Pink Boots and a Machete (10 page)

One day, as we stood watching, Mlima's now teenage son, Ndimbelimbe, like a typical teenager, was doing his best to annoy Dad. Finally losing patience, Mlima took a swing at his son. An infuriated Matata rushed to her boy's defense. Ndimbelimbe shot his Dad a smug look as his mother pulled him by the arm and dragged him away. Of course, not before giving Mlima a good scolding. Typical male, Mlima continued
eating, probably thinking that this would blow over and the nagging wife would come to her senses. But the next day, his wife and son disappeared and Mlima, usually the picture of pride and strength, was a big, weeping mess.

Matata did not return that night. Or the next few nights. It is not typical for a female to sleep apart from her mate, so this was serious. Somewhere in the dense forest, divorce papers were being filed. Forlorn cries from Mlima rang through the trees for days. He had lost his only remaining female and son. This would mean a life spent alone, socially isolated from other gorilla groups. It was difficult not to feel sorry for this blubbering male, and I wanted desperately to find Matata and persuade her to take him back. A few days after Matata had left Mlima, we were standing in the forest watching him when, upset and frustrated, he charged us. I tried not to breathe, though he could surely hear my heart pounding like a drum. But it was a bluff charge, and as soon as it was over, he just sauntered past. I did a quick count of limbs, four—the correct number—and it occurred to me, not for the first time, just how soft and pink we are. Now we needed to back off. The disintegration of the Munye group meant much more than a lonely male gorilla. It could be the end of Chloe's project and her many years of hard work.

I decided to try to lighten the mood back at camp. I turned up some music and asked the trackers to teach me a dance. Then they asked me to do the same. At first I tried swing, but that was a little tricky. I had to think of a dance that didn't require partners. Then it dawned on me: La Macarena. It
caught on like wildfire. In the forest behind their huts the trackers practiced constantly thereafter, much to the dismay of the film crew, who pictured coming back another year to film the BaAka's traditional dance only to have La Macarena spring up. The BaAka had taught me so much I was happy to be able to leave a little Cuban cheerleader culture behind.

But the smiles did not last long, as more bad news arrived. A call over the high-frequency radio shook us to the core. Poachers had been caught with the remains of two dead gorillas. Hoping against hope it wasn't Matata and her son who'd been found, I jumped in the truck and headed over to the poacher bust. When I arrived, I saw what looked like a barbecue pyre piled high with dismembered gorilla body parts, hands and feet severed to sell as souvenirs. Uniformed guards holding rifles stood watch. A dead gorilla can bring five dollars, a big sum here.

As I got closer, I could smell the distinct odor of burning gorilla flesh, little different from a human's. I picked up one of the hands and felt like crying. It was still warm to the touch. As I looked through the remains, I was painfully aware that they belonged to a female and a youngster. Had Matata and Ndimbelimbe been killed? Had the habituation project led them straight into the barrel of a poacher's gun? I pulled myself away from this tragic scene and let flow the tears. Back at camp I stood under the waterfall, hoping to wash off the horrible scent, though it would never remove the horrendous memory of the murdered gorillas.

The mood was somber. News of the murders had affected
everyone at camp. With no gorillas to follow, I picked up a book in Sango written by missionaries and began learning useful phrases such as, “There are rocks in my rice.” When I tried practicing on the trackers, they invited me and the film crew to go into the forest with them for a three-day spear hunt. Welcoming a break and curious as to how these forest dwellers survived, I accepted. The BaAka eat berries and other fruit, as well as honey and animals; their constant moving allows the natural wealth of the forest to replenish itself. The plan was for the BaAka and me to hunt in the farthest depths of a forest reserve where no guns are allowed, taking very little, including tents, with us. I thought about the bees and just how little I relished being rained on. Authentic was good, but my tent was coming along.

We retraced the route back to Bayanga, their village, and I was led through an array of igloo-shaped dwellings to meet somebody I assumed would be a local chief. You can imagine my shock when a tall white man in a military green T-shirt, ripped jean shorts, and a pencil-thin mustache greeted me in very American English, introducing himself as Louis Sarno. Twenty years before, while sitting in his living room in New Jersey, Louis had heard Pygmy music on the radio and was so spellbound he came to record it and never left. He married a local woman and learned the language. He had become an advocate for the BaAka, whose way of life, much like the gorillas', was now seriously threatened by logging. Other groups were moving in to settle and grow crops in the clearings. As BaAka are much smaller than most Africans in the area (they
were traditionally called Pygmies, but some now consider that label pejorative), they have often been mistreated and forced to work as slaves for others, such as the Bantu.

