by Mireya Mayor
Our next goal was the Segarra Mountains. On Day 12 of the expedition we were still trying to stay ahead of the rainy season. Pasquale was getting increasingly irritated with Benedict’s frequent stops to point out trees. It was a constant battle, and soon the rain was again upon us.
The porters had no rain gear, and the packs were not waterproof, so we unpacked one of our tarps and piled some dry wood, the gear, and ourselves underneath. When it starts raining that hard, trekking has to stop. And once the rainy season really begins, it never lets up. There is nothing worse or more dangerous than being constantly wet and cold on an expedition, as you can quickly succumb to hypothermia.
Of course, the film crew was there, but they weren’t helping. Only watching and documenting our suffering.
We had only an hour of light left. Running out of food, we were now relying on the small villages we stumbled on, but often they had nothing to offer but a few tomatoes. Living on just peanuts and one small meal a day, we’d all lost a lot of weight and were feeling weak.
It rained all night, and temperatures dropped below 40 degrees. The shivering cold, blisters, and bug bites were all getting to us, as was Pasquale. He argued with us about everything. The Segarra Mountains are where Stanley was shot at by his team members. I wondered how close Pasquale was to being murdered.
From the lower coastal plains we walked and walked in the rain, finally arriving at the summit of the Segarras. We camped underneath an amazing baobab tree hundreds of years old. Baobabs are the only trees that can withstand the ravages of elephant tusks. We were back in snake country, too, and there were snake holes everywhere. But it wasn’t the snakes or even Pasquale that got us that night. It was Benedict. My charming friend produced a pod a local had given him. Inside were larvae, still moving, which Benedict proposed we eat. The locals considered it a delicacy. We cooked them up, and I ate one or two of the squishy things; for some reason, Kevin ate dozens. It was a foolish move, and he paid the price, violently throwing up all night. He was so sick he couldn’t have blown his little whistle if his life depended on it.
The next morning we tried to hurry and make up for lost time, but we got only a few feet from camp when another porter went down. Aching and burning up with a fever, it was clear he had malaria. Malaria had killed many of Stanley’s porters, and we weren’t about to let that happen on this expedition. We gave him what treatment we could, said tearful goodbyes, and sent him home. Expeditions make you or break you, and this one was clearly beginning to tear us apart.
Temperatures and tempers were now hitting the boiling point. It was Day 19, and we had at last reached the Bahi Swamp, 600 miles from Ujiji. But at this time of year, it was a desert, unimaginably dry and desolate. Think Death Valley, only less inviting. We had to trek more than 15 miles that day with no water source or shade. Now short-handed, we entered a village and hired two donkeys. Stanley had employed dozens. Much stronger than humans, these beasts could carry enough water to last us two days. In the 120–degree heat, they were our best chance of surviving.
When the donkeys arrived, we tried to saddle them with the water containers. Hilarity ensued. Benedict and I couldn’t get them to cooperate. The expression “stubborn as a jackass” came quickly to mind, though not for the first time on the expedition, given our teammate Pasquale.
With the water containers finally aboard, we tried to move forward, but the donkeys dawdled. Impatient, Pasquale charged ahead with Kevin on his heels. Benedict and I trudged along with the donkeys, which were snorting and wheezing and protesting every step. The team was now clearly divided, both geographically and in spirit. Pasquale was far ahead and had not looked back once. Never on an expedition had I abandoned a team member.
As the hours went by, we could no longer see Pasquale, Kevin, or the porters. The Maasai had stayed with us, and in all honesty, if we had come upon danger, there was no question of whom I’d prefer to be with. Not to mention the water. Nevertheless, if we went the wrong way, we were screwed. We hadn’t a clue where we were going, and Pasquale had all the maps. Ominously, animal bones were scattered across the salt plains. We were becoming more pissed off by the moment.
When we finally caught up, I exploded. Kevin and Pasquale apologized for abandoning us, though they didn’t sound very sorry. We continued on to a village of a few huts belonging to people known as the Wagogo. During Stanley’s time, the Wagogo tribesmen were aggressive and attacked during the night with spears. They were making spearheads as we approached but seemed in no way hostile. On the contrary, they gave me a bow and arrow.
