Pink Boots and a Machete

by Mireya Mayor

  Eight

  King Kong in My Pocket

  JANUARY 23, 2003: Tonight we waited until almost midnight to start making our way through the jungle. The silence was almost deafening. At night the forest seems still, and there is sometimes enough light from the moon to see the large tree trunks silhouetted against the forest floor and background. But on this night only the light from our flashlights guided our path. In the near distance we heard a sound. Something was crashing in the trees. We ran as fast as we could, tripping over the roots and foliage under our feet. We were running not from, but toward the sound. As I looked up into the canopy, what looked like glowing charcoals stared down at me from a tree. We were not alone.

  The world’s most famous primate, King Kong, once enthralled movie audiences by cupping a delicate Fay Wray in his hand, not harming but protecting her. Deep in the jungles of Madagascar, the roles were now reversed. Life was imitating art, but with a twist. I wasn’t the beautiful damsel in distress. And no, I didn’t have a gorilla-size lemur cupped in my hand. Those prehistoric giants lost their habitat and were hunted to extinction more than 2,000 years ago. Today their descendants are still hunted, and the loss of habitat is worse than ever. The tiny primate in the palm of my hand needed the protection of a damsel—me—to survive. This little lemur could share the fate of its giant cousins if I didn’t act fast. That’s a lot of pressure.

  Working under pressure is nothing new to me. Even when I was an NFL cheerleader, I had to perform under the gun. Dancing in front of more than 75,000 screaming fans, remembering to smile, and making sure my hair remained in place in scorching heat after twisting an ankle—that’s pressure. But I was about to experience a whole new level. I was in Anjanaharibe-sud, a mountainous rain forest in northeastern Madagascar, working with geneticist and veterinarian Dr. Edward Louis, director of the Omaha Zoo’s Madagascar Biodiversity Project. Eddie and I had met in the capital, Antananarivo, a year before. At times, talking to Eddie was a bit how I imagined a conversation on quantum physics with Stephen Hawking might go. Lots of technical words from him, very little comprehension by me.

  Despite the language barrier, I was instantly drawn to Eddie’s quick wit and sarcastic sense of humor. We became very good friends and grew quite close during our expeditions together. This puzzled some of my colleagues, who saw him as an ill-tempered “cowboy,” one who’d come into an area with disregard for everything and everyone and captured every animal in sight. I attributed this view to professional jealousy and, rather, considered Eddie a determined, albeit slightly mad, scientist with a huge heart. I had seen him lose his temper, even at a tent, but it didn’t faze me. On the contrary, I would laugh at him, which always seemed to put a smile on his face. I was the bubbly cheerleader, Eddie the grumpy cowboy. We were yin and yang.

  Eddie and I were in Anjanaharibe to capture everything with a heartbeat, whether it had four legs, slid on its belly, or hopped for a living. In a mammoth undertaking, Eddie was investigating the genetic makeup of Madagascar’s vast and endangered fauna, taking blood and tissue samples of all its creatures to create a complete genetic map. This meant walking through every parcel of forest in Madagascar and collecting multiple samples from every living life-form. Conservation planning would be greatly enhanced by this research. Identifying all species present in an area would allow the government and policymakers to know which areas were in most dire need of protection.

  I was there to capture sifakas and indris, the largest of the lemur species. I was finishing up the fieldwork for my Ph.D. and needed more samples to complete my studies. This expedition would widen the range of the individuals I’d sampled so far and possibly elevate them to full species status. In conservation speak, that meant more attention, higher priority, and more money. I was hugely excited to be a part of Eddie’s groundbreaking research and loved learning about the frogs, snakes, and amazing chameleons that camouflaged themselves above us in the trees. It became routine for me to jump off the trails to catch tiny mantella frogs, among the most brightly colored and spectacular of all frogs. Like the poison arrow frogs of the New World, the mantellas of Madagascar are capable of storing poisons (which they get from the ants they eat) in their glands. I was mesmerized by these lethal beauties.

