At that time, CBS was third in the ratings race. ABC had the country’s number one hit, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?—the most-watched show in the U.S. three nights a week. NBC had ER, Friends, and Frasier. The heavy hitter at CBS, 60 Minutes, was number eight.
Of the big three, CBS had the oldest viewer demographic, and was sometimes called GBS, for “Geriatric Broadcasting System.” In one interview, CBS president Les Moonves said that the network’s constant hurdle was convincing advertisers “that a 50-year-old viewer is as valuable as an 18-year-old.” One of his ideas to boost the network’s standing was to offer more “original summer programming.”
In other words, CBS needed a hit—one that would rope in younger viewers.
The night before the most important meeting of his life, Mark said he was more nervous than he’d ever been about any presentation. That night, I massaged his temples, neck, and scalp, giving him positive affirmations while he was in a relaxed state.
“You can do this,” I told him. “Mark, you can pull this off.”
The day that Mark went off to pitch, he brought along a visual aid: a mock issue of Newsweek displaying the hit show Survivor on the cover. This time, Ghen loved what he heard, and brought in Les Moonves.
Two hours later, the phone rang. “Di! It’s a go with CBS! We’re on!”
That was the spring of 1999; six months later, after the deal was sealed, we hadn’t even assembled the first crew of castaways, and only had a vague idea about the destination—Borneo. But the media went nuts the minute CBS announced Survivor as part of its summer 2000 lineup.
“A Star is Borneo,” announced a headline in Time. “Gilligan for Real?” asked a headline in The Washington Post. “Fantasy Island or Terror in Paradise?” pondered another. “Darwinism” and “survival of the fittest” were dominant themes in the entertainment previews. “[The show will be] like The Real World,” described one writer, “but with a greater potential for cannibalism.” We scored dozens of high-profile articles—and it wasn’t even a series yet. It wouldn’t air for another eight months!
The pre-publicity spilled over: newspapers like The New York Times that had previously ignored us were suddenly writing long pieces about Eco-Challenge Argentina, scheduled to kick off that November. We could hardly keep our minds on the event as we flew to South America. The day we landed in the country famous for gauchos, steak, wine, and tango, USA Today ran an item that CBS was looking for castaways. Thousands applied.
We first flew to Buenos Aires, the cosmopolitan Argentine capital known as the Paris of South America, and renowned for its European-style architecture and tangoing in the streets. From there, we boarded a small plane heading south toward the jagged Andes, the longest—and second-highest—mountain range in the world. Our destination was Bariloche. Resembling a cross between Aspen and a Swiss village, it lies in the heart of Patagonia, as the Pacific-stretching section of the mountain range rumbling across South America is known. Swept with alpine air, the chalet-dotted town was built around a sparkling blue lake and framed by snowcapped peaks. We took up residence in a beautiful wooden house overlooking the lake, not far from the ski resort that served as Eco-Challenge headquarters.
The pre-race days were the typical whirlwind of last-minute course checks, but we worked in frequent trips to Pampa Linda, an alpine lodge, where we rode horses along trails and feasted on Argentinean barbeques. For this Eco-Challenge, we’d put together a program with a Malibu travel agency for a pre-race adventure trip, sort of an “Eco-Challenge Lite.” Before the race, noncompetitors could get a taste of the course and some of the rigors the actual competitors would soon face—from whitewater rafting to mountain climbing.
Wanting to take in the sights, I signed up—starting with river rafting, a sport I’d never tried before. We donned helmets and set off along Class III and IV rapids, dangerous to maneuver due to boiling eddies, high waves, and dangerous rocks, not to mention the waterfalls that capsized nearly every raft that went down them—except ours. My raft mates managed to fall out along the way; to my surprise, I was the only one who wasn’t tipped out and into the icy mountain waters.
After the river-rafting adventure, Mark suggested that I sign up for another organized trip, this one involving ascending 11,600 feet to the top of Mount Tronador. Our group climbed atop horses and started off, crossing a swollen river that was so deep the animals were almost submerged, barely able to see over the water. We rode the equines upwards for three hours, and as I took in the sweeping views of the meadows below and the serrated mountains beyond, I was delighted that Mark had convinced me to come. Then the horses stopped. Gauchos appeared. To my surprise, they took our horses, and rode them back down. I was confused: I’d thought we were riding horses to the top.
