Pink Boots and a Machete

by Mireya Mayor

  Peter arrived in camp that day, too late to see the sifakas’ brief debut and with less than good news. On the long hike up, a blister on his foot had become infected. As I knew all too well, infections in the tropics can turn deadly in a matter of hours. His foot, red and swollen, would make it impossible for him to maneuver the terrain. Feverish, he had lost his appetite, and you could barely see where his foot ended and his toes began. The infection was already beginning to show signs of going systemic. I recognized the signs from my Guyana basketball hands, gave him medication, and volunteered to clean his wound.

  We decided to try antibiotics for a night before deciding whether to get Peter out of the forest. Even with two good feet, the five-hour hike was treacherous; using a crutch, it was impossible. Less than two days in the field, and we already had a crisis. Fortunately, by morning Peter’s foot had improved and, eager to stay, he decided to remain in camp writing dispatches. We quickly scarfed down a breakfast and divided into two teams.

  The team consisting of Pat and Mike with Felix, Safia, and Desire would scour the forest in search of the silky sifaka. With Loret and me, the second team would walk the transect lines. One of our goals was to conduct a census of the number and kinds of lemurs in Marojejy. To do this, we set up transects along the existing trails and posted small, bright-orange flags every 82 feet from base camp. This would allow us to identify and reference exactly where we were when we found the animals. Once we’d established transects, we walked quietly, stopping every 50 feet to look up and around in the trees.

  At first it seemed as if the forest was still asleep; the only sounds were raindrops falling and what our guides called the “barking crab,” which may have been a frog. Suddenly, we heard lemurs directly over our heads. By their loud grunting noises we knew they were not silkies, but rather a group of white-faced brown lemurs. We noted what we saw and continued the search. Shortly after, we came upon a group of gentle gray bamboo lemurs, which quickly scuttled into the treetops, prompting an excited whisper from our guide, “Maybe we’ve found our lemurs,” as this species is often seen traveling with silkies. We all looked and hoped, but we had not.

  We hiked up our mile-and-a-quarter transect and then turned back because we had reached the mountaintop and the trees had become shrubs. Discouraged, I had to remind myself that the trek had not been a total waste. We had seen lemurs, even if not the ones we were looking for; observed a paradise flycatcher with its gorgeous, long tail feathers; spotted a black, squiggly fungus resembling its name, dead man’s finger; and found several miniature waterfalls spilling out of the hilltops. A great day, indeed, by anyone else’s standards. Besides, as our guide, Desire, had pointed out in the beginning, it can take more than a week to catch a glimpse of these animals. So we had already been lucky. But as we descended to camp, the morale seemed to plunge like a waterfall. We had climbed (and slipped) all day and had not seen or heard our sifakas.

  At a point only about 1,000 feet from camp, I happened to look up at what resembled a soft cloud. There were our angels, the silky sifakas. They came down the trees and sat close, within five feet of us. They seemed to be just as curious about us strange, bipedal creatures as we were about them. Needless to say, we were elated. I had every piece of camera equipment out, and in the dark understory my flash went off constantly. But it didn’t seem to bother them. On the contrary, they appeared to be more than happy to pose for the camera.

  A half hour later we realized they were not running away as before. They continued to sit, munching on young leaves and grooming one another, seemingly ignoring us. At one point, they even hung suspended by their hind feet and twined together in play. More than three hours later, they seemed to have had enough of performing for their newfound friends and continued on to the sleeping tree. We followed and it was there we left them, all snuggled up together.

  Back at camp we gathered beneath the cook’s tent for a meeting. Just then the skies opened up, and everyone squeezed in tight under the overhanging cloth. Monsoonlike conditions notwithstanding, tomorrow would be a big day. This site was one of only two for the silky sifakas, and in the morning Marojejy was to be designated a national park. With an audience of politicians and bigwigs at the base of the mountain, we would attempt to capture some animals for study. “God forbid anything goes wrong,” said Pat in a tense and excited tone. Silently staring into the coals of the fire while awaiting our dinner of rice and corned beef, I think we were all praying to the ancestors. Exhausted from the day’s trek, Pat and I made a dash for our tent with rain pelting down, while the Malagasy sang traditional songs by the fire. Once we were in our sleeping bags like two schoolgirls at a slumber party, I opened one of the bottles of wine I had swindled from Air France. It was the first time I’d seen Pat nervous. We talked about all the things that could go wrong the next day, like accidentally wounding or even killing a lemur. With park ministry officials there as witness, such a mistake could spell death to our careers. A couple of bottles of wine later, we were asleep.

