Pink Boots and a Machete (18 page)

We caught our breath and let our adrenaline settle, allowing the giraffe to rest until ready to stand up on his own. That process was not pretty, either. A giraffe can't simply hop to its feet. It is entirely reliant on its head and neck to get up from
a prone position. As I held the rope and watched, the giraffe began to throw his head and neck toward his back legs in an effort to rise onto his stomach. Frighteningly, it looked as though the 1,800-pound animal was having a seizure. But finally he made it into a sort of crouch. Another throw of his head and neck toward his tail gave him momentum to stand. Holding the makeshift leash around his neck, I looked up in awe at this amazing beast.

For the next hour I walked my giraffe. That's right. I walked him like I was cooling down a racehorse 18 feet tall. Our next task was to walk him into the trailer. This was not as easy as it may sound and should come with the disclaimer, “Lead the giraffe at your own risk.” We began wrangling him and quickly realized this giraffe had a lot of attitude. Leaning his long body way back, he resisted mightily. We finally got him in, and I went to close the back gate. As if in retaliation, the giraffe kicked back, nearly hitting my rib cage. I jumped out of his way in the nick of time, relieved it was only a near miss. I wasn't impervious to the fact that a giraffe's kick can kill a lion.

One giraffe down, we still had one to go. It was a daunting thought, an intoxicating mix of excitement and danger. We needed a female if there was to be any chance of reproduction. By the end of the second capture I was exhausted, as were the giraffes we had set off running. The entire process of capturing and moving them to the new preserve had been even more intense than I'd anticipated, but the result would be worth it: the gradual rebirth of one of the planet's great natural envi
ronments. A giraffe couple stood in the back of the truck, and it was time to take them to their new stomping grounds.

Wildebeests and giraffes in place, Ulf's preserve was almost complete, but it lacked predators. In the natural world, every form of life is food for another. Most predators have special adaptations to catch and kill food. These may include good vision, a keen sense of smell, or strong legs for running. Leopards have all of those. They are capable of running just under 40 miles per hour and can easily jump 22 feet horizontally and 10 feet vertically. They have four-inch, razor-sharp teeth and claws as thick as rifle slugs. They have a terrible beauty. They're like an automatic weapon with the safety latch off.

Ulf had a couple of these potential killing machines at his farm (located not far from the preserve). They were orphan cubs brought to him by a local farmer. They were still too young to survive on their own, so Ulf had adopted them. He had always been crazy about leopards, and it was remarkable to watch them interact. He called them the “ultimate beasts” and described them as very moody. They were sometimes extremely cuddly and affectionate, but their behavior could change to vicious in a second. Though Ulf never forgot that these leopards were capable of inflicting serious injury, there was a bond there akin to father and sons. Unquestionably, these leopards saw Ulf as Dad.

One day we were cruising along with the leopards in the car and Ulf driving, when one of them decided to ride shotgun. From the backseat, it jumped onto my lap and reached to the left placing its large paw on the steering wheel. It was like hav
ing an extremely large house cat on my lap. In fact, other than being able to eat you, leopards really aren't very different from house cats.

Walking around the preserve, Ulf told me this was not the first time he had cared for leopards. It turns out that these cubs were members of a leopard family with a brain disorder that Ulf had been trying to help for years. It all started in 1999 when a farmer knocked on his door carrying a female leopard and said, “There's your leopard. Do with it what you want and then kill it.” Cats are traditionally admired for their graceful movement, speed, and agility. This leopard cub could barely walk.

It seems safe to assume that most people would have put the cat down. But something about this particular cub made it impossible for Ulf to consider such a thing. She couldn't run or climb and fell over all the time just trying to walk. Ulf worked tirelessly doing all he could do to improve her quality of life. But nothing worked.

Ulf took his leopard to the local hospital in Windhoek to get an MRI. The tests showed she had severe damage to her nervous system caused by hydrocephalus. This condition, fluid on the brain, occurs in humans, too, and to date there has been no cure for it either in humans or animals. Having grown very attached to the leopard, Ulf was desolate. He continued giving her vitamins and then one day, on a whim, gave her a vitamin supplement used to treat humans with liver ailments. Within days, she recovered. Nothing short of a miracle.

