Pink Boots and a Machete (21 page)

Ordinarily, we would have built bomas and lit fires. Bomas are barriers of thorns you set up to act like a barbed-wire fence, deterring lions. But as tired as we were, we just built the fires. With nothing but tarps on the ground and wool blankets, we were completely exposed. It was a risk, and we knew we'd be vulnerable but were too exhausted to care. The Maasai stood guard all night. No animal attacked, but the Maasai reported seeing eyes around the camp.

The next morning we awoke to the sight of towering giraffes and a watering hole filled with hippos. We lifted our heavy packs onto our increasingly frail bodies and continued the trek. Pasquale continued to insist on calling all the shots; Benedict grudgingly obeyed, and Kevin moped. When we happened upon a troop of baboons, I couldn't help notice the similarities between the monkeys' hierarchy and my teammates: an alpha male, a subordinate, and a juvenile.

We found an abandoned camp and decided it was a good spot to rest for the night. While we were setting up, a group of Maasai men from a nearby village came toward us, suspicious of our presence. But after we explained, they were welcoming, even staying into the night to party. When the Maasai dance, they chant and jump, their bodies effortlessly soaring skyward. This is how they find a mate, the highest jumper getting the girl. Under a full moon we jumped into the night, and in the morning they made us breakfast. I was hoping for eggs. Instead, they brought one of their beloved cows to bleed. Joy. They tapped into its blood without actually killing it.

To the Maasai, blood is the breakfast of champions.

From a shared gourd we all drank the cow blood, most of which was coagulated. There was actually more chewing than drinking. This is definitely an acquired taste, and I had little desire to acquire it. But we were guests of the Maasai and could not reject their hospitality. These warriors rely on cows for everything. To them the cows represent prestige, wealth, and survival. Their blood is literally the lifeblood of the community, and the warriors were willing to share it with us. It was an honor.

With bellies full of blood and parasites we trekked on. It was 116 degrees, and we were desperate to get to the next camp, where the map indicated a river. But when we found it, the water was still and milky brown. We ground some charcoal and filtered the water before boiling it, hoping to kill off the parasites. But water was water, and it looked inviting in the scorching heat. No sooner had we jumped in than a herd of cows numbering in the hundreds came running through, bringing any thoughts of a nice cool soak to an abrupt end.

Our next goal was the Segarra Mountains. On Day 12 of the expedition we were still trying to stay ahead of the rainy season. Pasquale was getting increasingly irritated with Benedict's frequent stops to point out trees. It was a constant battle, and soon the rain was again upon us.

The porters had no rain gear, and the packs were not waterproof, so we unpacked one of our tarps and piled some dry wood, the gear, and ourselves underneath. When it starts raining that hard, trekking has to stop. And once the rainy season really begins, it never lets up. There is nothing worse or more
dangerous than being constantly wet and cold on an expedition, as you can quickly succumb to hypothermia.

Of course, the film crew was there, but they weren't helping. Only watching and documenting our suffering.

We had only an hour of light left. Running out of food, we were now relying on the small villages we stumbled on, but often they had nothing to offer but a few tomatoes. Living on just peanuts and one small meal a day, we'd all lost a lot of weight and were feeling weak.

It rained all night, and temperatures dropped below 40 degrees. The shivering cold, blisters, and bug bites were all getting to us, as was Pasquale. He argued with us about everything. The Segarra Mountains are where Stanley was shot at by his team members. I wondered how close Pasquale was to being murdered.

From the lower coastal plains we walked and walked in the rain, finally arriving at the summit of the Segarras. We camped underneath an amazing baobab tree hundreds of years old. Baobabs are the only trees that can withstand the ravages of elephant tusks. We were back in snake country, too, and there were snake holes everywhere. But it wasn't the snakes or even Pasquale that got us that night. It was Benedict. My charming friend produced a pod a local had given him. Inside were larvae, still moving, which Benedict proposed we eat. The locals considered it a delicacy. We cooked them up, and I ate one or two of the squishy things; for some reason, Kevin ate dozens. It was a foolish move, and he paid the price, violently throwing up all night. He
was so sick he couldn't have blown his little whistle if his life depended on it.

