Pink Boots and a Machete by Mireya Mayor Read Free Book Online

and introduced me to other Smithsonian researchers and botanists working in Guyana who could tell me in which trees to look for the sakis and which plants I should avoid. Later, he would poke fun at the high heels and dresses displayed in my room at the research house.
    Feeling confident about my plans, I purchased my plane tickets, the impractical teddy-bear backpack, and a pair of trendy hiking boots. I even had a little room left for a Calvin Klein field shirt and the black Ralph Lauren field vest. Neither of those was officially field clothing, but the CK shirt was military green and the vest looked like real field vests only it had a more flattering fit. The coolest part was that Dr. Taylor took me on the shopping trip. Turns out she’s a bit of a label addict too.
    I dutifully checked off all of the necessary gear on my list: tent, sleeping bag, backpack, water bottles, tweezers, water filter, hair dryer, survival manuals, first-aid kit, hiking boots, flashlights, binoculars, field notebooks, little black dress, and waterproof pens and paper. Who knew there was such a thing as waterproof pens and paper? I certainly didn’t. I also didn’t know that because of deadly snakes and other creatures roaming the forest floor, I would never use that tent or sleeping bag, opting instead for a locally made hammock.
    I weighed my bags, which I knew to be too many, and noted the overweight. I tried to choose which heels and platforms to leave behind but thought it best to pay the extra charge,as I didn’t know which dresses I’d need to match. I justified packing the little black dress, as it weighed nothing and didn’t take up much space. Mine was not at all a bag Charles Darwin would have carried on an expedition, but I explained that thought away by telling myself that men are simply not as fashionable, and, anyway, in the 19th century shoe styles were limited.
    As for cheerleading, I would not return to audition the next season, or any season after that. The cheerleaders took the news of my departure well, though most of them never believed I would go through with my crazy idea. The ones who did believe never thought I would survive to write about it, and the rest never thought about it at all.
    It was finally time to leave. As my mother finished ironing the last of my field pants, I hugged her and assured her that everything would be all right. She reluctantly drove me to the airport, yet she seemed excited that her little girl was flying off to see places she had only read about. My promise to bring her a nice doily seemed to help. I checked myself and my overweight bags in and set off for an adventure that would change not just the course of my life, but also my entire perspective of the world.
    I arrived in Georgetown, the capital of Guyana, to the unfamiliar smells and sights of a developing country. The first thing I noticed was the inordinate number of dogs and chickens on the runway, not exactly what you’d see at Miami International Airport. The city looked like the setting for a fairy tale, with tree-lined streets and quaint Dutch colonial and Victorian houses dating from its days as a Dutch and then British colony. I marveled at everything I saw like someone who’d just been sprung from prison. Off U.S. soil for the first time in my life, my heart beat with anticipation for the adventures that were sure to follow.
    After two weeks of uncertain electricity (it came and went randomly) and no television, no hot water, no telephone, and no air conditioning in that hot and humid country, I started having my doubts. And that was before I even stepped one foot into the forest. In that big, overcrowded city I found myself missing the amenities of “civilization.” Where was a Taco Bell when I needed one? I eventually discovered that Georgetown’s first-ever fast-food chain, a Kentucky Fried Chicken, had just opened within walking distance of my guesthouse—the line to get in went