Pink Boots and a Machete

by Mireya Mayor

  I had no choice but to scroll through the list of available courses to find something else, and I settled on an anthropology course that seemed vaguely interesting. More important, it was scheduled at the perfect time—it didn’t interfere with prime poolside hours for tanning. OK, burning.

  The anthropology professor was tough, and I considered dropping the class more than once. But it was during that class that my passion for animals was rekindled. When she began talking about primates, our closest living nonhuman relatives, I was transported to places exotic and faraway. I came to learn of the plight of these animals, so many of which were on the verge of extinction. As I researched my newfound obsession, I saw that there were no photographs, only line drawings, of some of these animals. I started to ask more and more questions in class and discovered that even at a time when we had set foot on the moon, many places here on Earth had yet to be explored.

  After class one day, I nervously approached my professor—who looked me up and down, stopping at what I’m sure she thought was an all-too-revealing top and too-short skirt, along with platform shoes—and began to ask her a question. But before the words came out of my mouth, she said, “I saw you on TV. You’re a cheerleader.” I thought I would die. She’d seen me wearing the little uniform and shaking my pom-poms. All this before handing me back the assignment I’d turned in late as a result of that Monday night game.

  I gathered my courage and said, “Dr. Taylor, I think I would like to become a primatologist. How do I do that?” I immediately realized how silly I must have sounded, but without missing a beat, she replied, “You need to develop a research question, formulate a hypothesis, and apply for a grant. There’s actually a university grant for women in the sciences, and the deadline is in a couple of weeks.” Noticing that she had answered my question without so much as cracking a smile, I felt like a scholar for the first time.

  Dr. Taylor then asked me about my “other” life as a cheerleader, which had obviously intrigued or puzzled her for some time. As it turned out, Doc, as she soon let me call her, was a huge Dolphins fan. Despite her stern exterior, we shared another couple of interests: shopping and shoes.

  And so began our lifelong friendship. I soon found myself hanging out less with friends, opting instead to spend hours in her office.

  I remember watching Gorillas in the Mist one day and thinking, Oh, my God, that’s it! That’s exactly what I want to do! I want to go live with mountain gorillas in Africa! I was picturing myself wearing camouflage gear in the Rwandan forest, befriending a 400-pound silverback, and waving a machete at poachers when I glanced up at my pink Hello Kitty clock.

  Realizing I was late for practice, I jumped off the couch, wrestled my way into a small black leotard and tights, grabbed my pom-poms, and ran through the door. I figured I could fix hair and makeup in the car. But what I really wanted to do was pick up the phone and call this Leakey guy, who obviously had the financial means and seemingly peculiar bad sense to send Dian Fossey, Biruté Galdikas, and Jane Goodall to live in the wilds, all of whom had little to no background in primate research.

  I wanted to become one of Leakey’s Angels.

  I wondered if Prada would design me a functional yet stylish backpack. I mean, even if the gorillas didn’t know labels, I saw no reason to go out there looking like, well, a bush woman. Designer khakis and fashionable field boots would become all the rage if I had anything to do with it. But even in my dreamlike state, I realized that my newly found ambition to go live in the forest among apes would not excuse my being late to rehearse next week’s halftime routine, which, curiously, had been choreographed to Robert Palmer’s “Simply Irresistible.”

  I arrived at our rehearsal site, Don Shula’s Gym, where I was greeted by my 31 cheerleading colleagues. Funny how the words “colleague” and “cheerleading” don’t exactly roll off the tongue together. I dabbed on some lip gloss and eavesdropped on the week’s latest gossip, which I have to say almost without exception involved a blonde. “Did you hear that Christine is getting kicked off the squad? She was caught out on a date with one of the running backs!” First or second string? I thought. This was a real no-no in the world of professional cheerleading. We all signed contracts clearly stating that fraternizing with the players would be cause for immediate dismissal. Maybe she didn’t know what “fraternizing” meant, I chuckled to myself. Christine was the best cheerleader on the squad, certainly the prettiest. I was sure she’d be given a stern warning, get benched for a game or two, and then all would go back to normal. But just then Christine came out of the locker room with red, swollen eyes, grabbed her belongings without so much as a word or looking at anyone, and exited the gymnasium. Our coach, without wasting a second, clapped her hands to get our attention back into the room and yelled at us to start stretching. The music came on, fear and curiosity filled the room, and everyone just focused on not becoming the target of our coach’s wrath that day. A wrath that had earned her the secret nickname Hitler.