I was fascinated by this medical story, but the rest would
have to wait. Ulf received a call, and the next thing I knew we were headed to find a wild cheetah that had been attacked by a leopard. A wild vet's work is never done.

The cheetah was very badly injured. It couldn't walk or eat on its own. It was a sad sight to see one of the most amazing cats in the world writhing in pain. I would have much preferred to see it doing what it's famous for—running. The fastest of all animals, cheetahs can accelerate from 0 to 68 miles an hour in three seconds, reaching speeds up to 75 miles an hour. Unfortunately, they are still not fast enough to forestall the tremendous decline in population that has been threatening their survival. The world's biggest population of cheetahs—of only about 2,500 individuals—is in Namibia. More than ever, I realized what an impact Ulf's dedication could have on threatened populations, as in the case of cheetahs not a single animal can be spared. In any other circumstances, the injured animal Ulf and I found would quickly have died, but, remarkably, after a few weeks in his care, you wouldn't even know it had been attacked.

I was very curious to meet the hydrocephalic leopard Ulf had cured. She now lived atop rocks in a reserve near Fish River Canyon. Few wild leopards get the chance to make it back into the bush, but this was a haven for problem animals. Eric and I took a two-hour bush plane ride to pay it a visit. Natasha, Ulf's friend and owner of the farm-turned-wildlife-reserve, warmly greeted us and took us out to search for Ulf's rescue leopard. Natasha cautioned us that this was now a full-grown female, big and temperamental. I told her I had an
aunt like that. After a long pursuit we saw her, barely, camouflaged well into the landscape. I stood still, trying not to make any sudden, jerky movements that might startle her. But she approached us, showing special interest in Eric. Not Eric himself, but the fuzzy, hairy microphone on the end of his camera. She was just a big cat, after all.

Eric and I flew back to Ulf's ranch. Ulf had decided to take his year-old hydrocephalic leopard cubs to the clinic in Windhoek, and I asked to go with him. You see, the medical angle of the story was fascinating to me, not only because of the leopards. It was also personal. One of my cousins, a hydrocephalic, had died several years earlier. Growing up, I saw the hardships he endured, including never being able to leave his bed. If Ulf had really stumbled upon a cure for leopards, would it be possible to extend that treatment to humans?

It's not every day that leopards are wheeled through the emergency doors of a hospital. Rolling a gurney with a leopard on top gets you a lot of stares, and you'd be amazed at how quickly the halls clear. The leopards had been anesthetized, but their large adrenaline supply required extra tranquilizers to ensure they did not run wild in the hospital.

We lifted the first one onto the scanner platform on his belly. His legs and paws spread, he was ready for his CAT scan. That is probably the only time I'll ever say CAT scan and mean it literally.

We awaited the results anxiously. With the vitamin supplement, the leopard's behavior had improved drastically, but how deep was the improvement? Had his brain physically
changed, too? Minutes later, we had the results. No brain damage. Amazing. I couldn't help but think that this miracle cure of Ulf's might someday open new vistas for human medicine. As I have learned so many times, some of the better things in life happen totally by accident.

Back at the preserve, the cubs were fully awake and so agile you'd never guess they had once been handicapped. They moved around the rocks much faster than I could. I also noticed that their cuddly qualities had gotten to me, and my guard was down. When I first met them, I was careful not to trigger their razor-sharp claws, but now I was taking naps with them. I won't lie—I had already been pawed several times and bear scars on my back to prove it. Sure they were young, tame leopards with brain disorders, but they could still hurt.

Then I had one last realization. Without Ulf, these leopards had been destined for a cage or a bullet. It was a beautiful and joyous moment for me to watch them run free. Even better—sheer heaven, in fact—was sitting in the Namibian desert, watching the sun disappear behind the hills, with one leopard rubbing against my leg and another leaning against my back.

