Pink Boots and a Machete (8 page)

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 eas
ily. 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 future 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 conscious
ness. 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.

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 began 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.

Because of my cheerleader background, which everyone seemed to know about, in graduate school I was graded more harshly and initially treated like an outcast. To me it seemed that some of my professors wouldn't give me the time of day and looked at me with amusement, as if to say, “Cute of you to ask and I love your dress, but you're in the wrong field.” I quickly tried to look more like a field researcher—or, better said, their idea of what a field researcher should look like. I took out my contacts and wore glasses. I began dressing more sloppily, went without lip gloss, and even forsook manicures. By the end of my make-under, I looked like a cross between Janis Joplin and someone who'd been locked up in a lab for months. But I couldn't keep up the charade for long, and the Cuban former cheerleader soon prevailed.

At the time I was convinced that professors actually tried
to fail me because passing me might suggest that their classes were too easy. Or, worse, if the professor were male, it would be assumed I had flirted if I did well in class. Never mind that I was the first to show up for class and the last to leave. I felt I had to work harder than anyone to prove myself and get past my background, in spite of having by then at least as much field experience as some of the instructors grading me. I found myself with the opposite problem I had had in high school. Now I was too pretty.

I'd be lying if I didn't say that in my first semester I thought of quitting and called my mom on more than one occasion to say I was coming home. But by the end of that semester, my hard work was paying off and I was regularly receiving the highest marks in the class. I will even go as far as saying that I had finally earned the esteem of my professors. This was a huge feat, as the anthropology program at Stony Brook University is one of the most highly respected in the country. The professors are tops in the field; the fact that they were tough on me made me stronger, and in retrospect I am nothing but grateful. At the time, though, it seemed their approach was not to select the best and help them swim, but rather to select the best and try to drown them. My entering class consisted of seven students, of which only two of us remained long enough to earn a degree. I had always been a good swimmer.

If I were a monkey, my place in the hierarchy would have been well established within the group by this point. But my battle was far from over. Though I now had the support and respect of my professors, my colleagues had yet to be con
vinced. I think that part of the problem stemmed from the fact that I wasn't the smartest in the bunch, yet I was receiving more scientific grants than the average student. Once again, my Cuban roots might have had something to do with it. I was very good at setting up a question and then arguing to no end its importance and what a disgrace it would be not to fund it. Yes, the fact that funding success largely depended on the ability to argue cogently was a definite plus for a girl who'd been trained by the very best—Cubans. But to some of my colleagues who felt I wasn't Ph.D. worthy, in large part because of my fashion sense and background in pom-poms, it simply seemed unfair. I regularly found myself feeling like I should apologize for wearing concealer. The National Science Foundation and Fulbright both saw past the concealer, however, the first awarding me a fellowship and the second a research grant to study one of the most critically endangered primates in the world in Madagascar.

Needless to say, I was most comfortable in the field, where far from civilization and critical eyes, I could just be me. And it was in the field that I got to know best who “me” was. Every morning in the middle of nowhere, without electricity or anyone to impress, I'd take great care in picking out my outfit and hover in front of a business card–size mirror to apply my lip gloss and check my eyebrows. I also felt I had a strong case for bringing a little black dress on expeditions. Village parties spring up more often than you might expect, and despite never having been a Girl Scout, I like to be prepared.

The judgments of fellow students were soon of no conse
quence, as I was to spend more time in Madagascar than at grad parties. And luckily for me, lemurs don't judge. Well, that's not exactly true. More accurately, lemurs don't judge humans. It probably was not a surprise to anyone who knew me that I'd end up spending most of my adult life among lemurs. Lemurs, you see, are female dominant, and I come from a long line of dominant females. Male lemurs have it rough. They are booted out of the best sleeping sites, displaced from preferred feeding trees, and as a general rule made to feel useless and inferior. It was hard not to feel sorry for those poor guys. Female lemurs sometimes take off and leave a lonely male to finish their leftovers. I have hung back with an abandoned male and listened to his cries as he beckons for the females to acknowledge him so that he can rejoin the group. As if to mock him, the females will often ignore his pathetic pleas and continue munching while he looks around helplessly. This emotional torture can last for hours. Yep, female lemurs can be witches.

