Pink Boots and a Machete

by Mireya Mayor

  We’d retraced our way back from Mondika to Ouésso by truck and pirogue down the Sangha River and spent the night in a hotel. Not one with hot water, alas. The next morning our flight was very late taking off, but finally it did, ascending quickly to 10,000 feet. I soon realized it was descending, however, and before long skimming the jungle treetops.

  Almost immediately I heard my mother’s voice warning me of the dangers of this work and saying, “I told you so.” More than ever, I hated to think she was right.

  As the panicked passengers went into crash mode, my mind flashed to my daughters, my husband, the rest of my family, pets, all the places I’d been, and whether they would call me “a real-life Lara Croft” or “the female Indiana Jones” in press stories about the crash, which no one would even know about for days. I saw a split image of my little girls’ faces, and I couldn’t bear the thought I would never see their beautiful smiles again. I was also reminded that as an explorer, no insurance company would cover me, and I hated to think of my children growing up not only motherless but penniless as well.

  The plane came in hard, the wings snapping the tops off trees and shattering the landing gear, as the pilots dragged the fuselage to rest in the dusty outskirts of a village way too small to be on maps. Andy and I looked at each other as if to confirm we were alive. There was no commotion, only shock and confusion. It was eerily silent as passengers looked around wondering what to do next. Everyone gathered their belongings, and I checked my legs. They were still attached and so were my pink boots.

  We clambered out of the plane, our gear on our backs. Without a single person or building in sight, I wondered how long before we could be rescued. I felt like I was in my very own episode of Lost. Andy, a strong mountain of a man, and I hugged and cried and shared a Xanax. We were not allowed to retrieve baggage from the cargo hold, but that was a detail. Eventually, trucks arrived to collect the passengers and crew, and we climbed into the back of one and headed down a dirt road to the village. Our truck stopped at what looked like an unfinished hotel, but no such luck. I soon learned it was a brothel. Normally, I’d be upset at the thought of a bed that had seen everything but actual sleeping, but not this time. I was on the ground, and I was alive. In the morning I awakened with my head on a perfumed hooker pillow, and we’re not talking Chanel No. 5.

  Wreathed in gear, Andy and I caught lifts on motorbikes to something resembling an airstrip. My bike’s owner gave me a funny look as I jumped off; clearly, he was wondering what I had been doing in the brothel. I spotted a villager in a conservation agent’s shirt, pushing a barrel full of endangered crocs. The scene was surreal. But I didn’t stop to think much about it; my focus was just on getting home.

  Men loitering at the airstrip told us that finding a flight out that day would be impossible, but returning to the brothel on the back of a rice-cooker was not an option I wanted to consider. Just then a tall, uniformed pilot oozing that unmistakable pilot bravado appeared, and my hope was renewed. I asked Andy to hang back and took off my shirt, revealing a tank top that left little to the imagination. For this move I would later be hailed as a hero.

  Still smelling of not Chanel No. 5, I sauntered over to him. The tank top caught his attention and without removing his cigarette from his lips he said, “Bonjour.” I thought, Crap, he speaks French, and I barely do. In a combination of franglais and tank top, I proceeded to explain that I had just spent the past few weeks hacking my way through the jungle with a machete, nearly getting my head ripped off by a gorilla, surviving a plane crash, and spending the night in a brothel. (I didn’t at this point know about the worm in my eyeball, but mentioning that would have ruined the effect.) Batting my eyelashes, I asked if he had a spare seat to Brazzaville. Not wanting to suggest there was male competition, I would bring Andy’s seat up later.

  Frenchie quickly pointed out that the plane in front of us was the minister of defense’s private plane, and that it would be as difficult for me to get on it as to get on Air Force One. I continued to flirt long enough to convince him to ask the minister’s staff. Eventually, he convinced one of the crew to let me onto the unpaved airstrip to meet the minister himself, who politely listened to my desperate story and motioned to his security to let us on. But I would still have to negotiate our way past the ground crew. Payment would be involved. I was out of Kim Kardashian photos, so I took all the cash we had and handed it over. We ran on board before they could change their minds and breathed a giant sigh of relief as the plane took off.