The next morning we tried to hurry and make up for lost time, but we got only a few feet from camp when another porter went down. Aching and burning up with a fever, it was clear he had malaria. Malaria had killed many of Stanley's porters, and we weren't about to let that happen on this expedition. We gave him what treatment we could, said tearful goodbyes, and sent him home. Expeditions make you or break you, and this one was clearly beginning to tear us apart.

Temperatures and tempers were now hitting the boiling point. It was Day 19, and we had at last reached the Bahi Swamp, 600 miles from Ujiji. But at this time of year, it was a desert, unimaginably dry and desolate. Think Death Valley, only less inviting. We had to trek more than 15 miles that day with no water source or shade. Now short-handed, we entered a village and hired two donkeys. Stanley had employed dozens. Much stronger than humans, these beasts could carry enough water to last us two days. In the 120–degree heat, they were our best chance of surviving.

When the donkeys arrived, we tried to saddle them with the water containers. Hilarity ensued. Benedict and I couldn't get them to cooperate. The expression “stubborn as a jackass” came quickly to mind, though not for the first time on the expedition, given our teammate Pasquale.

With the water containers finally aboard, we tried to move forward, but the donkeys dawdled. Impatient, Pasquale charged ahead with Kevin on his heels. Benedict and I trudged
along with the donkeys, which were snorting and wheezing and protesting every step. The team was now clearly divided, both geographically and in spirit. Pasquale was far ahead and had not looked back once. Never on an expedition had I abandoned a team member.

As the hours went by, we could no longer see Pasquale, Kevin, or the porters. The Maasai had stayed with us, and in all honesty, if we had come upon danger, there was no question of whom I'd prefer to be with. Not to mention the water. Nevertheless, if we went the wrong way, we were screwed. We hadn't a clue where we were going, and Pasquale had all the maps. Ominously, animal bones were scattered across the salt plains. We were becoming more pissed off by the moment.

When we finally caught up, I exploded. Kevin and Pasquale apologized for abandoning us, though they didn't sound very sorry. We continued on to a village of a few huts belonging to people known as the Wagogo. During Stanley's time, the Wagogo tribesmen were aggressive and attacked during the night with spears. They were making spearheads as we approached but seemed in no way hostile. On the contrary, they gave me a bow and arrow.

With another long trek ahead of us, we camped and got an early start in the morning. When we tried to replenish our water supply, bees were hovering over the source. They're drawn to ammonia, which is found in urine. It was used as a toilet. The local people had as hard a time finding fresh water in this parched country as we did, often walking miles in search of it to no avail. Water was such a prob
lem the guys and I often had to bathe simultaneously out of the same bucket.

When Benedict and I stopped to examine a tree, Pasquale flipped out. It was becoming more and more his expedition. He acted as though he was dealing with novices he could boss around. It only made me more determined. What is the use of being an explorer if you don't explore? There's more to it than simply getting to a destination. If Benedict and I wanted to look at a tree, we damn well would. I was beginning to understand why Pasquale had loved leading the blind guy up Everest: He didn't stop to look at a thing.

Again, the donkeys were slowing us down as we climbed a steep escarpment. And again Pasquale and Kevin left us well behind. We decided to release the donkeys and carry the water up the hill ourselves. As we removed the containers, we noticed that one of them had broken, and some of the precious water had leaked out. A little longer and we would have lost most of it.

When we reached the top of the cliff, I made a beeline for Pasquale and told him what I thought of his behavior. Initially, he blew me off, but perhaps to intimidate us, he then began yelling. As stubborn and temperamental as Italians can be, they can't hold a candle to an irate Cuban. At the top of our lungs, Pasquale and I screamed and cursed at each other. Then he started wagging his finger in my face, elevating my anger to a whole new level. Benedict joined in. It was the mother of all fights, and this is saying a lot on an expedition where we argued and fought about
everything
.
By now completely exhausted, hungry, and worn down, we even argued about whether or not we were on a mountain. The expedition was coming apart at the seams. It was like a cockfight, with the battling back and forth. In the end, we all just walked away, still stewing.