Louis frequently went on hunting trips with the villagers. Despite towering over them and, by his own admission, being a lousy spear hunter, he and his New Jersey accent fit in surprisingly well. Thirteen BaAka families, Louis, the film crew, and I all piled into two pickups. I was handed a little boy no older than two with a runny nose and no diaper. For hours the women sang, their voices powerful and the rhythms complex. I could see why their music had compelled Louis to travel halfway across the world. It was extraordinary. There was amazing energy as we drove from village to slash-and-burn logging area, to marginal forest, to second-growth forest, and finally to ancient, primal rain forest. The BaAka were home.

We hiked through the undergrowth, carrying cassava, cooking items, and hunting equipment. While I struggled with a small backpack, the women carried loads as big as the men's strapped to their heads and on their backs, with babies in their arms. BaAka people are built strong. Most of them went barefoot. They have short and very wide feet, most likely an evolutionary adaptation, with soles as thick as the soles of my boots.

After a three-hour hike we stopped to set up a campsite, intending to get farther into the forest the next day. The women, who wore nothing but a wrap, began cutting branches and setting up the shelters. One woman in particular, whom we dubbed “Superwoman,” stood out to me and the crew.
With breasts hanging down to her belly and a baby in tow, she quickly built her shelter, got a cooking fire going, and climbed a tree to collect honey before I'd even figured out where to put my tent. To bless the hunt, the men chanted to the forest spirits and whacked their nets with plants they believed to be magical.

The next day, armed with nothing more than porcupine quills, crossbows, and nets, the BaAka men and women began moving through the forest. I was told to make noise to aid in chasing out the duikers and porcupines. The noise would also help clear out elephants and gorillas before they'd be forced to charge. I helped carry a 70-foot net made of vine bark to form a barrier, but I could sense from the looks on some of the faces that I was not moving fast enough. That annoyed look is universal. The BaAka depended on these hunts. I tried going faster.

The men were chasing a duiker, a small forest antelope, and suddenly three blue duiker were running our way. The men yelled and chanted, forcing the animal to run toward the net. We women, along with the children, stood at the periphery of the net. If the animal changed direction, we would adjust its position. Everything was perfectly organized and at the same time chaotic. A very unlucky duiker was caught, and I could sense both victory and disappointment at having caught only one.

Then came the brutal part of the hunt, which I will never be prepared for. The little antelope was hog-tied, and I made the mistake of looking into its brown eyes before its screams sent chills down my spine and blood began splattering. I deter
mined to become a vegetarian again. But we can't judge these hunters. They have lived sustainably off the land for centuries. For most Westerners, meat comes nicely prepackaged, sparing us the gruesome reality of the kill.

I joined the women who were now fishing at the stream. They built a canal to divert the water and then used sand to create a dam and corner the fish. I attempted to catch some but soon realized it was a huge effort for a few small fish. Behind us, other women climbed the trees, collecting honey from stingless bees. This I liked. They handed me a honeycomb, and I let the honey drip into my mouth. Nothing ever tasted as sweet or delicious.

At midnight the camp erupted in celebration for the successful hunt. BaAka men drummed on pots and pans and jugs, and the women sang and yodeled, thanking the forest spirits and asking for a fruitful hunt the following day. There was a lead singer, with call and response. Under the stars in the deep forest their haunting music seemed otherworldly, and it would only get more so. As if a piece of the forest were moving, men under shaking branches danced, representing the forest spirits. From the shadows, we could see the movement, and as the “spirits” came closer, we could make out glowing shapes, men covered in phosphorescent mold or algae, illuminating the forest. It was surreal and magical, and I never wanted it to end. “This is the BaAka's place,” whispered Louis. How tragic it was that their forest and way of life were so rapidly vanishing.

As we drove back to Bai Hokou, I braced myself for what
news might be waiting. I hoped that the forest spirits had lent a hand in reuniting the Munye family and that the dead gorillas I had seen were not Mlima's son and mate. But a glance at Chloe's face told me that as yet there was no good news. Mlima was still alone, and there'd been no sightings or traces of Matata and Ndimbelimbe.

Over the next few days, I joined in the search. Eventually, the trackers thought they spotted Matata in the thicket. No one dared breathe, but we clucked softly and prayed it was them. Indeed, Matata's eyes peered out through the leaves, and next to her sat Ndimbelimbe munching. Mlima had won his family back! It was the most touching and beautiful moment of the journey, tainted only by the sweat bee in my nose.

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 suspicion 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.