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

hard-earned permission papers. Not a building in sight, just a sea of green, a jumble of trees, and rivers that had yet to be explored. But here in the middle of nowhere I was far from alone. In fact, within minutesof arriving I was at the center of a circle of villagers who had somehow heard of our arrival. They had rarely if ever seen foreigners. Finally, a group of brave little girls approached. I thought for sure they could smell the last of the Jolly Ranchers hiding in my bag. But it wasn’t the candies they were after. One little girl reached out and touched my arm with a finger, then yanked it away as if burned. The other girls followed suit. They then proceeded to touch my hair, giggling uncontrollably. I didn’t think it would be all right for me to do the same, so I just stood there. Proclaiming that the show was over, a village elder came to my rescue and took me into his thatched hut like you would a lost puppy.
    I knew then I would be OK.
    Living in that village was an incredible experience. Though I felt hugely out of my element, at the same time I couldn’t have felt more at home. The villagers were very friendly and hospitable. Here was a place where food was scarce and people went shoeless and wore clothes with more holes than my scientific theories, yet they were feeding and sheltering me, treating me as their own. Subsequent travels to other impoverished countries showed me that that generosity was not the exception but the norm. I felt immensely humbled.
    I had settled into my new life rather well, I thought, especially not speaking the local dialect. It always amazes me how far hand signals and pointing can take you. In the mornings I helped the women prepare the meals. Truth be told, unlike the other women in my family, I am not a good cook. Luckily, a lot of the cooking involved spitting, lots of spitting, andI can spit with the best of them. You see, the Amerindian staple diet is cassava. Cassava is used to make alcohol, known as chicha. And Guyana’s national dish, pepperpot, is typically stewed meat strongly flavored with cinnamon, hot pepper, and cassareep—a special sauce made from the cassava root. Cassava, also called yucca or manioc, has a high level of toxic cyanogenic glycosides, a pure 40-milligram dose of which can kill a cow. Improper preparation of cassava can cause a condition in humans called konzo, a neurological disease that results in paralysis, impaired vision, goiter, and cretinism. To release the toxins, cassava is soaked in water for several days. The enzymes in saliva help further the process—thus the spitting. I tried very hard not to think about the preparation while eating or drinking.
    A Guyanese wildlife trader and his family lived nearby, and, hearing the village had visitors, came over to welcome us. He invited me to come along on his hunts, so on most days (with a very dry mouth after cooking) I joined the men in the forest. I didn’t enjoy this part of the day, but I wanted to learn about the hunting practices. Granted I was naive, but it was a shocker.
    Monkeys, mostly squirrel and capuchin, were rounded up and crammed into small cages to be sold as food or for illegal export. The hunters would chase monkeys into trees and isolate them by pulling down surrounding trees. They often killed the females, ripping babies from their backs. Strikingly beautiful birds such as macaws and toucans were trapped, and sometimes I had to hold them on my lap in the boat fortransfer to market. The trader’s wife didn’t understand why I wanted to go into the forest, saying, “It’s dangerous, you know. There are jaguars.” I knew that. But it was not the jaguars that made me want to cry. I was witnessing atrocities committed toward some of the world’s rarest and most magnificent creatures, and I could do nothing but document it.
    Not only did my colleagues not know I’d been an NFL cheerleader, they didn’t know I’d never