Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter (5 page)

NBC (parent of SciFi) has mandated that we be accompanied, due to recent political upheaval in parts of the country. We exit the terminal and meet with our local security consultant, who will guide us across the border of Malaysia to Johor Bahru, the city nearest to the recent sightings. Subsequent experience has taught me that these security consultants come in only two varieties: trained killers and trained monkeys. Half the time, they are indispensable assets who speak regional dialects, navigate complex local customs, and offer practical advice for staying out of trouble. The other half of the time they turn out to be armed goons who are just as apt to accidentally shoot the clients as they are to protect them. In this particular case, we’re saddled with a guy named Captain Gupta, and he’s exhibiting early signs that we may not be in the hands of Southeast Asia’s finest. I look on in disbelief as he gets lost trying to guide our jeep out of the airport. Despite it being a twenty-minute drive, he manages to take three wrong turns on the way to the Malaysian border and even stops to ask for directions at a local prison. I’ve never felt safer.

We cross the border with little fanfare, arriving in the city of Johor Bahru. This is one of the fastest-growing urban centers in Malaysia but maintains a slightly gritty disposition. The whole downtown could use a fresh coat of paint, and the presence of large manufacturing plants has done little to encourage tourism. Still, it feels entirely more authentic than the pristine metropolis of nearby Singapore.

We check into a hotel that looks like it’s been shelled by artillery fire and meet in Neil’s room to begin our operation in earnest. Bags are unzipped, and equipment spills out like entrails across the open floor. I attach a microphone to my shirt and slip the transmitter in my back pocket, fingering the power switch. We’ve been in motion for days, spanned the planet at half the speed of sound, driven across an international border, all to arrive at this moment, heralded by a tiny gesture that nobody else in the room observes. As the device clicks on, I sense that the microphone is now alive and waiting patiently for me to feed it. My previous fear that the project would never materialize is now replaced by much more solemn anxiety. It’s happening. Right now. A hundred lightbulbs come on at once. I now see this pilot for what it really is: a completely unscripted television show where two cameras record my every move as I lead a team into the jungle looking for a potentially dangerous animal. I look down at the microphone and swallow hard. Here we go.

Since we don’t really have a plan, we agree to drive north to Endau Rompin National Park, the epicenter of the sightings. That seems logical enough. There’s just one problem: we don’t have permission to film or even enter the park. In point of fact, we’ve been advised in a letter from Mr. Chu, a park representative, that we expressly
don’t
have permission. Knowing that Mr. Chu works near the entrance to Endau Rompin, and with hopes of persuading him in person, we climb into two beat-up old SUVs and leave Johor Bahru in the dust.

By late afternoon the urban sprawl has receded and broad swaths of green jungle envelop the edges of the road. The air is sticky and hot as we pull over to the village at the perimeter of the national park. We make inquiries about Mr. Chu’s whereabouts at the park office and discover that he’s working at a camp deep in the jungle. Outside, I take a rag to my neck, and Neil and I squint over an old park map unfolded across the hood of our car. We exchange knowing glances and smile. Neil saunters back into the office. I call Eric over. “We need to head into the village and pick up some food for tonight.”

“Why? I thought Chu wasn’t here?” he says.

“He’s not. We’re going into the park to find him.”

Eric stammers and then follows Carter and me into the village to look for a store. This is the hinterland, and the one outpost we do find has very little by way of food offerings, unless you consider quail eggs and rotting dragon fruit a hearty dinner. I bat away a swarm of black flies and slap a loaf of stale bread and a case of warm beer onto the counter. Carter throws down a box of cookies, and Eric grabs a tin of crackers. It isn’t much, but it will have to do. Back at the park office we offload our gear into a proper 4x4. A Samoan-looking ranger fires up the engine.

The road is an absolute disaster. Deep ruts and thick mud cause the jeep to buck and slip as we head into the interior. A wooden bridge moans under our weight, and I look in the side mirror as a board behind us tumbles into the gorge. The sun is low in the sky when we finally arrive. The camp turns out to be some sort of research station perched beside a broad river. A few thatched huts shelter wooden tables, microscopes, and piles of papers. It looks abandoned; I can’t help but feel as though I’ve just wandered into a set from
Tarzan
. Mr. Chu comes scampering across a rope bridge above the water. I can tell that it’s him, since he’s yelling at us in Malay and waving angrily at the cameras.

