Pink Boots and a Machete (4 page)

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 dress
ing 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.

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 sign 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 Victo
rian 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.

I had settled into my new life rather well, I thought, especially not speaking the local dialect. It always amazes me how far hand signals and pointing can take you. In the mornings I helped the women prepare the meals. Truth be told, unlike the other women in my family, I am not a good cook. Luckily, a lot of the cooking involved spitting, lots of spitting, and
I can spit with the best of them. You see, the Amerindian staple diet is cassava. Cassava is used to make alcohol, known as
chicha.
And Guyana's national dish, pepperpot, is typically stewed meat strongly flavored with cinnamon, hot pepper, and cassareep—a special sauce made from the cassava root. Cassava, also called yucca or manioc, has a high level of toxic cyanogenic glycosides, a pure 40-milligram dose of which can kill a cow. Improper preparation of cassava can cause a condition in humans called konzo, a neurological disease that results in paralysis, impaired vision, goiter, and cretinism. To release the toxins, cassava is soaked in water for several days. The enzymes in saliva help further the process—thus the spitting. I tried very hard not to think about the preparation while eating or drinking.

A Guyanese wildlife trader and his family lived nearby, and, hearing the village had visitors, came over to welcome us. He invited me to come along on his hunts, so on most days (with a very dry mouth after cooking) I joined the men in the forest. I didn't enjoy this part of the day, but I wanted to learn about the hunting practices. Granted I was naive, but it was a shocker.

Monkeys, mostly squirrel and capuchin, were rounded up and crammed into small cages to be sold as food or for illegal export. The hunters would chase monkeys into trees and isolate them by pulling down surrounding trees. They often killed the females, ripping babies from their backs. Strikingly beautiful birds such as macaws and toucans were trapped, and sometimes I had to hold them on my lap in the boat for
transfer to market. The trader's wife didn't understand why I wanted to go into the forest, saying, “It's dangerous, you know. There are jaguars.” I knew that. But it was not the jaguars that made me want to cry. I was witnessing atrocities committed toward some of the world's rarest and most magnificent creatures, and I could do nothing but document it.

Not only did my colleagues not know I'd been an NFL cheerleader, they didn't know I'd never left the country before—or even gone camping. But it was now irrelevant. Yes, I had grown up a sheltered girl with a love for animals and ballet, but now I was chasing wild animals and spitting on my food.

After a few days of village life, it was time to go on in search of the sakis. The team now included an elderly Amerindian villager whose knowledge of the forest would prove invaluable; his daughter, who seemed to be in her early 20s; and her teenage brother, who was partly deaf from quinine, the malarial cure he'd taken since birth. The kids would paddle and assist us in hacking through the nearly impenetrable wall of trees. Then, of course, there was me and Dr. Handsome, who weighed in at more than 200 pounds. We would all climb into an unstable dugout canoe together. Buckets were essential to bail water whenever one of us shifted position.