Our rugged guide, Bass, disabused me of that notion. “This way,” he said with a smile, pointing up toward the peak. The rest of the ascent, he explained, would be on foot. It was only another seven hours uphill.
I looked behind at the gauchos riding down the trail. I wasn’t prepared for a major climb, and my backpack was heavy: I’d packed three bottles of wine—no problem on horse. One of the guys lightened my load by taking two of the bottles, and I fell in line and began the steep ascent. Everything was fine, the scenery was dazzling, as we hiked past mirrored lakes, and I was so happy that I carried on—for about five minutes. Until, that is, we came upon a narrow, hazardous crossing along a cliff. There was no ledge, just a narrow precipice; take a wrong step and you’d plummet thousands of feet to your death.
“Um, I have a deep fear of heights,” I confessed. “And that’s a real long way down.” I wished I’d brought a parachute.
“Keep your eyes focused on me,” said Bass. “Just put one foot in front of the other.”
I kept going, and, thankfully, reached the other side without incident. After a while, I started to love hiking in the pure air. “And just ahead,” said Bass, “is our hosteria.” As we rounded a bend, my eyes fell upon a glorified storage shed. Those were our sleeping quarters? It made the desert inn in Morocco look deluxe. On the positive side, I wouldn’t have to worry about scorpions. But there could be mites.
The hosteria was actually cozy in a sparse, heavily wooded sort of way, and after a few glasses of wine, which packed more zing at high altitude, I stopped worrying about mites. Before long, stew was cooking over the hearth, and perhaps due to the oxygen-deprived air or the fact that it was my first night off from “Mommy Duty” in six years, pretty soon everything struck me as funny, then absolutely hilarious, and I wasn’t alone: we were all roaring our heads off for hours, playing cards, and swapping tall tales.
Finally, we climbed to the loft to sleep, but the laughter continued. One of the guys was sawing wood so loudly he could have won the gold medal in the snoring Olympics. The person next to him woke up and nudged him, and he stopped, for one second; then he was back to those wall-shaking snores. The person to the other side woke up and poked him, and he turned over and immediately started his thunderous snoring again. Nobody got a wink of sleep that night, except Thunder Nose.
At 5 A.M., we groggily emerged from the shed, stumbling outside in the dark and cold even though it was summer in the Southern Hemisphere. At that altitude, it was snowing. We headed back up the trail, this time tied together by ropes. The first rays of the sun were just breaking through, when the silence of dawn was broken by a helicopter. It was Mark, swooping down in grand fashion to visit us. He jumped out, ran over, and gave me a kiss.
“From above, you guys look like ants,” he said. Then he ran back to the chopper and took off. I really considered running after him, as this climb was much more treacherous than I’d imagined. Stumbling through flurries and whiteouts, we made our way up the open face of the ice crevasses, struggling to get our footing. The higher we climbed, the more blustery it got. But we trudged on through the snow and reached the top.
I looked down, past the glaciers, the shimmering lakes, the valleys of alpine flowers
: on one side was Argentina; on the other, Chile. I breathed in and got a total adrenaline rush. I’d finally climbed a mountain, and despite my reservations, the sense of empowerment I felt as a result of conquering nature—and conquering my fears—thrilled me.
“Wasn’t it a blast?” Mark asked when I returned to Bariloche. “How did you fare at mountain trekking?”
“It was a breeze,” I said with a straight face. “Next time, I’d like something challenging. Say, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.”
As was customary, Eco-Challenge began with an opening party incorporating the local culture. The Argentine cowboys cooked up a traditional gaucho feast—steaks on the grill served with empanadas (stuffed pastries), alfajores (a popular dessert), licuados (blended drinks), delicious helado (ice cream), and vino tinto (red wine). A band performed rhythmic cumbia music, and everyone danced late into the night.