“You no have permission to be here!”

Well, this is off to a fine start. After we lower the cameras and let him cool off a little, he relents and allows us to remain. This is lucky for us, since sunset is fast approaching, and we’re low on options for accommodation. The best Chu can offer are three unoccupied cabins overlooking the camp. Content with the knowledge that we have someplace to lay our heads, we happily peel off our sweat-soaked clothes to swim in the river and clean up before dark. The heat is like a blanket, and as we dry off quickly on the bank, a five-foot snake descends through the canopy above me and slithers along the ground and into the water. This will be my last swim.

Twilight incites a nearly deafening hum of insects as the jungle comes alive. Mosquitoes begin biting my neck and moths punch me in the face as I head to one of the cabins. “Cabin” might be a generous term, actually. The buildings are actually seven-foot-by-seven-foot plywood shacks with nothing in them but a wooden platform elevated about four feet off the floor. It’s right around this time that I hear Neil screaming. He peels out of his room and through his open door I can see a spider the size of a dinner plate clinging to the wall. My mouth falls open as I go in for a closer look. It’s a huntsman spider with a leg span of nearly a foot, although from where I’m standing it looks suspiciously like the Face Hugger from
Alien
. Neil is nearly inconsolable and pleads with Mr. Chu for better accommodations. There are none to be had. To make matters worse, Gupta, our appointed security guard, has fallen asleep against a tree. With the realization that the rest of us aren’t going to bed anytime soon, we set to work for the night.

Our plan is to interview eyewitnesses in nearby villages and then canvass as much of the surrounding jungle as possible, scanning for physical evidence. To aid in this effort, we’re packing a night-vision scope, infrared cameras that help us to see in the dark, and a thermal imager used to detect natural radiation and thereby illuminate living things. This last gizmo is especially handy, since tigers and other predators are known to lurk in Malaysia’s interior.

Chu directs us to a neighboring aboriginal village, and we steer the 4x4 along primitive access roads deep into the jungle. We arrive at a modest collection of houses at around eight p.m.; it’s pitch-black here, and we exit the vehicle to the dim view of a few dozen people sitting around quietly in the dark. Dogs are barking loudly, and babies are crying somewhere close by. There are no less than six people in this village who claim to have seen Bigfoot personally, or so I’m being told by Gupta, who we’ve kicked awake to come along and translate. We’re led into a small hut where a man tells me that he didn’t actually see Bigfoot but believes he spotted a nest. He describes it at length, noting a foul smell in the area. We pinpoint the nearby region on a map and move to the next witness. I’m led into a barren two-room house made of hastily poured concrete. An old man sits on an empty floor with a single candle in front of him. I sit down, and we talk for a while in the flickering darkness. Behind him, I can barely make out his wife leaning motionless against the back wall, flies buzzing around her head. The man speaks to my translator in Malay for a few minutes, and I look up from the candle flame when I distinctly hear the word “orangutan.”

“It looked like an orangutan?” I ask. “Is that what he’s saying?”

“No. He says it
was
an orangutan.”

This is intriguing, since these great apes, while native to Malaysia and Indonesia, are now found exclusively on the adjacent islands of Borneo and Sumatra. Fossil remains have been recovered on the Malaysian peninsula, however. Is it possible that a population of orangutans could have survived here in Malaysia’s interior? It seems unlikely, but I’m suddenly energized that this man, as well as several others that I speak to, appear to have had some sort of a
legitimate
experience. I’m quickly realizing that we aren’t just here looking for Bigfoot; we’re here to document a mystery. There may be no Bigfoot. There may be no orangutans, for that matter. But there is clearly
something
, and I, for one, am increasingly engaged in the search.