With another long trek ahead of us, we camped and got an early start in the morning. When we tried to replenish our water supply, bees were hovering over the source. They’re drawn to ammonia, which is found in urine. It was used as a toilet. The local people had as hard a time finding fresh water in this parched country as we did, often walking miles in search of it to no avail. Water was such a problem the guys and I often had to bathe simultaneously out of the same bucket.
When Benedict and I stopped to examine a tree, Pasquale flipped out. It was becoming more and more his expedition. He acted as though he was dealing with novices he could boss around. It only made me more determined. What is the use of being an explorer if you don’t explore? There’s more to it than simply getting to a destination. If Benedict and I wanted to look at a tree, we damn well would. I was beginning to understand why Pasquale had loved leading the blind guy up Everest: He didn’t stop to look at a thing.
Again, the donkeys were slowing us down as we climbed a steep escarpment. And again Pasquale and Kevin left us well behind. We decided to release the donkeys and carry the water up the hill ourselves. As we removed the containers, we noticed that one of them had broken, and some of the precious water had leaked out. A little longer and we would have lost most of it.
When we reached the top of the cliff, I made a beeline for Pasquale and told him what I thought of his behavior. Initially, he blew me off, but perhaps to intimidate us, he then began yelling. As stubborn and temperamental as Italians can be, they can’t hold a candle to an irate Cuban. At the top of our lungs, Pasquale and I screamed and cursed at each other. Then he started wagging his finger in my face, elevating my anger to a whole new level. Benedict joined in. It was the mother of all fights, and this is saying a lot on an expedition where we argued and fought about everything. By now completely exhausted, hungry, and worn down, we even argued about whether or not we were on a mountain. The expedition was coming apart at the seams. It was like a cockfight, with the battling back and forth. In the end, we all just walked away, still stewing.
After a night’s rest and a little food, we started off the next day in better spirits. Benedict jokingly carried me across the river. He and I had become soul mates, spurring rumors later that we were romantically involved. But in reality we were close friends who respected one another and kept each other sane. When my turn came to carry him across the next river, I dropped him midpoint, giving everyone a good laugh. Everyone except the sound guys, that is; we ruined their expensive microphones.
On our path I spotted a green mamba snake. It was a baby, and babies are more dangerous than adults since their venom is more powerful and concentrated. The bite of a green mamba can kill you in 30 minutes, and there is no antivenom. It was a reminder that Africa is full of animals that can hurt you.
But usually, it’s the ones you don’t see that get you.
Benedict woke up feeling ill and drenched in sweat. We had just broken camp and headed down the road when he began vomiting. At least, we were lucky to be near Tabora, a sprawling town on the savanna. With large houses and lush gardens, fruit orchards, and well-tended fields, it was like approaching nirvana. During Stanley’s time, Tabora was occupied by wealthy Arabs and was a center of the slave trade. Dr. Livingstone kept a house there.
In a horrible ironic twist, Benedict succumbed to malaria near Livingstone’s very house, only steps from the grave of John William Shaw. Shaw, w
ho himself died of malaria, was Stanley’s best friend and trusted companion. Benedict was mine. It doesn’t take long for the harshest realities of Africa to set in.
We ran to get assistance at Tabora, and within minutes an ambulance was there. I helped Benedict to the ambulance. Soon he was slipping in and out of consciousness, nearly incoherent and slightly delusional. The medic tried to place an IV in his arm, but Benedict’s veins kept collapsing from dehydration. Once that was successful, I had to hold his hands to stop him from tearing out the line. He was shaking uncontrollably and trying to get up, nearly causing us to topple out of the back of the parked ambulance. The medic asked Benedict if he knew where he was. Sumatra, he answered.
