Pink Boots and a Machete (20 page)

We soon were close to shore, as far as the dhow could take us, and one by one we jumped into the waist-deep water carrying our gear on our heads, making multiple trips to retrieve
it all. We set up camp on the shore. In the morning, our head porter, an experienced Tanzanian named Julius, came to meet us. Key to the success of the expedition, Julius would be there to translate and to help oversee the men, safeguarding against mutiny or dishonesty. He was joined by two Maasai warriors who would help guard our safety. Members of a beautiful and proud seminomadic people, Maasai males are expected to kill a lion or a leopard with a spear at a young age, which both our warriors had done by 14.

We went into town and, in consultation with Julius, selected our porters. Quickly, we returned with them to camp, loaded the gear on our backs and theirs, and began our trek. We argued about how much water to bring and, in our haste to leave, brought none.

We'd be taking the old Arab slave route through the man-grove swamps. It was the route Stanley had taken, but in the mangroves you can't see more than a few feet in front of and behind you. On Day 1, only a few miles into the expedition, we'd already lost a team member. Kevin was nowhere to be found and, as the least experienced, was the last guy you wanted lost out there. But one of the Maasai was with him, so we knew he would be OK. Cleverly, he had brought along a little whistle, so we soon found our missing explorer.

Sticking together the rest of the day, we arrived at an area where we could camp, happy that it was surrounded by water, though we quickly discovered it was brackish. Water would be our greatest concern throughout, as it had been Stanley's. We'd neglected to secure the most important element to our
survival. Kevin headed back to the last village with some porters and his whistle and, sometime after sundown, returned to camp lugging containers of the precious liquid. We would never make that mistake again.

The next morning, only a few feet from camp, I found a spitting cobra. They don't actually spit but can spray their venom with precision and, usually aiming straight for the eyes, can cause permanent blindness. There are 29 species of venomous snakes in Tanzania, known as “snake country.” As Pasquale pointed out, the only tools in our snake kit were a hatchet and a sharp knife.

That afternoon we began crossing the swamps. Crocs were bountiful, and now was the nesting season, when they are most aggressive. I could barely lift my feet out of the thick mud. So much for my pink boots, now brown along with the rest of me and everything else. Trekking through mud up to our knees carrying far too heavy backpacks was nearly impossible. More than once I sank waist deep and had to be lifted out. We were all struggling. Finally, we came to the edge of a river too deep to cross by foot. That was a relief, as it, too, was infested with crocs. Few of the porters could swim. At a village we hired dugout canoes that were so unstable we knew there was a real risk of drowning our nervous porters. As we paddled, I became aware of the dozens of crocs nesting in the banks. You could almost smell the danger. One of the porters in our canoe started to panic and stood up; the canoe began to wobble, and water poured in. Benedict tried to calm him, knowing we could capsize in seconds. And seconds is all it
would take for the crocodiles to have us in their jaws. Somehow we got through that and arrived at the other side.

Once there, more arguing ensued. It was never ending. We argued about where to camp, when to camp, which route to take, how much water to carry, and a host of other concerns both serious and trivial. Pasquale never listened, only yelled. He made it very clear to us that an expedition was not a democracy. I was sure that if the crocs didn't get us, the bickering and backstabbing would. On those first few days of our journey, Pasquale treated me like a little girl. I'm not very good at taking orders, and my patience was wearing thinner and thinner. It infuriated me that all he could see was my gender, not my credentials as an explorer.

Benedict incessantly questioned Pasquale's navigational calls, and they bickered like schoolchildren. But we were now well into the swamp, and there was no turning back. Pasquale was a loose cannon, and loose cannons roll around on the tops of ships. When seas start to get rough, loose cannons either hurt people or go off unexpectedly. We could afford neither. It was early in the expedition, and we were already lost, even though Pasquale wouldn't admit it. Then Kevin began whining that he wanted to go back to the river, afraid we were running out of water again. I argued that we couldn't take the river on a leash and we had to keep pressing on. It was a battle of wills…and won'ts, as in, “I won't let these egotists ruin this expedition.”