For Eco-Challenge Argentina, 51 international teams had descended in Patagonia to embark on a journey over 250 miles of rough terrain, from mountains to rushing rivers. After the opening ceremonies, we traveled for several hours to the race starting point—a large open field next to Lake Nahuel Huapi. The first leg involved kayaking across the lake. However, the boats weren’t on the shore. Racers had to swim across the icy water to their boats—a cruel beginning, I thought. The competitors did, too: they were pissed, but thanks to underwater cameras that captured their scowls, it made for great TV! The entire race was dramatic: a blizzard in the mountains made the climbing leg particularly treacherous—and at one point, three teams were MIA. Some even had to be helicoptered off the mountain.
That year, satellite phone maker Iridium was a major sponsor and provided us with phones. Even deep in the wilderness, Mark’s phone never stopped ringing. Some of the calls were from CBS; they were being swarmed with inquiries from the media, all wanting to know more about Survivor. From that point on, the show stalked us.
Two weeks later—as the last contestants galloped across the finish line—we repeated the gaucho festivities with the closing ceremony, this time with many more bottles of fine Malbec wine, and champagne. While there, Mark’s phone rang again, with more exciting news from CBS. The network had expected 1,000 wannabe castaways to apply for Survivor; instead they’d received more than 6,000 videos!
I doubt there has ever been a more amusing casting process than the one to assemble 16 castaways for Survivor. Les Moonves himself told the press he’d never had more fun in his life than going through the videotapes. By day, Lynne Spillman and her casting crew at CBS made the rough cuts. At night, Mark and I put in our two cents on the videos, and CBS took it from there.
The wannabe castaways sent in hilarious tapes: some crept through their suburban backyards, imagining they were being stalked by wild beasts in the shrubs; one taped himself in the shower where plastic spiders kept dropping down. A sexy young woman opened her video grilling filet mignon over a pit. “If I’m chosen as a castaway,” she cooed, “I’ll make clothes from steak!” Then she took the meat off the grill, threaded it, and erotically slipped on her filet thong.
“Yech!” I said.
“Love it!” said Mark.
The next video opened with a tight shot on a young man wearing a hunting cap, plaid jacket, and jeans. “From years of working on a Wisconsin dairy farm, I’ve learned many survival skills,” he whispered, while crouching in a field. “For instance, hunting for firewood.” He leapt up, grabbed a rifle, and aimed it at a pile of wood. “Firewood! On the ground, now!”
In February 2000, Mark and CBS casting agents visited a dozen American cities making the final selections for modern-day Gingers and Mary Anns; they were looking for castaways who were telegenic, had strong personalities, and appeared to be up to the task. Finalists were subjected to psychological tests as well. We didn’t want to repeat the experience of Charlie Parsons; the first person voted off Expedition Robinson had promptly thrown himself under a train. Castaways voted off Survivor would be immediately greeted by staff and taken on trips around the area; counselors would be available, if they wanted to talk.
For the music, composer Russ Landau threw his name into the hat, wanting to compose the theme song, but Mark was leaning toward somebody else.
“Russ is our friend, Mark!” I insisted. “And he’s really talented.” My husband agreed, all the more when we heard Russ’s sample composition: he’d created such a compelling theme song that soon he was rating profiles of his own.
Finally, in early March, Mark flew off to a secluded island in Southeast Asia to prepare for what would become the most talked-about show in the U.S.
Chapter Ten
THE TRIBE HAS SPOKEN
Great things are not done by impulse, but
by a series of small things brought together.
—Vincent Van Gogh
THE PASSENGERS SCRAMBLED ACROSS the deck of a double-masted wood sailing boat, frantically throwing chests over the side while disengaging crude bamboo rafts.
“Where are our life jackets?!” somebody screamed. Seconds later, the castaways plunged into the choppy waters, struggling to pull themselves and their few possessions onto flimsy rafts.
“You are witnessing 16 Americans begin an adventure that will forever change their lives,” said a dark-haired man with chiseled features. “They’ve been given two minutes to salvage whatever they can off this boat.” He pointed to a palm-fringed isle. “Their destination is right here—a beautiful but dangerous jungle in the middle of the South China Sea.”