  Eddie and I were sitting around the campfire one night, when the small lemurs really got our attention. We had two different lemur guidebooks: One said the eastern mouse lemur occurred here, which made perfect sense since we were on the east coast; another said it was the western species. Clearly, one of them had to be wrong. Intrigued, we decided to put out small mammal traps baited with banana. The idea is that the animal smells the bait, goes in for a free lunch, and releases the little trap door. It is later let go, unharmed. We started baiting and setting traps that very night.

  Mouse lemurs are the smallest primates in the world. Nocturnal and known for their frenetic chirping and activity, they feed on insects, small vertebrates, fruit, and flowers. The combination of tiny and nocturnal makes them a difficult species to study. But we weren’t trying to uncover secrets of their personal lives; we just wanted to know which kind of mouse lemur lived there. Metal mammal traps should have done the trick.

  Every morning we sprang from our tents and raced to the traps, hoping to get a glimpse of this mysterious little creature. Morning after morning, we would return to our tents empty-handed. The last night before we had to pack up our gear and head to another field site, it was raining hard even by rain forest standards. Like me, lemurs don’t like to move around much in the rain. I just wanted to curl up in my warm sleeping bag. Experience told me our lemur traps would be empty, but I thought I’d run over and take a look.

  I was wrong.

  Inside the trap sat a tiny, drenched, shivering primate. The large eyes that made up most of its face looked at me from the bottom of the trap. For a moment, I froze. The lemur was so small I could put it in my shirt pocket. And in an effort to warm it up, inside my pocket is where it went.

  Jagged, bumpy, and rutted like a potholed street, the surface of the forest floor is covered in roots that unexpectedly pop up out of the ground. As I was running back to camp, thoughts of tripping and crushing the endangered lemur crowded my head. I could see the headline, “Former NFL Cheerleader Squashes World’s Smallest Primate With Her Left Breast.” I slowed down just a bit.

  In my mad dash I hadn’t paid any attention to the little lemur’s appearance. Afraid it was already hypothermic, Eddie and I agreed we must increase its body temperature immediately. At the campfire we warmed some water, poured it into a ziplock bag to use as a hot water bottle, and pressed the lemur close.

  Now we had a chance to look at it. At first glance it resembled the eastern species (which made sense given where we were). Upon closer inspection, we could also see some characteristics of the western species. Then I noticed that the color was slightly off. We began noticing other very subtle differences that meant, in fact, it looked like neither. It appeared both guidebooks were wrong. We didn’t have to say a word; Eddie and I were completely aligned in our thinking. We both realized we might have something new here and understood the implications. As soon as we took a blood sample and the animal warmed up, we released it.

  Back in the States, Eddie and I began processing the DNA samples at his genetics lab in Omaha, Nebraska. I hate the lab. There, I said it. Television shows make it appear as if you pour something into a test tube, shake it around a little, and bam! Results. Don’t fall for it. Every step of analyzing DNA is a long and painstaking process with endless trial and error. You spend hours working on a sample, paying scrupulous attention to detail, then wait several more hours to learn if what you did worked, only to find that you have to start all over again. A couple of weeks wouldn’t cut it. Before I knew whether this was a new animal species, I had to head back to National Geographic headquarters.

  Months after we found that tiny lemur shivering at the bottom of the trap, I received the call that would change my life. My susp
icion was confirmed. Eddie and I had discovered an entirely new species of primate. It was a scientist’s dream come true. It’s a moment you hope for but never think possible. I hung up the phone and sat motionless. This might very well have been the find of a lifetime. And then it hit me.

  With only one sample and no photographs, how would we prove it?

  It was Friday afternoon. On the fifth floor of the National Geographic building this meant happy hour. Aptly named the Exotic Liquors Club by its founder, Brian Armstrong, a well-seasoned producer and connoisseur of all things alcohol, the fifth floor was the place where explorers, producers, and execs came to sample liquor brought back from the latest expeditions. There were more than a hundred bottles to choose from, and every bottle told a story of adventure, exploration, and survival.