  I looked out the window and smiled as we flew over Brothelville and headed to Brazzaville. I looked forward to being inside four solid walls and a net cocoon.

  Fifteen

  Expedition: Life

  SEPTEMBER 27, 2010: Can hardly believe I am leaving again for the Congo tomorrow. Seems like I just got back yesterday. I’ve got a million and one things to do to prepare for this expedition, but I hate to steal even a moment away from the girls. This afternoon, while I packed frantically, throwing my clothes into a suitcase, Emma and Ava unpacked it and sat inside. They looked at me with mischievous little faces, fully aware that their mommy was leaving again. I stopped to change Ava’s diaper and wipe Emma’s runny nose. This is the last chance I will have to do either for months. I am cherishing these little moments.

  On July 3, 2009, having just survived a plane crash in Congo, my head rested on a pillow wafting not Chanel No. 5. At 3:23 a.m. I stared at the moldy ceiling, listening to the sounds of the enthusiastic customers with their hookers, wondering just how it was that I, an NFL cheerleader turned Ph.D. explorer, could be so happy. The answer was simple: I was alive. I had two little girls waiting for me at home whom more than anything I wanted to see grow up. Only hours before, my worst nightmare of never holding my daughters again had almost been realized, when a rickety plane descended into the heart of darkness and crash-landed.

  Before I went on my first expedition, I envisioned myself surrounded by gorillas and wearing stylish safari outfits and a ponytail, with just the right dirt smudges highlighting my cheekbones. I was sure the natives would see me as a goddess.

  I was single and had no children. I didn’t think about the “what ifs” in the life of an explorer. I didn’t want to die, but the possibility seemed so remote I never thought about it. I thrived on adventure, danger, and the unknown. Single-handedly, I would save critically endangered animals all over the world, perhaps even stop global warming. Why not? With my machete in hand, I would slice through the forest, wrestle pythons, and dodge elephants. I was, in my mind, invincible.

  But having a baby took me from superwoman to mere mortal, from the very second I was handed the little bundle of flesh, whose tiny hand clung to my finger and big blue eyes stared into mine. This wrinkly little creature was totally and completely depending on me for love, nurturing, and survival. For the first time in my life, I was afraid to die.

  My life on the road, where there were no roads, had not been conducive to relationships or children. More often than not, I dated researchers I met in the field. It was where I spent most of my time. Besides, the jungle can be wildly romantic, and I loved the idea of marrying my very own Tarzan. We would wear matching safari outfits and raise our kids among chimps in a tree house with a floating garden. It was the perfect dream. Fact is, I was engaged to a couple of Tarzans, and then I married one but not for long; he turned out to be less like Tarzan and more like Cheeta.

  A relationship between two people who both seek adventure and yearn for the wilds, and seldom are able to journey together, rarely, if ever, works. My dream was just that—a dream. I wouldn’t meet my Tarzan in the remote rain forest. In fact, the love of my life wouldn’t be Tarzan–like at all.

  The man I would marry literally made me see things in a whole new way. He gave me binoculars.

  I was at a bird fair in a small village in England. This is not exactly where you’d expect to meet your future husband, unless, of course, you’re a birder. You see, birders, or “twitc
hers,” are a funny bunch. Twitchers are committed bird-watchers who think nothing of traveling long distances to see a new species to add to their “life list,” their “year list,” or some other twitcher list. They practically have their own language. Don’t get me wrong, I love them. Some of my best friends are twitchers. I wish I was able to recognize a bird by a feather barely exposed behind foliage. Nevertheless, it can’t be denied that twitchers are a strange breed.

  The bird fair took place only a few weeks before I was leaving for my next expedition, and I was in need of a good pair of binoculars. In my opinion, Leica makes the best. So I went to the Leica booth and introduced myself to Roland, the managing director. Little did he know he was meeting his life bird.