I stepped out of the ambulance and couldn’t hold back my tears, both distraught at his misery and worried about myself. How could I possibly continue on the expedition without him? We’d gone through such intense experiences and relied on each other to survive. We knew more about each other than most friends learn in a lifetime. I feared the prospect of leaving Benedict behind and having to walk to Ujiji essentially alone. As companions, neither Pasquale, who I came to love despite everything, nor Kevin, who’d become distant, disengaged, and curt, could replace him. We carried Benedict out of the ambulance and made a bed for him under the Livingstone house veranda. Still restless, he eventually fell asleep. I prayed that the treatment had been in time and his health and strength would quickly return. Pasquale wanted to leave him, but I was adamant that that wasn’t an option. The truth is, I wasn’t so sure.
We were still 480 miles from Ujiji.
Though still very weak, Benedict did in fact wake up feeling better the next morning and insisted on coming with us. I was extremely relieved, to say the least. We left the Livingstone house and headed to Ugalla Game Reserve. There I spotted a dik-dik and some guinea fowl, and for the first time in days thought of food. Then by the river we saw 5 crocodiles, upstaged only by the presence of more than 50 hippopotamuses. I had never seen so many hippos in one spot—it was a spectacular sight. The hippos emitted low, deep grunts, and their jaws gaped 140 degrees. Awed, I watched as they peered at us and wiggled their ears before disappearing under the murky waters.
We crossed the river at a sandy bend and followed a hippo trail on the right bank. We argued about where to camp, Benedict and I pointing out clear evidence of hippo grazing and elephant dung and tracks all around us. There were three hippo trails going straight through the spot Pasquale had picked, as well as evidence of recent hippo activity. But Pasquale ignored us and starting setting up the tarps. Only when I spotted a nest filled with thousands of bees directly overhead did he agree to move our camp a few yards away. He was using Benedict’s weakness to assert himself even more strongly. I wasn’t going to let him take over.
Then Pasquale announced that we were to ask him every time we wanted to drink water. My blood began to boil. None of us was an infant needing to ask him permission for anything, least of all water. I leaped up and confronted him. Again we were screaming and cursing, but this time I didn’t walk away. “Fuck you, Pasquale!” There, I had finally said what we had all wanted to for weeks. There was a long uncomfortable silence. In the end, Pasquale relented, and out of that fight we forged a truce that would get us through the worst to come.
We still had to collect water from a croc-infested river. It was nesting season, too. I walked down to the edge of the river with buckets and realized our water situation was not going to improve. The muddy waters were disgusting, full of tadpoles and hippo shit. I would definitely have to skip tea that night.
I’m not sure which one of us had read that hippos didn’t like fire, but back at camp, we collected firewood and lit four gigantic fires to keep them away. There were enough flames to guide a plane in. Along with the Maasai, we all took shifts during the night sitting up and vigilantly watching. The fires must have worked because not a single hippo came into camp. Though I heard lions in the not too far distance.
We needed to find a source of food, as we were almost out. In the morning I helped Benedict find wood and got a lesson in building guinea fowl traps. It was not unlike basket weaving. After setting the traps, Benedict went to rest, and I went fishing, foolishly standing at the edge of the river where crocs were known to take villagers. I saw several of them on the opposite bank going in and out of the water. Suddenly, I felt a pull on my fishing line. I had a catfish. As I reeled it in, I could see hippos approaching out of the corner of my eye. I ran up the hill with the fish floundering on the hook.
I snuck off with some buckets of water to a secluded spot in the forest so I could bathe and dye my hair. Yes, that’s what I said. I had more roots exposed than the 25-million-year-old forest and was in desperate need of coloring—even using muddy river water. It was not something I wanted to do in front of the guys or the cameras. So I excused myself and disappeared for longer than usual. Standing naked with caked dye on my head, I was terrified a hippo might appear and I’d have to run out of the forest. I would never have been able to live that down.
Later, I practiced shooting the bow and arrow I got from the Wagogo and amazed myself. Not only that I was such a good shot, but that I was stupid enough to use one of our big water containers as a target. I spent the next several hours trying to hide the evidence by plugging the holes where water was now leaking out.