  The flavored African moonshine made on a game reserve and delivered in test tubes was fiery and good. Usually, after a few sips I would be transported to the wild bush from which the drink originated. But the news I’d just received was weighing on my mind. Brian asked me what was new. I nonchalantly replied, “We just discovered the world’s smallest lemur.”

  Brian suddenly got the look in his eye reporters get when they sniff a scoop. Before I knew it, he had written a proposal to go to Madagascar and film the discovery of this new species. This was just the solution to our no-proof dilemma, which otherwise would end with the one that got away. With a film crew and a National Geographic photographer on the case, this little lemur would become a star and, with luck, the face of renewed hope for all of the endangered creatures in that forest.

  A few weeks later, I was heading back to Madagascar. My plan was straightforward: to confirm the greatest discovery of my career. All I had to do was find another mouse lemur.

  Our Air France jet landed in the capital, greeted by the usual chickens and dogs on the tarmac. The familiar smells on deplaning triggered a nostalgia I had felt even on my first journey to this exotic island. I headed to the sign “Entry Visas,” where a heavy woman with a cash box took my money, licked the back of four stamps picturing cattle, and placed them in my passport. I was soon back on the chaotic streets, jammed with old Renaults and Citroëns honking at rickety carts pulled by slow-moving, single-humped zebus.

  Eddie would not be joining me on this expedition, but our Malagasy team, who had accompanied us on many expeditions, would be meeting us with equipment—most important, the traps. Eddie had trained this highly sought-after team to be proficient marksmen, and we were completely reliant on their skills and expertise in the forest. Without them, there could be no expedition.

  But they were nowhere to be found.

  Two days later, with our team still missing, I went down to the MICET office. There on the floor I saw feet sticking out from under some covers. I counted four pairs. The team was there. They were also asleep. Like a den mother, I called, “Salama! Rise and shine, boys!” They fidgeted under the covers without waking. Richard, the team’s leader, finally got up and explained that they had just driven in from their village. It had taken them more than 14 hours because of bad roads and accidents. I sympathized, but there was no time to sleep. We had to rush to catch a flight.

  It was only at the airport that I had a chance to check the gear. Part of the team’s responsibility was to pack the equipment, most of which we kept stored in their village. Normally, when Eddie and I flew into the capital, we met up with the team at the airport and proceeded directly to the site, counting on the team to have all the equipment ready. I didn’t for a second think any pieces would be missing, least of all the essential traps. But there were none.

  “We have no mouse lemur traps! Zero!” I yelled. I was in shock. No, I was furious. The team hesitated; no one wanted to admit they’d forgotten the traps. It made no sense to go without them, but charter planes are very difficult to come by in Madagascar, and we had a pilot ready and waiting. I stood there looking at the dozen crates of gear, wondering how they could have forgotten those vital pieces of equipment. The pilot motioned us to board, and we had no choice but to cram into the plane. Trapped and trap-less, we were on our way.

  From Tana in the center of the island, we took a short flight north to Sambava. Our pilot must have sensed my stress because he invited me to take the controls. That was a guaranteed way to lift my spirits. My free flying lesson amused Brian; my cameraman, Jeff; and my student, Angelo. But I noticed they all held on to barf bags. I wasn’t the steadiest of pilots.

  Down below I could see the jungle where we were headed; not much of it was left. Looking down from the clouds, it really struck me: If nothing was done in this region, our newly discovered lemur would be gone in less than two years. Fires burned up and down the hillsides. Although as long ago as 1881 Madagascar’s Queen Ranavalona had made slash-and-burn agriculture illegal, the farmers continued to practice it. Every year about one percent of Madagascar’s forests are destroyed for charcoal, logging, and rice paddies.

  It was somewhere down in that patchy green abyss that I’d gotten my glimpse of the mouse lemur. Now I had to find it again. The thought of looking for the world’s smallest primate at night in dense foliage was as daunting as searching for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Only their shine at the end of our flashlights would reveal their whereabouts.