Boys, feel free to head to chapter 13.

Where I travel seldom resembles what most of my contemporaries consider civilization. But the good life has very different meanings in different parts of the world. In some places you can be a rich man if you live in a hut with no electricity or running water and a dozen family members, as long as you have a cow. You can tell a lot about a culture in the eyes of its children. If the children are smiling and laughing, there is a good chance that their way of life, spartan as it may look to us, is a happy one.

When you go to places like that, you quickly learn to appreciate just how little we actually need.

In the “civilized” world most women carry small convenience stores on their shoulders. Known as purses, pocketbooks, handbags, shoulder bags, or “Birkins,” they usually have neat little compartments for eye shadow, emergency snacks, rain gear, reading material, breath mints, contact lens solution, sunglasses, pens, dental floss, water bottles, lipstick, feminine products, mobile phones, Bluetooth headgear, spare batteries, hair brushes, and gum. Some women, those with improbably large bags, also carry over-the-counter medical supplies, sewing kits, hand wipes, Windex, bad hair day caps, garage door openers, Starbucks punch cards, and occasionally a teeny lap dog. Women who carry all of the above often actually run out of room. They are easily spotted in their native habitat (malls) with wallet and car keys in hand, as those items simply don't fit in their overstuffed bags.

Believe it or not, seemingly trivial items can be essential to several weeks in the wilderness. Dental floss, for example, is 20 times stronger than string and comes in a small package with its own cutter. If you don't use it on your teeth, one container of floss can build a full shelter and dozens of snares. The drug Percocet relieves pain and will treat diarrhea. It's also great for making that one person in the group who's freaking out shut up. And if you get cornered by a bear, squish the pills into little bits and drop them; the bear will consume them until it passes out—eight or ten pills should do the trick.

In my humble opinion, women's natural ability to be prepared proves conclusively that we are ideally suited for expedition work.

Most women hope they never find themselves stranded in the wilderness. If the situation arises, however, they are readier than they realize. So much of survival is just about common sense. And since they say necessity is the mother of invention, the everyday things many of us carry as a matter of course can actually save your life.

I didn't know any of this on my early expeditions.

When I packed to go to the Amazon for the first time, I carefully selected several matching outfits for each day and stuffed my bag with makeup, a jewelry bag, a hair dryer, an arsenal of hair products, pajamas, and enough sensible underwear for a small rain forest tribe. As I've mentioned, I also packed a little black dress and heels. You just never know, right? Nights before setting off, I lay awake thinking about coming across a Pygmy tribe that had never made contact with the outside world. What if the Pygmy king invited me to his hut for a ceremonial dinner? I would have to be prepared, right? In the morning I also packed my pearl necklace.

I eventually arrived at the dankest, muddiest, most remote place on Earth wearing what used to be called “traveling clothes,” trailing an overstuffed rolling suitcase, and carrying the teddy-bear backpack. I'm not making this up—nobody could. I looked like a Catholic schoolgirl en route to summer debate camp—an expedition my mother would have approved of. In all, I think I actually used three things
from that suitcase, and all of them were socks. But had there been an emergency, I would have been ready.

By the time I had a few other trips to remote places under my belt, I had become an expert packing minimalist, which, if you think about it, goes completely against any woman's natural instincts. What woman in her right mind would think she is prepared for a couple of weeks anywhere with only some tank tops, a couple of shirts and pairs of cargo pants, shorts, socks, a hat, extra pens, field notebooks, lip gloss, and underwear she could wash in a river filled with leeches? But seriously, as long as I have these few things, I am mostly good to go. OK, I still pack the little black dress. Some habits die harder than others.

But even cutting down my gear didn't stop my crew from calling my bag the monster. It always made me feel as if I had over packed. Not so.