Venomous snakes slithered, baring fangs. “For the next 39 days, they’ll be left to fend for themselves.” A man-eating monitor lizard flicked its tongue. Rats scurried over rocks. “Only one will remain, and will leave the island with $1 million in cash as their reward.” Torches lit with a dramatic burst of flame; thunder flashed. “Thirty-nine days, 16 people, one survivor …” Drums began thumping, tribes began chanting.
“So what do you think?” asked Mark, when the lights went up in the “production hut.” Electricity hadn’t arrived on the Malaysian island of Pulau Tiga until the production company’s generator revved up a few months before. Three miles long, one mile wide, the uninhabited island off of Borneo was the backdrop for the debut of Survivor.
It was mid-March 2000, and we’d just shown up on the isle to join Mark. I was amazed to see what a few months before had only been a dream—and a tower of audition videos—jump off the drawing board and materialize: Survivor was turning into reality in front of our eyes.
“Mark, it’s fantastic!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms around him. “Pulls you right in.” Thank God. If Mark screwed this up, his name would be mud. If he pulled it off, well, he could be golden. “And Jeff is great!” Previously best known as a VH-1 host, Jeff Probst, with his dimples and no-nonsense persona, had been perfectly cast as the show’s host.
“Seven hours, 23 cameras, and one take to make that,” said Mark.
Even my dad was impressed. “Nice work, Mark,” he said, giving him a slap on the back. “Looks good. Whatever the hell it is.” Even though Dad wasn’t entirely clear on the concept, he was curious enough to fly over and see what we were up to.
Mom was thrilled, too. “Oh, honey, this is just fantastic!” she’d said, when I called to tell her that Survivor had been picked up by CBS, but she declined my offer to visit the set. Then again, she would have melted in this weather. “Steamy” takes on new heights in the tropics; day and night the air felt thick, like we were pushing through hot Vaseline. Even though limited electricity had recently arrived, air-conditioning remained a foreign concept. I fanned myself with one hand, and with the other, swatted mosquitoes.
A few days earlier, I’d set out on the long flight to Borneo with James, Cameron, and my dad. Upon our arrival, we’d checked into Magellan Sutera Resort, a five-star hotel on the mainland, in Kota Kinabalu. I was pleasantly surprised to find luxury digs in such a remote destination, and I was especially relieved to see a comfortable king-size bed in our
room after all that traveling. In the morning, we climbed into a helicopter and headed toward the tiny island of Pulau Tiga, 30 miles away; I wished I could have brought the hotel bed with me. On the secluded tropical getaway, we would be sleeping on lumpy cots.
“Wait till you see what’s on for today!” Mark said. “James, you ready for a bug-eating contest?”
“A what?” asked James and my father in unison, the younger voice thrilled at the thought, the other appalled.
“You’ll see,” said Mark, pushing in a few more videos to bring us up to speed on what had happened during the four days before we’d arrived. The 16 strangers were divided into two teams, named after the beaches where they camped—Tagi and Pagong. Given sparse supplies—a can of corn, a bag of rice, and a cooking pot—the castaways were seriously roughing it, trying to make fire without matches and building shelters from twigs and fronds. The stress that was evident the moment they shored up was bringing out power struggles faster than you could say “Gilligan”!
On Pagong Beach, white-haired B.B. Andersen, a 64-year-old retired contractor, had appointed himself leader of the pack. “We got a lotta lazy people around here,” he complained to the camera, when the others refused to perform strenuous labor in the blazing sun. He particularly singled out poor Ramona, a biochemist from New Jersey: she’d been heaving since the moment they jumped off the boat.
Over on Tagi Beach, ex–Navy Seal Rudy Boesch was barking commands that his teammates mostly ignored. Richard Hatch—a husky corporate trainer—was Rudy’s only serious competition for the role of alpha dog, leader of the pack. When they first shored up, Richard sat perched in a tree. While the others organized food-foraging expeditions and built a latrine, Richard encouraged everyone to share their personal reasons for volunteering to be part of Survivor, an exercise in corporate power-sharing, apparently.
The Road to Reality Page 14