Before going to sleep, we had our usual supper of rice, beans, and mud-water coffee. Later, in the middle of the night, we woke up to a scream. Ramadan, one of the porters, had been stung by a scorpion. After taking care of his wound, we all returned to our tarps and checked the bedding.
We had lost a couple of days allowing Benedict some recovery time, so we started our trek at 4 a.m. to try to regain them. We hiked through hippo and elephant territory for several hours in pitch darkness with nothing more than lanterns for light.
We stopped at the first village to get water. I was extremely dehydrated, not having been able to bring myself to drink much of the muddy hippo water from the last couple of camps. Unbeknownst to us, we were about to enter the final and most difficult part of the journey. We had to let all of the porters go now, 29 days in and 80 miles from Ujiji, because the journey on the next river, the Malagarasi, heading into Lake Tanganyika, would be too dangerous for nonswimmers. Only Julius and the Maasai stayed with us.
We were very anxious to get to Ujiji, just as Stanley had been at this point. We again boarded dugout canoes and began paddling. Pasquale pointed out, correctly, that the worst day on the river was better than the best day on the mountains. The glassy water was peaceful and serene, masking the dangers beneath. Crocodiles crossed our path repeatedly, but the end was within our grasp. Soon white caps from Lake Tanganyika were in sight, making it look more like an ocean than a lake. With 20-mile winds, the waves repeatedly came close to toppling us.
Next, we hired two small sailboats at the edge of the lake and began what seemed like a roller coaster ride. I was bailing out our boat, when Pasquale and I noticed that Kevin and Benedict’s sail wouldn’t go up. We were way ahead of them and, with the wind at our backs, there was no turning around in these boats. The sails were nothing more than rice sacks tied together with fishing line. Benedict and Kevin were in trouble.
Hours later, we arrived on the shore and waited anxiously for any sign of their boat. They were nowhere in sight. It was possible that they would be stuck out there overnight, without gear or lanterns. Then I caught a glimpse of Benedict waving his hat from the boat. As the sun set, they finally arrived. Kevin had essentially withdrawn from the expedition weeks before and had, reported Benedict, literally turned his back on him in the boat and never uttered a word, leaving Benedict to wrestle with the faulty sail.
Benedict, Pasquale, and I spent the night on the shore listening to the sound of the waves crashing. Kevin went off on his own. He, more than anyone, was ready to finish, and, though close, we weren’t quite there yet. To be clear: Kevin was no wimp. He had covered every major war zone,
including Iraq. But an expedition, particularly one as long and arduous and contentious as this one, has a level of hardship and stress like nothing else, not even a war zone. It can easily break you.
It was on nights like that one that I really felt bonded to Benedict and even to Pasquale, in spite of all the bitter and nasty moments between us. Pasquale was arrogant and egotistical, and I doubted Benedict would ever go on an expedition with him again. But there was another side to him, the much softer, gentler side that brought me coffee every morning. And it helped that Benedict and I had each other to vent to when he especially pissed us off. My Cuban mothers fight a lot and then kiss and make up; it was kind of the same with Pasquale and me, except he didn’t do it in Spanish.
Back in canoes, we paddled up a tributary that ran through a swamp; it was slow going. A blood red torrent of unknown origin came out of the swamp and reminded me of descriptions in Stanley’s journals. When we couldn’t go any farther, we stepped out into the swamp.
There were snakes and crocs everywhere. We were treading through mud up to our waists when suddenly my bad cheerleading ankle gave out on me. I tore a toenail off as I landed face first in the mud. This was no spa treatment. In the process I lost my shoe and would have to walk through the swamp barefoot, getting slashed by razor-sharp grasses while being sucked into the mud. Tanzania had already kicked my ass, but it was nothing compared to these last few miles.
Morale was nonexistent, and if we didn’t get to high ground quickly, this expedition was going to come to a screeching halt. It was the first time I thought we actually might not make it. But suddenly, almost miraculously, we were on dry land, on the outskirts of Ujiji. We had been through so much to get there, almost a thousand miles, and just a half mile remained.