In two days we had covered only 9 miles. We had more than 900 to go.

Burnett's film crew (of more than 100 people, we later
learned) traveled parallel to us in vehicles, unseen, and stayed in satellite camps. Every once in a while, behind a bush we'd spot one of them. We began referring to them as “the others,” from the TV show
Lost
. They could not reach most of the remote places we were traversing but were there to provide logistical support for the handful of producers, cameramen, and sound techs who did follow our every move. This team worked in shifts because of the arduous nature of the journey and the 100-pound cameras they had to carry. They were with us all the time, even when we slept. (On occasion, when we were really desperate, we tried to think of ways to steal their water and food.) They were flies on the wall, documenting every step of our misadventure. They were what you might call “extreme cameramen,” who were adept at high-risk expeditions and had been part of Mark Burnett's other series,
Eco-Challenge
and
Survivor.

The first couple of days we were very much aware of the cameras; they were so big, it would have been difficult not to be. But soon we were forced to focus all our energies on sheer survival, and there was no way to do that and worry about image or how we'd look on TV. As a result, the effect was raw and often far from pretty—certainly not our best sides. But we were always real.

We finally arrived at the base of the Uluguru Mountains. Stanley had gone around the mountains, but we took a more challenging route directly over them. It didn't take long to realize we had too many porters and too much gear and would have to get brutal in cutting back. We even cut back
on our toothbrushes and towels. When it's on your back, every ounce counts.

The peak of the Uluguru Mountains is 6,400 feet high. Once you start climbing, you are pretty much committed. If anyone tripped or lost their footing, it could be fatal. It was more than 100°F, and we were huffing and puffing trying to keep a steady pace. Pasquale wanted to move faster. The rest of us tried to convince him to slow down. When Benedict suggested I lead the way instead, Pasquale lost it. He couldn't bear the thought of not being in the front. I would taunt him by walking a few steps ahead. It drove him nuts, but even so the gruff taskmaster and I were beginning to bond. We spent the rest of the expedition walking side by side or with me a step behind him when the trail was narrow, because he couldn't stand for me to get ahead of him.

In fact, being a woman on this expedition had its clear advantages. The guys seemed able to open up to me in a way they couldn't with each other; I got to see another side of them. Perhaps they felt less threatened. Kevin told me about all the tragedies and deaths he had witnessed on the front lines. Those images still gave him nightmares. Benedict and I would talk about everything under the stars, sometimes well into the night. Pasquale and I would have long talks about love and life. I could even tease him a little bit. Most telling, I was the only one he ever let walk in front of him, however grudgingly. Even the Maasai warriors, who were not allowed to show fright or pain, confessed to me their one and only fear: women.

The climb was steep, and there was no slowing Pasquale
down. Once again, he reminded us of the blind guy who kept up on Everest. Suddenly, we heard a thud. A porter had gone down. We took his pulse and poured some water on his forehead. He was boiling hot and hyperventilating. After we got him stabilized, we had two porters take him down the mountain and back to a village. We had to move on. The expedition couldn't wait.

You plan and plan and plan, then Africa happens.

We continued the climb and stopped to camp at 4,276 feet before darkness hit. It was a serene, calm setting with incredible views. But that night a windstorm came through like I've never witnessed. We tried to secure our shelter and gear. The wind was so loud and strong no one slept that night. The next morning we had to complete our climb, more than 2,000 feet, on much steeper terrain. As tired as we were, it was hell.

We literally walked through the clouds and into the oldest forest in Africa, 25 million years old. Soaring trees nearly reached the sky. Benedict and I wanted to stop and take notes, but Pasquale insisted we keep pushing, joking that we should just pick a flower, put it in our pocket, and talk about it at camp. It is always a tough balance on an expedition, staying on course and still absorbing everything you can.

There's a climbing saying, “Going up a mountain is optional, going down a mountain is mandatory.” It was now time to descend, and we knew it would be dangerous. The fact is that there are more deaths going down Everest than going up. Ours was a slippery slope and our feet were tired, so staying upright
was difficult. It took us more than eight hours to reach a place we could camp.