  After practice, a few of the girls and I decided to get something to eat. We had just spent nine hours burning thousands of calories and had passed our weigh-in for the game with flying colors. We had earned a salad with nonfat dressing on the side.

  After we discussed Christine’s fate and the difficulties of the routines, I asked the girls what they saw themselves doing in the future. It seemed a silly question, even to me. I mean, what better way to spend your weekends than cheering on one of the best teams in the NFL? We did have Dan Marino and Don Shula at the time, and two years in a row we had almost gone to the Super Bowl. Besides, in addition to the $25 we were paid for each game, we were entitled to two free tickets for family and friends.

  OK, life was good. But I meant the FUTURE. I told them I had watched Gorillas in the Mist and was thinking about quitting after the season so that I could venture to a remote country, live in the rain forest, make friends with the natives, and track primates.

  “You mean, like monkeys?!” After they stopped laughing, they asked me if I was serious. “I mean, you’d what, like live in a tent? There’s no electricity—how would you dry your hair?” asked one of the girls.

  I had not thought of this.

  I made the point that cheerleading was not something any of us could do forever and that I was thinking of giving it up for the experience of exploring uncharted territory and contributing to science. They thought I was nuts. A few took me seriously, but most laughed, and the conversation devolved to comparing football players and apes. Offended, I grabbed my unsweetened tea and excused myself so that I could give further thought to this “no electricity” business.

  Three

  Cheerleader in the Mist

  JULY 21, 1996: We spent an entire day on the river rowing a dugout canoe, trying to elude the rains. As dusk settled, we spotted monkeys high in the canopy along the water’s edge foraging for fruit. It was my first wild primate observation and I am feeling invincible. Last night—my first night in the jungle—seemed romantic, too. I cooked on a fire, read by candlelight, and went to sleep to the sounds of frogs and a cascading waterfall. But my love affair with nature is over after having spent the entire night in bed with a mosquito.

  That year, with the help of Doc’s glowing letter of recommendation, I received my first grant to study a rare species of monkey in South America, the white-faced saki. I thus started my travels to distant and remote places, in pursuit of some of the most critically endangered animals in the world.

  I had never traveled outside the country before, but how hard could it be to chase monkeys? I approached my coach and let her know that I would not be returning to cheer the following season. She warned me that if I missed summer rehearsals, there was no coming back. That thought had occurred to me, but I was determined to trade in my pompoms for a pair of hiking boots. Pink ones.

  The cheerleaders thought I was crazy. But it was my mom who took my news the hardest. She cried, but she still felt compelled to iron my field clothes, a clear si
gn that on some level I had her support. She probably convinced herself that it was a phase and that her dreams of me becoming a good housewife would not in the end be shattered. I’m pretty sure she was also convinced that I’d been brainwashed by this “Doc” character. But nothing would stop me. I was heading to the Amazon with a few key supplies—a teddy-bear backpack and stylish, black Ralph Lauren vest. Those oversize fishing vests just wouldn’t do.

  Doc introduced me to the director of the Smithsonian Institution’s Guyana project, Dr. Shawn Lehman. He was six four and at one time had played college football, so at least we had football in common. At some point during that meeting, Shawn, whom I secretly nicknamed Dr. Handsome, said, “You don’t look like a scientist.” I was deeply offended, but he was a really good-looking guy, so I smiled. Had it ever occurred to him that maybe he didn’t look like a scientist? What does a scientist look like? I’ve asked myself that many times since. As a former NFL cheerleader, I would not feel welcomed into the scientific community for years. In graduate school I know I was graded more harshly. Later, producers remarked on my looks and said things like “You’re a Sexy Jane running around in the jungle.” “You don’t look like a scientist” was a statement I would come to hear and loathe for years.