Once into my bitchy-lemur jungle element, I thought I was home free, especially since before I was even out of graduate school, I was already a wildlife correspondent for National Geographic, one of the most prestigious scientific and educational organizations in the world. Think about it. Among the greats associated with National Geographic are Jane Goodall, Jacques Cousteau, Dian Fossey, and Louis Leakey, to name just a few. These were the heroes in whose company I aspired to be, and, though I by no means think I have achieved their rank, surely I have done something right. But I quickly learned that like the female lemurs, there are some
times bitchy female scientists.

In nature, there are plenty of examples of female alliance. Scientists studying lion females have found that there isn't a “queen” to match a lion “king,” and there exists a sisterhood among the females. Groups of female lions typically hunt together and forge a bond that even includes sharing the duties of raising newborn cubs. They've been compared to soccer moms, who benefit from helping each other out. It raises the question of why the term “catty” is used to describe conniving and backstabbing women. I suppose I was disappointed that this sisterhood was not as prevalent among female human researchers. It was usually the female researchers I interviewed for TV who were the most hostile. They would regularly say hello with teeth clenched, and I swear I'd read “I hate you” in their expressions. At first I thought I was paranoid; I mean surely a strong, independent woman wouldn't be so quick to judge a scientific comrade. My attitude was Girls of the field, unite! But as much as I would have liked to believe that the antimalarial drugs were making me delusional, I wasn't paranoid. I overheard one scientist turn to my producer, just five minutes after meeting me, and ask him, “Is she here because she has a pretty face?” I felt the urge to both thank her and smack her. I heard another say she would have preferred a male host to interview her, as my “look” would now force her to have to shave. Nothing like being welcomed to a field site with “Why is she here?” Let it be noted that this would mark the first time I questioned shaving my armpits, though after years of picking ticks off
my body, I know that body hair only helps conceal them.

At this early point in my career, still in my mid-20s, I had led dozens of expeditions around the world, I'd published numerous articles in scientific, peer-reviewed journals, and I'd made a groundbreaking scientific discovery of the world's smallest primate. Would hairy armpits really have made me more credible? And it wasn't just the researchers. It seemed I wasn't even safe from a few of the television producers, some of whom remarked on my looks before they even said hello. Rather than focusing on my experience or noticing my firm grip as we shook hands, they'd say things like “How do we make you look more like a scientist?” Did my credentials not speak for themselves? I
was
a scientist.

But none of them beat my personal favorite, which was “Are you going to wear that? We need to make you less attractive, or you'll look like Tarzan's sexy Jane running around in the jungle.” It's my favorite because inevitably that is the image that was encouraged. I can't begin to count the number of scenes of me bathing in rivers or showering under a waterfall. But that is a part of everyday life in the field that people are often curious about, so I never objected. More ridiculous and somewhat amusing, I think, were the conversations that preceded such filming, centering on whether it would be appropriate or sexist. Would producers discuss such things if I were Jack Hanna? Just curious.

And then there are the TV critics. Here's an excerpt from one: “The show can't decide whether to treat Mayor as an expert, or as the title [“Wild Nights with Mireya Mayor”]
and location hint, a bit of a sex symbol.” He then added, “But throughout the show she wears a wool cap and drab clothes that just beg us to take her seriously.” This was in contrast to the observation of another critic, who wrote, “Explorers require rugged gear, the sort Indiana Jones girds himself in. Then there's Mireya Mayor, a sexy blond explorer. She fills out a tank top nicely.” I can't win. If I wear tank tops, I'm vying for attention. If I cover up, it's only because I want to be taken seriously. Regardless, the first critic lost all credibility when he called my clothes drab. They were both hip and designer.

Don't get me wrong. I realize that this cuts both ways. I got my job in television not only because of my credentials but also because of how I looked. National Geographic liked that I didn't look like a typical scientist. I know that criticism comes with the territory if you're a scientist and a woman who likes wearing pink boots and tank tops.