  We landed at Sambava, quite smoothly I thought, given it was my first try, and immediately began brainstorming about how to improvise traps. It’s a simple concept, really: You bait whatever you’re using, and an animal should be able to get in but not get out. Angelo and I tinkered with ideas. Finally, we grabbed some plastic water bottles and cut the ends off with a pocketknife. I had no idea if these would work, but for lack of something better we made 20 of them.

  A long drive and hike to the field site were still ahead of us. A little before sunrise, all equipment loaded onto a hired truck, we and our improvised traps were on our way to Anjanaharibe. This is the part of the journey when I long for a pillow to sit on. The roads are terrible. To make things worse, it was monsoon season, and a mud slide soon brought the vehicle to a dead stop. We all jumped out and pushed and pulled our way out of the mud. But that was only the beginning. All the roads were washed out. It seemed we had gone as far by truck as we were going to go.

  We camped overnight on the side of the road and sent a message to the nearest village asking for 30 strong men to come and help us carry our gear to the campsite the next day. Despite the delay and less than ideal sleeping arrangements, it was comforting to hear lemurs in the forest; the voices of indris sounded like “Welcome back” to me.

  Soon as the sun came up, the head porter arrived. Slowly, more and more guys started trickling in, some even bringing us pineapples for breakfast. But we still had to negotiate a price for their help, and they knew we were in a bind. These negotiations are never easy, but sitting on the side of the road with dozens of bags, crates, and a generator did not put us in the strongest position. After some haggling, posturing, and arm waving, we settled on a fee—eight dollars a day per man, which was more than they normally make in a week. The head porter shook his head and said, “Uh-uh,” which in the U.S. means no, but in Madagascar means yes. Within minutes our bags and crates were off the ground and on their backs.

  However, it seemed the stars were not yet aligning.

  The problem now was that a huge, fast-moving river stood before us. I could see where there had been a bridge at one time, but only the frame remained. With more than 30 porters and a film crew standing behind me, I had to decide where the best place would be to cross. At last, waist deep and with bags lifted high above our heads, we managed to struggle to the opposite riverbank, fighting the current all the way.

  Safely across, we were nearing our field camp, but the final leg was through thick jungle. Then it was all down a very slippery hill. Like a kid I would raise my arms and slide. We had only five minutes to set up camp before a downpour. The entire team and all our equipment were crammed under one flimsy tarp, which barely
held up under the storm. Camp life, I thought. Awesome.

  Over the next few days, life settled into a routine of steady rain and empty traps. In this weather, it seemed we were good at attracting only one type of animal—leeches. The little bloodsuckers are common in Madagascar rain forests, and, unlike leeches in other parts of the world, are not aquatic. If you stand still for a few minutes, you’re guaranteed to see leeches dropping from the trees. Onto your head if you’re not careful.

  I’ve read that leech bites do not hurt because the creatures release an anesthetic when they sink their teeth into you. But I firmly believe that the person who wrote that has never had a leech between his toes. They gorge themselves on your blood, seeking to consume more than three times their weight. In just one sitting, a leech is able to absorb enough blood to sustain itself for several months. Some misguided people have attempted to remove leeches by burning them with a cigarette; applying mosquito repellent, shampoo, or salt; or pulling at them. This, you should know, can result in the leech regurgitating blood into your wound and causing an infection much worse than the bite itself. Also, should a leech invade an orifice like your nose, you have a more serious problem, since it will expand as it fills with blood. I saw one drop from a guide’s nose straight into his oatmeal. It could have been worse, though. If it had gotten stuck, he would have had to puncture the leech with a sharp object.

  At this point in the expedition, I was ready to stab myself with a sharp object. My only hope was the National Geographic photographer who was supposed to be joining us soon and bringing professional traps. Our improvised traps were not doing the job. Without the real ones, I was genuinely afraid this expedition would be a complete failure. And I could not have it fail. Far too much was at stake.