  Right off the bat, I was struck by the brightness of his blue eyes. He was tall and handsome with a strong chin and even stronger German accent. We talked for a while about which binoculars would best suit my needs. He offered Leica as a sponsor for my expedition, meaning I’d get the binoculars for free. This was great because Leicas are not cheap. Then he invited me to dinner. Throughout the weekend I kept running into him. It was no accident. I track gorillas and jaguars for a living—I’m a professional stalker. He later admitted that he was trying to bump into me too.

  I went off to Madagascar with my new binoculars and sent him a postcard thanking him. After I returned to the States we emailed one another incessantly. Thousands of dollars in phone calls and text messages later, we were in love.

  I went back to England.

  I was sick as a dog when I got there. He took care of me. While he went to a regular office job, I stayed behind in his loft and wrote grant proposals and scientific papers. Throughout the day, I would stumble on love notes he’d left for me. My colleagues and I would talk about science and adventure, and then Roland would come home and we’d talk about the nonevents of our day. He brought me flowers. I made him dinner. It was the most normal relationship I had ever been in. It felt strange.

  I began to wonder if this routine would get boring. I was used to living out of a suitcase and venturing into the unknown for months at a time. Where was the adventure in weekends in Notting Hill and Chelsea? Could Roland handle the swamps? Would he want to? I was flooded with doubt.

  Then I asked myself the most important question of all: Does it matter?

  I really loved this man. I even loved being domestic. We didn’t both have to want an adventurous life for this to work. The security of being with someone who loved me unconditionally and wanted to take the most important journey—life—with me outweighed my fears. He was supportive of my dreams, even if they were not his. That’s what mattered.

  In my newly evolved domestic bliss, one small detail went unnoticed. I’d missed my period.

  By the time I noticed, Roland was in Germany for business meetings. I went to the store and bought half a dozen pregnancy tests. They were all positive, so I bought some more. Maybe I was harboring a large parasitic worm from my last expedition, producing false positive results. I peed on the last stick and hoped for a large worm. It, too, was positive. Fuck. How could this have happened? Well that’s exactly how this happened, but I digress.

  I knew exactly how and when.

  I sat on the bed and stared at the pee stick. Then I grabbed the phone and called Roland on his mobile. He was in an important meeting but picked up the phone.

  I said, “You need to come home.”

  “I can’t, I’m in a meeting. In Germany.”

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I cried my eyes out. I had only been with this man for a few weeks. I barely knew him. Sure, just five minutes ago I considered him my best friend and soul mate, but it was different now. I began listing his flaws. First on the list: He snored. Not loudly, but still. Next on the list: He was organized. His closet looked like the after picture of my before picture. Who wants such an organized man? Was he going to expect me to label all of my shoeboxes? And he was German. There, I said it. He was German. I was Cuban. It could never work.

  But the flaw that probably scared me the most: Roland had a big nose. Our kid would be a genetic freak.

  In mere hours, my organized, big-nosed German was home. He drew me into his arms and smiled. He kissed my forehead and pulled me in closer. Then he said, “I am so happy. This is great news.”

  That was the last straw.

  Great news? What was so great about it? We were strangers. I didn’t want to live in England, my career would be over now that I wouldn’t be able to explore remote corners of the world, and I was going to get fat. This was the furthest from great news I could possibly imagine.

  But Roland remained calm and in his confident and tender way said, “It will all be OK.” Something about the way he said it made me believe him. I told my subconscious to stop trying to fuck up a good thing.

  Roland selflessly offered to quit his job and move to the States so I could be closer to my family when the baby came. Back in Miami, I took a teaching job and prepared a nursery. We happily looked at cribs and baby clothes.

  With a heavy heart, I packed my field gear and clothing away in trunks. I resigned myself to the fact that I was embarking on a new life: I was going to be a mother.

  The months went quickly, and before I knew it, I had gained almost 60 pounds. I couldn’t see my ankles and longed to get this huge, ten-pound nose out of me.