  Nerves awakened me before dawn. Today was the day. Looking outside my tent door, I could see our field assistants Zoky and Randriansy fanning the fire and readying the pots. Loret, Felix, Pat, and I set out from camp before the water had even begun boiling to make sure we would find the sifakas sleeping in the tree where we’d left them. It was still dark as we crossed the stream and headed up a slick trail, making long slip marks in the mud. The rest of the team would find us easily. By 7:30 a.m. Loret’s blowgun was in full swing, and we had four drugged sifakas in our hands, three males and one female. The trails were too slippery and dangerous to make it back to camp with the lemurs. Instead, we would improvise a makeshift field lab in the forest and work up the animals then and there. Pat and Safia ran back to get more supplies and alert Peter, who was still tending to his foot but would manage to join us.

  Loret and I laid the sifakas on burlap sacks, fast asleep, white-furred chests gently breathing in and out. We shielded their faces from the sun with broad green leaves. I stepped back and looked at these gorgeous animals. With black and pink faces, ears nearly lost in the plush, and white fur covering their long, sinuous bodies, they looked more like stuffed toys from FAO Schwarz than anything real.

  We began taking the first sifaka’s measurements, laying a measuring tape along its long limbs and tail. Felix and I weighed each animal using a handheld scale and measured its teeth with calipers. Their fur was soft and silky, and it was easy to get lost in their beauty, though I did notice their nails were as badly in need of a manicure as mine. Pat, who had returned with the supplies, instructed me to repeat the measurements aloud as I wrote them down so that there’d be no errors, reminding us, “If we get the number wrong, it’s the wrong number for this species.” She was right. Scientists and government officials would rely on our data to help preserve the silky sifaka and its little remaining habitat.

  With a steady hand but racing heart, I began to take blood from each animal’s vein before the anesthetic wore off. The blood samples, once processed back in the States, would tell whether this geographically isolated species warranted elevation from subspecies to full species, thus increasing its chances for protection. While Loret and I did most of the work on the animals, Pat kept a watchful eye, offering direction, advice, and—by her beaming smile—support and approval.

  While the park officials looked on, Pat, Peter, and I—like kids with a new puppy—took turns holding the sifakas, keeping them warm as they came out of the anesthetic. “Tomorrow, June 5, is the National Day of the Environment in Madagascar,” said Pat as she cuddled one of the slowly awakening males. “It’s a big celebration. The prime minister will be there, and many other important Malagasy officials. With the new Marojejy National Park, it’s such an auspicious moment to be helping these beautiful animals.” Peter sat happily with a sifaka on his lap, knowing he was witnessing history in the making.

  Cradling the young female, I was relieved that our mission had been successful and the f
uture of these animals held promise. As the fleshy pad of her finger curled around mine like a human baby’s, I hoped one day my as-yet-unborn children would be lucky enough to witness her gliding through the trees.

  When they began grunting, a “moving call” sound sifakas use, we knew it was time to return them to the trees. Loret and I carefully placed them in breathable rice sacks, which would keep them calm until they were fully restored to consciousness. Then, under a darkening sky, we carefully opened the sacks and offered them branches to cling to, their opportunity to climb back to freedom. Eagerly, one by one, they wrapped their fingers and opposable thumbs around the branches and scurried up into the tree, pausing halfway up and looking back at us as if to say goodbye. They would not remember that anything out of the ordinary had happened. I, on the other hand, would never forget it.