We drive toward the sightings area along a logging road, and I let the cool night air wash over my face. Staring out into the black jungles, I run through the eyewitness testimony in my head and consider the possibility that somewhere in all of this dense rain forest a monster could be lurking. We park and then radiate out on foot into the jungle, powering up our cameras to give us some advantage in the darkness. We hike for a mile or more, looking for droppings, prints, the described nests, or any other physical remains. More than anything, we’re just hoping to avoid getting bit by any of the peninsula’s venomous snakes or spiders. We search for hours upon hours, eventually stopping to drink a little water and change tapes in the cameras. Eric points at Neil with his flashlight beam. “Neil. What’s on your shirt?”

We all look over, and in the light we see a golf-ball-size bloodstain on the front of Neil’s safari shirt. Neil lifts up the fabric to reveal a small puncture wound leaking blood down his stomach.

“Land leeches,” Gupta says solemnly.

And with that little announcement, Neil rips off every single piece of clothing he has on. Everything. He’s suddenly naked and completely losing his shit. Even though the leech had already fallen off of him, there may be others, and he’s not taking any chances.

In his defense, however, Malaysian leeches are truly horrifying creatures. They basically look like little brown worms but move like possessed Slinkys along the soggy ground. They are experts at sniffing out blood and sweat: the minute your foot hits the ground, you’re fair game for an attack. Without your even noticing their presence, these leeches will rush your shoes, climb up under your pant legs, and sink their teeth into whatever part of your body they deem most delicious. As they bite, they inject an anticoagulant into the wound, which makes you bleed copiously until the leech gets its fill and drops off. We unenthusiastically check naked Neil over for additional parasites and, finding none, encourage him to put his clothes back on immediately.

Back at camp, Neil is still bleeding, and the spider is still clinging to the wall of his cabin. Fed up, he abruptly storms over to the 4x4, slams the door, and rolls up the windows. Eric joins him, and the two of them lock the car. The rest of us just stand there looking at each other. I walk over and knock gently on the jeep window, which Neil rolls down an inch.

“Hi there. And what in the hell are the rest of us supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Neil says sharply. “But I’m not getting out of this goddamned car.”

Carter and I tentatively push open the door to our cabin. On the far wall is a tarantula the size of my hand. It skitters into the corner as we enter. Exhausted and out of options, Carter and I lie down side by side on the wooden shelf. I make the mistake of rolling over and peeking under the platform, where I come eye to eyes with two additional spiders of an unidentifiable but equally colossal variety clinging to the underside. Carter and I keep all of our clothes and shoes on as a layer of protection and slip a single mosquito net over both of our heads. I tuck my exposed hands into my armpits, and we unabashedly spoon each other for dear life. I’m not sure if it’s owing to fear or fatigue, but we somehow manage to forget to film any of this; a pity, since, in the four seasons to follow, the shacks in Endau Rompin remain the single worst sleeping arrangement in
Destination Truth
history.

Morning finds me sore and cramped, but at least a giant spider isn’t stuck to my face. Carter and I make our way down to the river, where we wash up in the cool water and eat rice prepared by a local woman from the camp. I crack open a warm beer as Neil and Eric come limping out of the car. At least they didn’t sleep any more comfortably than we did. After packing up, we bid adieu to Mr. Chu and make the long drive back toward Johor Bahru.

Back on the main road, we make a scheduled stop to interview a man named Vincent Chow, a naturalist who works with the government and seems to be the local authority on Bigfoot. I’m half expecting him to be a loon, but instead he turns out to be a fascinating and passionate scientist. He’s a gracious host, warmly welcoming us into his home, where we talk for well over an hour. We sit barefoot in his study drinking tea and discussing the endless variety of species in the jungles of Malaysia. At one point in the interview, he leans in and whispers, “Go into the jungle with curiosity, and you will find beautiful things.” A smile breaks out on his face. “The true secret to seeking the unknown is in the
looking
, not the
finding
. The journey is what matters.”

I don’t fully process it at the time, but he’s just unwittingly homed in on the heart and soul of what
Destination Truth
will aspire to showcase.

With Vincent’s words still ringing in my head, we drive back toward Johor Bahru. On the edge of the city, traffic suddenly comes to a grinding halt. Ahead of us, mobs of locals stream through the streets toward the lights of a passing parade. Carter grabs the camera, and we jump out of the jeep. Gupta, uncharacteristically concerned for my safety, quickly parks the car and comes running after.