  As fate would have it, that year I was nominated for two Emmy Awards for my documentaries “Into the Lost World” in South America, and “Girl Power,” my film about sex in the animal kingdom, featuring lesbian monkeys. But I couldn’t attend the awards ceremony because I was too far into my pregnancy to fly to New York. Plus, I really didn’t want to be seen on the red carpet looking like Kirstie Alley. In the end, I didn’t win, but I would still get an “Emmy.” We were naming our little one Emma.

  When the moment came, I wasn’t sure I was in labor; I just knew I was in terrible pain. It was either contractions or the Mexican food I’d eaten. It had to be the nachos—wasn’t water supposed to gush out of me? Nope, I was in labor. Already, all the books I had read were wrong. Roland grabbed the overnight bag he’d meticulously organized, and off to the hospital we went.

  Wearing one of those humiliating and unflattering hospital gowns that expose your ass, I practiced my breathing. Roland had relaxing music playing in the background and scented candles throughout the room. Everything was under control.

  Then the real pain started, and all thoughts of natural childbirth went out the window.

  Yes, I was a hard-core explorer who withstood severe stings, bites, and even stitching up my own wounds without an anesthetic, but that wasn’t by choice. Now I was not in a mud hut but in a building with drugs in every cabinet, on every floor, and in everyone’s pocket. And I can say that a snakebite is nowhere near as painful as the pressure of a head the size of a melon pushing against an opening the size of a grape.

  “Nuuuuuurse! I need drugs! A lot of them!”

  “It may be too late for that. Let me take a look.”

  “Too late?! But there’s no baby yet. I promise I won’t let her come out. Just get me drugs.”

  As the nurse lifted the covers off my freezing toes, her eyes grew wide and she summoned the doctor. Why the startled look? Was the nose already out?

  “Is everything OK?” I asked.

  “Yes. Everything’s fine. You’re crowning. The baby is coming right now.”

  I tried to stay calm but began sobbing. I was more frightened in that moment than at any other in my entire life.

  The nurse asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrified.”

  “Well, if you’re scared now, just wait until she’s 16 and asks you for the car keys.”

  I laughed but then worried about that. I made up my mind then and there that I wouldn’t let her drive until she was 30.

  The doctor came in, and with my two mothers (my aunt and my mom) watching and R
oland holding my hand, I pushed. The pain was unbearable. Throughout the contractions, I thought, how do women survive this? And why would anyone knowingly do it more than once? I pushed again, this time tearing into Roland’s hand.

  “I can see a lot of hair!” said the doctor. “Push again!”

  A lot of hair? Could she see the nose yet? I pushed.

  Three contractions later, our baby girl took her first breath.

  Eagerly waiting to meet my daughter, I watched as they cleaned her off and weighed her. Within a few minutes, she was in my arms. She had a full head of dark hair, enormous blue eyes, and—much to my surprise and relief—a wonderful little button nose. She was the most perfect, beautiful, wrinkled little monkey I had ever seen.

  As a primatologist, I had watched monkeys and apes take care of their babies. I saw the way the infants clung to their moms and suckled their breasts. I witnessed how protective the mothers became when outsiders approached and how they would fight to the death to protect their babies. In some species, the mothers mourn the loss of their young, often carrying a dead baby around for days. I saw the monkey mothers groom and care for their own little bundles and had no doubt they loved their babies the way we human primate mothers do. As I stared into the eyes of the innocent soul I had just brought into the world, it occurred to me: All I knew about motherhood and babies, I had learned from monkeys.

  What kind of a freaking mother learns from monkeys?

  Motherhood was tough, tougher than I could have imagined, especially those first few weeks. The baby did nothing but sleep, cry, eat, and poop. My sore breasts were her pacifier. I was more exhausted than ever, but I was also happier than ever. I was adapting to being a new mother, and I hadn’t even dropped her once.

  I knew the meaning of true, unrelenting love for the first time and, like a gorilla mother, that I would fight for her to the death. As I nursed her, bathed her, comforted her, and obsessively watched her breathe throughout the night, it hit me: Those monkey moms had taught me well.