The guys on the crews normally walk around unshaven, priding themselves on not having seen their reflection for several weeks. But when one of them got something in his eye and another felt a creepy-crawly in an unmentionable area of his body, they came to me. As much as they hated to admit it, they needed my mirror. They thought I had brought it to apply makeup. Makeup? Pshhh. Forget about it. Even if you wanted to wear it, you are usually in a place so hot that within the first hour you would perspire your foundation, blush, eye-liner, mascara, and lipstick right off your face and into your eyes. If you wear contact lenses, you know that is really bad. And even if it didn't melt off your face and into your eyes,
you might soon find any number of bug species stuck to your mascara and lipstick. This is especially true of gooey lip gloss. Bugs in the rain forest, let me tell you, are some of the weirdest, creepiest-looking things on this earth, and I promise you don't want them pissed off and writhing in your lip gloss. Besides, when you are trying to habituate a group of lowland gorillas, it's probably best not to smell like Cover Girl. Take notes here, because this is the stuff they never teach you in anthropology school.

Also—and this will be on the quiz—such journeys typically take you to places where beauty is perceived on a different scale, so your usual allure is completely lost on the natives. While being thin is considered attractive by most Westerners, tribesmen are searching for a chunky, fertile-looking woman to bear their kids. Then, too, think about it: Who, exactly, are you trying to impress? I guarantee you that no silverback will allow you to get closer to his family because you smell like something expensive from Chanel. In nature, bar pickup tactics don't work, and you eventually find yourself realizing what a very odd species we are.

I assure you, the mirror I take with me is not intended to be used for applying makeup, though I admit to using it to check my hair. In many remote villages, the unexpected appearance of a painted lady might conjure up images of some feared she-demon. But there's no reason to sport crazy hair. I would never want to give my hosts the idea that I might actually be from their underworld. I suppose you think I'm kidding here. Dian Fossey famously used her unruly, thick,
curly hair to scare the local bullies and primate poachers away from the gorillas she was studying.

Besides helping me keep my locks in check, a mirror is one of the most overlooked but valuable methods for attracting attention when you need help or are lost in the wilderness. When aimed correctly, the brilliant flash from the mirror cannot be ignored. It will reveal your position in the densest of vegetation or in the most rugged mountain landscape. I remember standing on a trail attempting to locate my team on a densely forested slope a mile away. After a frustrating hour of yelling, I used my compass to position myself, then the mirror and the sun as a signaling device—the flash immediately and accurately revealed my position. And so was born my admiration for the lowly signal mirror. Under ideal conditions, a signal mirror can be effective for more than 100 miles, but 10 miles is more reliable. You need to practice your signaling technique. A search plane will pass only once or twice over a given area before widening its search. A good signal can mean the difference between 36 hours lost in the woods and a week. Or more.

The crews also made fun of my tweezers. About the only real “grooming” you can do as a girlie-girl in the jungle, besides picking ants out of your hair, of course, is plucking your eyebrows. Once you've achieved the perfect high-arched brow back in civilization, there is no way any style-conscious girl will sacrifice it. Tweezers, therefore, are an essential packing item. Period. The last thing you want on your return trip is to be greeted by your loved ones sporting a Frida Kahlo uni-
brow. But it turns out that tweezers, in addition to keeping your eyebrows coiffed, are an essential jungle item. There have been numerous times when a tick has made its way into, how should I put it, private, hard-to-reach areas, and it has been my tweezers that have come to the rescue. Tweezers are also the ultimate tool to deflate a leech lodged in your nose, not to mention indispensable when long, skinny splinters have lodged themselves under the skin. Who you gonna call? Tweezers.

Jewelry? I actually have this leather and shark's tooth necklace that is my one piece for expeditions. It is my good luck token. Anything more would be overkill. Wearing shiny metal neckwear that could start a tribal civil war is not a good way to have a successful research trip. Nevertheless, jewelry, I have discovered, is universal. While mostly not made of precious stones or metals, necklaces, bracelets, and rings transcend cultures. In Africa, the noble Maasai warriors wear the most beautiful pieces. Still, it is best to leave your jewelry at home. In time, you learn to appreciate pretty things through the eyes of the native culture you're visiting. Much as with animal species, it is often the men who are most adorned. Such is the way with the Maasai.