  Regardless, Dr. Handsome took me under his wing, offered me a place to stay, and introduced me to other Smithsonian researchers and botanists working in Guyana who could tell me in which trees to look for the sakis and which plants I should avoid. Later, he would poke fun at the high heels and dresses displayed in my room at the research house.

  Feeling confident about my plans, I purchased my plane tickets, the impractical teddy-bear backpack, and a pair of trendy hiking boots. I even had a little room left for a Calvin Klein field shirt and the black Ralph Lauren field vest. Neither of those was officially field clothing, but the CK shirt was military green and the vest looked like real field vests only it had a more flattering fit. The coolest part was that Dr. Taylor took me on the shopping trip. Turns out she’s a bit of a label addict too.

  I dutifully checked off all of the necessary gear on my list: tent, sleeping bag, backpack, water bottles, tweezers, water filter, hair dryer, survival manuals, first-aid kit, hiking boots, flashlights, binoculars, field notebooks, little black dress, and waterproof pens and paper. Who knew there was such a thing as waterproof pens and paper? I certainly didn’t. I also didn’t know that because of deadly snakes and other creatures roaming the forest floor, I would never use that tent or sleeping bag, opting instead for a locally made hammock.

  I weighed my bags, which I knew to be too many, and noted the overweight. I tried to choose which heels and platforms to leave behind but thought it best to pay the extra charge, as I didn’t know which dresses I’d need to match. I justified packing the little black dress, as it weighed nothing and didn’t take up much space. Mine was not at all a bag Charles Darwin would have carried on an expedition, but I explained that thought away by telling myself that men are simply not as fashionable, and, anyway, in the 19th century shoe styles were limited.

  As for cheerleading, I would not return to audition the next season, or any season after that. The cheerleaders took the news of my departure well, though most of them never believed I would go through with my crazy idea. The ones who did believe never thought I would survive to write about it, and the rest never thought about it at all.

  It was finally time to leave. As my mother finished ironing the last of my field pants, I hugged her and assured her that everything would be all right. She reluctantly drove me to the airport, yet she seemed excited that her little girl was flying off to see places she had only read about. My promise to bring her a nice doily seemed to help. I checked myself and my overweight bags in and set off for an adventure that would change not just the course of my life, but also my entire perspective of the world.

  I arrived in Georgetown, the capital of Guyana, to the unfamiliar smells and sights of a developing country. The first thing I noticed was the inordinate number of dogs and chickens on the runway, not exactly what you’d see at Miami International Airport. The city looked like the setting for a fairy tale, with tree-lined streets and quaint Dutch colonial and Victorian houses dating from its days as a Dutch and then British colony. I marveled at everything I saw like someone who’d just been sprung from prison. Off U.S. soil for the first time in my life, my heart beat with anticipation for the adventures that were sure to follow.

  After two weeks of uncertain electricity (it came and went randomly) and no television, no hot water, no telephone, and no air conditioning in that hot and humid country, I started having my doubts. And that was before I even stepped one foot into the forest. In that big, overcrowded city I found myself missing the amenities of “civilization.” Where was a Taco Bell when I needed one? I eventually discovered that Georgetown’s first-ever fast-food chain, a Kentucky Fried Chicken, had just opened within walking distance of my guesthouse—the line to get in went out KFC’s door and past the guesthouse. Suddenly, I began to think of how I could tell my coach that this was all a big mistake and beg her to take me back. But I knew it was too late. Tryouts had passed, and a new blonde had surely filled my place and was now the sole proprietor of my pom-poms. I also missed my mom terribly. But I decided to make the best of a dreadful situation.