After a night's rest and a little food, we started off the next day in better spirits. Benedict jokingly carried me across the river. He and I had become soul mates, spurring rumors later that we were romantically involved. But in reality we were close friends who respected one another and kept each other sane. When my turn came to carry him across the next river, I dropped him midpoint, giving everyone a good laugh. Everyone except the sound guys, that is; we ruined their expensive microphones.

On our path I spotted a green mamba snake. It was a baby, and babies are more dangerous than adults since their venom is more powerful and concentrated. The bite of a green mamba can kill you in 30 minutes, and there is no antivenom. It was a reminder that Africa is full of animals that can hurt you.

But usually, it's the ones you don't see that get you.

Benedict woke up feeling ill and drenched in sweat. We had just broken camp and headed down the road when he began vomiting. At least, we were lucky to be near Tabora, a sprawling town on the savanna. With large houses and lush gardens, fruit orchards, and well-tended fields, it was like approaching nirvana. During Stanley's time, Tabora was occupied by wealthy Arabs and was a center of the slave trade. Dr. Livingstone kept a house there.

In a horrible ironic twist, Benedict succumbed to malaria near Livingstone's very house, only steps from the grave of John William Shaw. Shaw, who himself died of malaria, was Stanley's best friend and trusted companion. Benedict was mine. It doesn't take long for the harshest realities of Africa to set in.

We ran to get assistance at Tabora, and within minutes an ambulance was there. I helped Benedict to the ambulance. Soon he was slipping in and out of consciousness, nearly incoherent and slightly delusional. The medic tried to place an IV in his arm, but Benedict's veins kept collapsing from dehydration. Once that was successful, I had to hold his hands to stop him from tearing out the line. He was shaking uncontrollably and trying to get up, nearly causing us to topple out of the back of the parked ambulance. The medic asked Benedict if he knew where he was. Sumatra, he answered.

I stepped out of the ambulance and couldn't hold back my tears, both distraught at his misery and worried about myself. How could I possibly continue on the expedition without him? We'd gone through such intense experiences and relied on each other to survive. We knew more about each other than most friends learn in a lifetime. I feared the prospect of leaving Benedict behind and having to walk to Ujiji essentially alone. As companions, neither Pasquale, who I came to love despite everything, nor Kevin, who'd become distant, disengaged, and curt, could replace him. We carried Benedict out of the ambulance and made a bed for him under the Livingstone house veranda. Still restless, he eventually fell asleep. I prayed that the treatment had been in time
and his health and strength would quickly return. Pasquale wanted to leave him, but I was adamant that that wasn't an option. The truth is, I wasn't so sure.

We were still 480 miles from Ujiji.

Though still very weak, Benedict did in fact wake up feeling better the next morning and insisted on coming with us. I was extremely relieved, to say the least. We left the Livingstone house and headed to Ugalla Game Reserve. There I spotted a dik-dik and some guinea fowl, and for the first time in days thought of food. Then by the river we saw 5 crocodiles, upstaged only by the presence of more than 50 hippopotamuses. I had never seen so many hippos in one spot—it was a spectacular sight. The hippos emitted low, deep grunts, and their jaws gaped 140 degrees. Awed, I watched as they peered at us and wiggled their ears before disappearing under the murky waters.

We crossed the river at a sandy bend and followed a hippo trail on the right bank. We argued about where to camp, Benedict and I pointing out clear evidence of hippo grazing and elephant dung and tracks all around us. There were three hippo trails going straight through the spot Pasquale had picked, as well as evidence of recent hippo activity. But Pasquale ignored us and starting setting up the tarps. Only when I spotted a nest filled with thousands of bees directly overhead did he agree to move our camp a few yards away. He was using Benedict's weakness to assert himself even more strongly. I wasn't going to let him take over.

Then Pasquale announced that we were to ask him every
time we wanted to drink water. My blood began to boil. None of us was an infant needing to ask him permission for anything, least of all water. I leaped up and confronted him. Again we were screaming and cursing, but this time I didn't walk away. “Fuck you, Pasquale!” There, I had finally said what we had all wanted to for weeks. There was a long uncomfortable silence. In the end, Pasquale relented, and out of that fight we forged a truce that would get us through the worst to come.