works by w.pham

works by william pham, 2005-present

Eulogy for the Baiji

The baiji, which goes by a variety of names, such as Chinese River Dolphin, or Goddess of the Yangtze, was declared "functionally extinct" on the precipice of the new year in 2006. Thirty scientists searched for a specimen of the dolphin for six weeks, trawling the waters of the Yangtze River in research vehicles, covering a distance of over two thousand miles before turning around and poring over the same two thousand miles just to make sure they weren't wrong.

Every mile that passed must have been exhausting for the scientists, their ears pressed to microphones, listening for the song of the baiji, and tired eyes examining and reexamining maps and charts of ever-decreasing populations. Like sailors chasing after mermaids, eventually they realized that they were no longer searching for the baiji itself, but its ghost.

Did they cry? Did they mourn the baiji? It is not a classically endearing animal. In fact, it's somewhat ugly. Unlike the bottlenose dolphin, who serves as the model for Flipper, and whom we admire for its playful nature, and sleek form, the baiji is round and chubby, with a disproportionate snout, short fins, and tiny black eyes. Compared to other dolphins, it has poor eyesight and hearing. If dolphins ever picked teams for a game of dodgeball, the baiji would be one of the last to be chosen, treading water anxiously, waiting for its turn.

And yet, there is an undeniable beauty to the animal, perhaps because it is so unique. The phrase "functionally extinct" means that, even if there are still live specimens, the population is not large enough, practically speaking, to maintain the existence of the species. And so, passing into 2007, the world has lost a beautiful thing.

What would it be like to be the last of the baiji? Despite the physical shortcomings of the species, he is an intelligent animal. Perhaps he still swims the waters of the Yangtze River, calling out to his brothers and sisters, his cousins and uncles, his mother and father. He retraces the route of the scientists, mistaking their prerecorded sonar signatures for the dulcet tones of an ex-lover.

Perhaps, like two lovers in a Haruki Murakami short story, they pass each other on opposite sides of the Yangtze River, below one of the three major bridges of Wuhan. The drone of automobile and railway traffic drowns out their calls. They once loved each other, here, at Wuhan, before the third and newest bridge was constructed. They cannot see each other because of the pollution of men now clouding the once-pristine waters. And so they pass each other, on opposite sides of the Yangtze River, and they will die alone, and some day they will be forgotten.

This is the way of things. But maybe, just maybe, the ghosts of the last two baiji will reach out to each other from opposite sides of the Yangtze, and know some small measure of peace before they fade away.