  One day I wandered into the market to stock up on supplies. It teemed with the sort of energy you feel in Times Square on a Friday night. I browsed the colorful stalls and purchased nonperishables like peanut butter and sardines. I even bought some reeking dry fish, though I refrained from putting them in my backpack. Fortunately, because Guyana is a former British colony, everyone speaks English. The produce seemed brighter and bigger than I had ever seen in American supermarkets. But it was the reaction to one purchase that really threw me. At a stall I asked, “How much for the Kool-Aid?” and got a very startled look. I found the reaction odd and only later learned that Kool-Aid was synonymous with group suicide in Guyana after the infamous Jim Jones had poisoned more than 900 people with cyanide mixed with it in 1978—this would be the first of many faux pas during the expedition. I picked up a few fruits and vegetables, even though they’d been sitting out in the sun with hundreds of hovering flies. More than ever, I longed for Miami and take-out sushi.

  It was time to sort out the permits, and I was glad to have packed a nice pantsuit and pumps to wear at my meeting with the forest ministry officials. When they invited me to join them for dinner later that week, I knew the little black dress would also come in handy. In all it took—or rather wasted, given my dwindling funds—two full weeks of meetings with government officials and University of Guyana authorities to finally get approval to conduct research in the jungle. It was frustrating how many people’s hands each paper had to pass through and with what precision each and every stamp was applied. But in the end, we were legit. We had successfully convinced the authorities that we weren’t there to steal their saki monkeys.

  Now we could head to the jungle. Dr. Handsome and I and our team would leave early the next morning. As I helped load things into the car, I noted that my backpack weighed more than the others and that my never-broken-in hiking boots were already giving me blisters. Other than that, I was feeling pretty good. Shortly after, one of the scientists, a well-seasoned botanist, succumbed to malaria and had to stay back at the house. A harsh reality, I thought, of life in the wild.

  We spent one day driving dusty, potholed roads, two days on a small riverboat, and three days hiking. It was a grueling trek, as I’d been warned; at night we’d sleep in hammocks attached to trees. We were in pure wilderness, with few amenities to ease the way. This area was called the Land of Many Rivers, and to cross them we had to throw ourselves in waist deep. The worst was that the rivers were infested with piranhas, which are known to bite their victims once, ripping out a chunk of flesh and leaving a round, crater-shaped wound. Stories of people being attacked and eaten by ferocious schools of piranhas quickly came to mind
, despite reports that there is little scientific evidence for such behavior. The same reports said that at least three of the people supposedly killed that way actually died from heart failure or drowning and were feasted on only later. Suddenly, my enthusiasm for venturing farther into the wild was replaced by fears of the unknown, of not being able to keep up, and of being attacked and eaten by fish, whether before or after drowning. We were almost at our destination, and I was wishing I were dead. Just not because of piranhas.

  We arrived at an Amerindian village on the jungle outskirts, and I showed the villagers our hard-earned permission papers. Not a building in sight, just a sea of green, a jumble of trees, and rivers that had yet to be explored. But here in the middle of nowhere I was far from alone. In fact, within minutes of arriving I was at the center of a circle of villagers who had somehow heard of our arrival. They had rarely if ever seen foreigners. Finally, a group of brave little girls approached. I thought for sure they could smell the last of the Jolly Ranchers hiding in my bag. But it wasn’t the candies they were after. One little girl reached out and touched my arm with a finger, then yanked it away as if burned. The other girls followed suit. They then proceeded to touch my hair, giggling uncontrollably. I didn’t think it would be all right for me to do the same, so I just stood there. Proclaiming that the show was over, a village elder came to my rescue and took me into his thatched hut like you would a lost puppy.

  I knew then I would be OK.

  Living in that village was an incredible experience. Though I felt hugely out of my element, at the same time I couldn’t have felt more at home. The villagers were very friendly and hospitable. Here was a place where food was scarce and people went shoeless and wore clothes with more holes than my scientific theories, yet they were feeding and sheltering me, treating me as their own. Subsequent travels to other impoverished countries showed me that that generosity was not the exception but the norm. I felt immensely humbled.