  So what is the connection between this story and how I became a wildlife correspondent? Timing. I neglected to mention earlier that back at MICET I had also met my soon-to-be boyfriend, and now ex-boyfriend, Luke Dollar. A handsome and charismatic Southerner, Luke is the world’s foremost expert on fossas, the pumalike creatures that eat my sweet-faced, slow-moving lemurs for lunch. Clearly, our relationship was destined to fail, but my visit to his field site would forever change my life.

  Still feeling green from the previous night’s soiree celebrating the new park, I made my way to Luke, flying across the island to Mahajanga, a seaport with beautiful beaches, a coconut-lined boardwalk (La Boru), and a hot climate that is virtually rain free for eight months a year. Obviously, Luke had excellent taste in field sites. He met me at the Hotel La Piscine, and we took long walks on the beach and talked about our shared love for Madagascar. He mentioned that a National Geographic film crew would be spending a few weeks at his field site, a 2.5-hour drive away, starting early the next morning. I was excited to see the film crew and fossas in action.

  A far cry from the beachy scene at Mahajanga, Luke’s site, Ampijoroa, was a mosaic of dense, dry forest on the country’s west coast. Temperatures soared above 100 degrees, causing sluggishness and malaise in the camp. All work was done before noon, followed by a long nap; work resumed in the late afternoon when temperatures subsided. Here you would have killed for a dip in the ocean.

  With the National Geographic crew at the site, the fossas lived up to their reputation for elusiveness, failing to surface or rather succeeding at remaining undetected. Fearing the crew would have to leave with no footage, the film producer asked if I at least would be willing to go on camera and talk about the lemurs found there. I agreed to do so, of course.

  At 7 a.m. about two weeks after the film crew arrived, the temperature already into the high 90s, we headed to the fossa traps that so far had yielded only disappointment. At last, in a trap baited with chicken, stood the sleekest and most feral mammal I’d ever seen. The fossa’s muscular head turned to watch us, its catlike eyes focusing on the blowgun Luke was preparing with an anesthetic dart. Patiently, we waited for the animal to position its body correctly to receive the drug. In minutes, we were rushing toward the cage. I helped Luke carry the fossa back to camp, where a series of measurements, not unlike the ones I made on the lemurs, would be carried out. It would have been hard not to notice the fossa’s pungent odor. Musky would be the nicest way to describe it. Once again I felt lucky to be working with sweet-smelling lemurs.

  Fossa now filmed, the producer asked if she could pitch my story—namely, the “bubbly ex-cheerleader primatologist studying critically endangered lemurs”—to National Geographic for a second film. Delighted, I said yes, not really believing it would happen. Several weeks later, en route from another expedition to one of my previous field sites, I received an email saying a film crew was flying in and would arrive soon. It had been weeks since I’d checked email, and when I looked at the date, I realized “soon” meant tomorrow.

  The film crew arrived and completed a one-hour documentary on me and the silky and Perrier’s sifakas, which would air as part of National Geographic’s acclaimed Explorer series. Later, back in New York, a cryptic yet intriguing phone call invited me to visit Geographic headquarters in Washington, D.C.

  The minute I walked through the doors of the National Geographic building in 2001, I knew I wanted to be hired. I had spent years studying primates in remote jungles of South America and Madagascar. I had gotten a taste of exploration and adventure, but I wanted more. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an adrenaline junkie. But as a correspondent for National Geographic, I would go places and work with animals I’d never seen before.

  I got that dream job.

  The next thing I knew I was covering stories for the Explorer series on great white sharks, gorillas, leopards, and giant squids, just to name a few. Luke and I broke up. Let’s face it, I was rooting for the lemurs and he was rooting for the creatures that eat them. We would always be at odds. But my marriage with National Geographic grew strong. I, the Cuban ex-professional cheerleader, was now National Geographic’s first female wildlife correspondent. Mima would have been so proud.

  My life hasn’t been the same since.

  Six

  Don’t Let the Lip Gloss Fool You

  MARCH 7, 2001: After all these years, I still don’t get it. If I’m on an expedition with a handsome man, he gets revered. If he’s less than attractive, he is described as “rugged.” Most of the time, their looks are just not addressed. But as the only woman on most expeditions my looks somehow take center stage. I’m either too pretty or not pretty enough. One found me to be “the voice of reason” but then commented on my boobs. Have to keep reminding myself not to read TV critics’ reviews.

