chun Man-duk and the tiger, as they do the real-life story of Vaillant’s book. Both seem to imply that a coexistence between humans and tigers is possible. It’s a relationship based on deep respect, of course, and full acknowledgement that both parties are predators. Yet if the respect for nature is maintained, guided by humility, courage, and a support of family and tradition, both species can thrive.
Park Hoon-jung’s film captures these themes well, despite a few rough spots, and the final two minutes alone are worth the price of admission. Don’t miss this one if you have a chance to watch it.
One quick final note: South Korea has no tigers left, and a huge wall separates the north and the south, preventing animals from crossing the border. What’s interesting is that scientists now believe that tigers may be making inroads into North Korea from Russia. Whether that’s true remains to be seen, but considering that in Primorye the tiger population has risen from some 40 animals a half-century ago to over 500, there’s reason to be hopeful.
The Korean tiger – the largest subspecies of tiger that ever existed – is one creature that deserves to reemerge from the shadows of myth, and back into the real world.