Everything was damp and humid. Benedict, obviously well trained, broke out a tampon and started a fire. But the warmth didn't last. A thunderous rainstorm set in, and everything we owned was soaked by morning. We were trying to stay ahead of the rainy season, and that was a sure way to kill an expedition. Stanley called the Uluguru the “misty mountains,” and he was so right. That mist percolated into everything. There was no way to start a fire in the morning. Even the old tampon trick failed us. The team's mood was as damp as our clothing. Regardless, we had to push on, even though we'd had hardly anything to eat and were all feeling lethargic. Making matters worse, for days I had been suffering from diarrhea. I was beginning to feel like a frozen yogurt machine.

Kevin was shocked when he saw the sheer cliffs we had yet to traverse. He tried to convince us not to attempt it, insisting it was unfair to the porters. They might not have been happy, but we felt he was projecting his own fears onto them. Pasquale, Benedict, and I felt frustrated. As explorers we knew there'd be risks, and this was one of them. It's the nature of the beast. An expedition can't just come to a halt every time things get dicey. Outnumbered, Kevin had no choice but to go on.

The climb was hairy, but we lost neither Kevin nor a porter. We did, however, happily stumble on a tiny village. Kevin went off to sulk under a tree, perhaps feeling he had overreacted. The rest of us feasted on pineapples and bananas. It was paradise. Then Benedict spotted a goat. The next thing I knew, the goat
was ours and had been named Lucky. It was lucky for us, not so lucky for the goat. As the Maasai skinned it, they offered me a piece of the kidney. They said it would boost my energy instantly, so I ate it raw. I wouldn't say it was delicious, but it wasn't the worst thing I've had. At least it wasn't dog.

Full of goat kidney–induced energy, Benedict and I—along with our other two companions—camped and danced with the villagers into the night to the sound of their drums. They pulled in a few nine-foot pythons to join. Dancing in my once pink boots, I had a magical night.

Pasquale was always the first one up in the mornings, and he brought Benedict and me cups of coffee. (I have no idea if aloof Kevin drank coffee in the morning, but he never got any from Pasquale.) It was one of the nice things about Pasquale. From my tent, I looked forward to seeing his feet approach, especially after the long night of dancing. Refreshed, we broke camp and threw on our packs, heading to the Makata Plains—lion country. It felt like a scalding frying pan in dry season. I know I just said we were running from the rainy season, but that's Africa.

We walked on parched, cracked ground with no water in sight. You can survive two or three weeks without food, but you can't go more than a day or two without water. Getting through this part must have been a true test of Stanley's will, and it would be for us, too. Like Stanley, I was dehydrated and suffering from dysentery. For several days I was forced to stop every few steps and duck behind a sparse tree, hoping against hope that a snake didn't bite me on the ass. Or the cameras
didn't catch me. The upside was that the dysentery gave me a few rare moments of privacy.

We were still 880 miles from Ujiji.

Scattered bones now covered the ground, giving it the feel of a huge graveyard. There wasn't a lot of life, just heat and thorn bushes. The Maasai said that a buffalo carcass we found had been eaten by lions. Soon we were walking through the tall grasses where lions like to hide, knowing that we too could be the hunted. We could see only a few feet in front of us. It felt very much like we were walking into a trap. One of the grasses snagged my hand, and blood spurted everywhere. Kevin wanted to stitch it up, but I insisted we keep moving. The last thing I wanted to do was just sit there, bleeding, with lions around. Kevin insisted I at least splint it, but I wanted to have both arms mobile. He called me stubborn, which I would never dispute, but he had a tendency to overreact.

After several hours of trekking in temperatures of more than 100 degrees, we entered a forest and searched for a place to camp. Survival was our first priority. There were elephant highways everywhere and no suitable place to set up. When elephants stampede through the forest, they leave a tunnel—an elephant highway. There were also hippos everywhere. Hippos are one of the most dangerous animals out there, responsible for more human deaths than any other animal in Africa. They are extremely territorial and will not allow you to get between them and their water source. Hyenas and jackals were also a concern. Not shy like lions, they are capable of taking a fully grown man and dragging him off.