  In the animal kingdom, most boys are prettier than girls. For example, among birds of paradise the males are much more colorful and pleasing to the eye than the females. While the male’s spectacular plumage attracts mates, the female needs to be camouflaged and inconspicuous to avoid predators while pregnant or hiding in a nest with newborns. As in many species, the male bird of paradise has no part in child care, so he has less selective pressure against ostentatious display. Without even looking it up, I can tell you that that bird is clearly not from Cuba.

  Cuban women are very proud and conscious of their looks and are not to be out-plumaged by a male. My grandmother would make sure her hair looked perfect before going to the hairdresser, and if you’ve ever attended a Cuban function, you may have noticed that there is no such thing as overdressed. To this day, my mom will spend hours fixing her hair and makeup before going out, even to a doctor’s appointment, and dress no differently than if she were going to a wedding.

  Perhaps I was overly sensitive about being judged growing up in a house full of Cuban women, but one of the things I love most about animals is that they don’t judge you. An animal may avoid a human if it senses danger or act hostile if it is securing food or protecting its offspring or mate. But animals don’t judge people like humans do.

  Don’t get me wrong. I know that my family’s love is unconditional, and my mom didn’t judge me, but she made it clear that everybody else would. Though she often called me the “most beautiful child on the planet,” I was never the prettiest girl in the class. I didn’t always click with girls, since I wasn’t as interested in playing with dolls or making brownies in an Easy-Bake Oven. And all the bugs hidden under my bed kept me from being able to throw slumber parties like the cool girls did. My idea of fun was chasing lizards, climbing trees, and playing stickball. I had inherited an aptitude for fashion, or perhaps a style obsession, and was admired for my trendiness, but I was always more comfortable playing basketball than house. As a result, most of my friends were boys. My best friend, Marcelo, was a brown-haired, doe-eyed Colombian boy who was the male version of me. He nicknamed me Chicken Legs because of the long, skinny legs that stretched like strings from underneath my shorts. But those chicken legs could outrun and outclimb any of the boys, so until my teenage years I wasn’t bothered.

  I was in college before I bega
n to receive male attention as a woman. It felt strange after always being “one of the guys.” I think that earlier experience is the main reason I feel so comfortable as the only woman at a field site in the wilderness. While I was a slave to fashion, often parading the halls in cute summer dresses and uncomfortable platform shoes, I loved sports, especially basketball, and could swear like a sailor. Perhaps it was that dichotomy that made me attractive to men. In college I was still the girlie-girl tomboy I’d grown up as and didn’t mind spending the weekend watching football and going fishing. I was a dream girlfriend, even if I’d not been pretty enough to make the high school cheerleading squad. But blossoming into an attractive young woman did not make my life easier. As a matter of fact, it was more of a hindrance than a blessing.

  I know I haven’t always helped my own situation and still shudder to think of the first time I left for an expedition, with an entire suitcase of sandals and heels to complement my outfits. Not only could I not give up my love for stylish clothing and makeup, but I also needed to keep close tabs on the tweezing. Most people assume that women do this for the benefit of men, but Mima always said that women dress for women. She argued that while men are easy to impress, women judge other women harshly. I wasn’t doing it for either. First of all, I am usually the only woman on an expedition. Let’s face it: Most women wouldn’t want to disappear for months to somewhere without phones, malls, hair salons, or electrical outlets. Frankly, I don’t know very many men who would, either. And, second, more often than not I find myself the only woman amid 30 to 50 men (including film crew and porters). Field producers and videographers are overwhelmingly male. If one was looking for Mr. Right, this would not be a bad thing. But I wasn’t looking for love—all I ever needed to find was a private place to pee. So the lip gloss and well-fitting field pants were just for me and for no one else’s benefit. Out in the remote wilderness I was still a cheerleader, a cheerleader with a machete, hiking boots, and few opportunities to shower.