Of course, no book about rugged wilderness expeditions around the world by a former professional cheerleader would be complete without mentioning hair care. Basically, there isn't any. That is, except for that rare day your team stumbles upon a waterfall, and the film crew thinks they are being completely novel by asking the one woman on the expedition to go bathe and wash her hair in it…while they roll film. And on that
day you will find that not a single member of your expedition team has brought along shampoo. So you end up washing your hair with a bar of soap made of pumice used to get the grime off hands. And because the film crew wanted you to do the waterfall thing, tiny bits of pumice fall from your hair for the next three days, usually into your food. The locals might name you Tall Girl with Golden Hair Who Makes Rock in Her Head, but it is a small price to pay for dipping your toes into paradise and making the film crew happy—thrilled with themselves, actually, for coming up with such a brilliant idea.

One problem with being a cheerleader in the jungle is that after washing your hair you can't just sidle up to the only other girl around, a nursing lemur, and ask her where you might plug in your dryer. A motorized hot-air wind machine might scare off not just the animals you have traveled 8,000 miles to study, but your guides and porters, too. I have long hair I like very much. If you saw my salon bills, you'd understand just how much. When I go off into the wilderness, there's not much beyond basic hair care, and that is precisely how I justify my salon bills at home. When you travel with a film crew, however, they require electricity, which, happily for me, means lugging a generator through the bush. And my hair dryer has come in very handy when the crew's camera goes down from the moisture in the rain forest. Same holds for my hair.

As for clothing, style doesn't have to go out the window. If there were a window. On an expedition I am a scientist, and scientists are (usually) practical to a fault. So, when you go to work, you dress completely for function, which is exactly how I
got myself in trouble in graduate school. But that doesn't mean your cargo pants have to be ill fitting, nor will your science be any less valuable if, God forbid, you match. Although it's true that on a good day in the jungle, your socks are dry.

On a really good day, you find a body of water that isn't contaminated or infested with crocodiles or piranha, one you can not only bathe in but even wash your clothes in without disturbing the hippos. And that is if, and only if, you don't also have to use it for drinking (nothing like having to drink your bath water). That's about it. As a Western woman, it really doesn't matter where you go—you are an oddity. Sure, just about any girl wants to be noticed, but it's a different thing entirely to stand out like some sort of apparition. Fashion sense doesn't need to be sacrificed. While being a girl in the wilderness has nothing to do with femininity or pretty things, it doesn't mean you have to look bad, as long as you use your wits and intuition and stay prepared.

Behold the tampon.

In addition to its intended use, removing the absorbent cotton from inside its casing and using it as kindling can save your life. It may seem like a small amount, but it's enough. On a particular African expedition, after walking something like 25 miles in a light rain, we made camp in a thicket. My socks were wet, as was everything else, for that matter. But the bigger problem was that all the kindling and underbrush were damp, and nobody could start a fire.

As hot as the days get on the African plains, the nights are chilly, and that night would have been miserable without a fire.
Then there is the matter of prey. As the food chain goes, people are easy prey to many species in many remote parts of the world, and Africa is no exception. In the game of big cat versus human in a sleeping bag, more often than not neither the sleeping bag nor the human stands a chance. Without a fire to deter animals, we weren't going to sleep, and it would be a long, cold, and hungry night.

Being an old-school purse packer, I offered a solution. I produced one individually wrapped magic fire starter—er, tampon—from my backpack and handed it to one of the researchers trying to start the fire. Despite being married and living in the Westernized world, he looked at the package and then looked into my eyes the way a husband does when you ask him to buy you Pamprin. Abject fear. But once I removed the cotton wadding and showed him what it could be used for, he put it to work immediately. In no time at all we had our fire. That may have been the night we were really short on food, and the camp cook produced what he assured us was a delectable dessert of big, white, icky grubs. “Packed with protein and other good things,” he insisted. Come morning, we were all completely green—sick as dogs. Nevertheless, we had our fire and dry socks for another day.