Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter

by Josh Gates

  Since the show needs a new host, the Channel insists on conducting a proper casting call. Neil went to bat for me while I was summiting Kilimanjaro, and the best he could do was to convince them to meet me, alongside three other hosts hand-selected from the general casting. I am the long shot and don’t even know it.

  At this time, SciFi already has a huge reality hit on their hands with a show called Ghost Hunters. For those who aren’t familiar, Ghost Hunters centers around two Roto-Rooter plumbers turned professional paranormal investigators. (And people say there’s nothing original on television.) In the following years, the Channel will develop Ghost Hunters International, Ghost Hunters Live, and, most recently, Ghost Hunters Academy. (By the time this book goes to press, I’m sure they’ll be airing Dancing with the Ghost Hunters, So You Think You Can Ghost Hunt, and The Real Housewives of Ghost Hunters.) But for now, in 2006, they’re just looking for a sister act to this flagship paranormal program to kick off the 10:00 p.m. hour.

  I arrive nearly a half hour before my meeting. After parking, I ascend to the main plaza, craning my head up at the looming Universal Tower. The building is a slate-colored rhomboid block that looks about as inviting as a steel coffin.

  It appears infinitely harder to climb than Kilimanjaro, and for the first time I’m starting to feel extremely nervous about all of this. In the austere lobby, I proceed to the security desk to check in. The guard looks up at me and furrows his brow. For a moment I’m unsure what to make of his expression, until I realize that he thinks I might be a vagrant. I’ve taken Neil’s advice and not changed any of my clothes from the day before. I was so tired from the flight that I even fell asleep with my boots on. Now I’m stinking to high hell and looking like a train hobo. He glances down at my feet, no doubt wondering if I’m going to pee on the lobby floor. I fork over my ID and he prints out a pass for me, clearly surprised to find me in the computer system. “Fourteenth floor,” he says warily.

  The elevator opens, and I cautiously emerge into the SciFi offices. If I had any reservations about not showering and changing before, I now realize that I’ve made a full-blown mistake. The SciFi lobby is gleaming white, like a leftover set piece from 2001: A Space Odyssey. You could do surgery in here, it’s so clean. Across from the front desk, a series of flat-screen televisions play commercials for the Channel. Everyone who appears in these spots is suspiciously more attractive than I am.

  The secretary who sits across from these screens is named Alex. This is a woman you do not want to mess with. An unflappable sentry, she probably wouldn’t bat an eye if I walked up to her with a grenade in my hand. Over the next three years Alex will refuse to remember my name, even though I will be added to the roster of individuals continuously appearing on the monitors four feet from her face. Later, when executives joke about how I’m a “big star” on the Channel, I will raise a finger in protest. “When Alex learns my name, I’ve arrived at SciFi. Until then, I’m nobody.”

  Today we meet for the first time. She looks up from behind a plastic tub of fireball candies and unceremoniously hands me a clipboard to sign in. As I write my name, I notice three other signatures. I peek into the waiting area at my competition. Three other candidates, all of whom are wearing nice suits. I haven’t had a chance to smell them yet, but I’m reasonably certain that they’ve showered, too.

  The three guys regard me with a combination of amusement and pity. I pick up a copy of Sci Fi magazine and try to distract myself by delving into an in-depth profile piece on MacGyver star Richard Dean Anderson. I glance up to better take stock of the trio. Along with being well dressed, they all strike me as, well, a little like game-show hosts. I’m not exactly recovering my confidence, but I’m feeling marginally secure that these men do not represent the best and the brightest of American monster hunters. One by one, they are beckoned down the hall and out of this antiseptic space dock. They’re each gone for what feels like an eternity, and by the time I hear my name called I know just about everything there is to know about Richard Dean Anderson.

  “Josh. They’re ready for you.”

  I’m led into an office at the far end of the hall. As I enter, I’m horrified by how many people are crammed into this room. All of them look up at me, and aside from Neil, none of them are smiling. Though it’s impossible for me to determine everyone’s title, there’s no question as to who’s running the show. Mark Stern, the senior vice president of the Channel, is the only person who looks comfortable in here, a sure sign that this is his domain. I reach out to shake his hand, and he invites me to sit down. Stern is one of those people who really look at you when you speak to him. It’s as complimentary as it is unnerving—which is, I suspect, just how he likes it.

  I’m getting a pretty good once-over from the whole group and feel compelled to break the ice. “Hi,” I manage. “Let me . . . start by apologizing for my appearance. I just got off a plane from Tanzania.” Smiles all around.

  A perceptible sea change is underway. These people suddenly detect an authenticity to me. We talk for a few minutes; I recount my exploits on Kilimanjaro and discuss my interest in travel. I’m hoping that someone will bring up Richard Dean Anderson, but no such luck. I can’t really tell how the interview is going, so I just do my best to come off appropriately adventurous. Stern’s half smirk reveals that he can see right through my bullshit, but there’s a warmth there too. Under less formal circumstances I suspect we’d get along great. I also have a few nice exchanges with Rob Swartz, the affable development executive in charge of the project. At this point the only thing I know for sure is that these people no longer consider my dirty beard and tattered shirt the potential markings of a deranged serial killer.

  After it’s all over, I shake hands with the network brass and walk out of the office. Neil sees me to the elevator and tells me that I did well. I step inside and put my hand up to hold the closing doors. “What’s this pilot called, anyway?”

  “Destination Truth. Now go take a shower,” he says. “You stink.”

  Adventures in Monster Hunting and Professional Ghostology

  5: “We Found Something! “

  * * *

  Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 2006

  * * *

  After my meeting with the Channel, things progress quickly. A call comes in a few days later with good news: I got the job. The Channel has ordered a second pilot, and I’m told that if things go well, I could end up with a series. Rather than reshoot the original pilot in South America, a decision is made to film in Southeast Asia, where recent sightings of a Bigfoot-like creature in the jungles of Malaysia have made headline news. For my part, I mostly nod and let plans unfold, all but certain that this entire enterprise will collapse long before I actually board a plane.

  A crew is cobbled together, mostly comprising people already working for Neil’s company. Neil shuffles our itinerary no less than six times, and then, a few days before we’re set to depart, the crew convenes at my new apartment in Silver Lake to film the opening scenes of the show. I meet Eric, Neil’s hardworking and earnest young producer, who is clearly doing most of the heavy lifting while garnering none of the credit. Blake, our exhausted-looking tech manager, arrives, as does Marc Carter, Neil’s longtime friend and an experienced director of photography. Carter has a devil-may-care disposition and seems perpetually bemused by Neil. I suspect that he’s going to be a good ally on the road. The group is rounded out by Nick Scown, an editor-cum-field producer, who doesn’t seem particularly confident about any of this, which probably means that he’s the smartest guy in the room.

  Once this motley crew assembles, Neil loosely directs a sequence where we pack gear and discuss the recent Malaysian sightings. All of this is being filmed in my living room, remember. I kick a stack of dirty laundry aside, Frisbee a Domino’s pizza box into the kitchen, and tack a world map on my wall in a desperate attempt to transform my tiny bungalow into Team Truth headquarters. MI-6 it is not, but there is an authenticity, I suppose; I do live here, after
all. Before we start filming, I ask Neil what to wear on the show, whereupon he promptly rifles through my closet. He picks out a motorcycle jacket and jeans. It will not be until much later, in the heart of Malaysia, that I realize thick leather and denim are not sensible jungle attire. The living room shoot feels like something between an impromptu home movie and a student film, and I’m not confident that we’re actually going to make it out of Los Angeles, let alone the country. Surely, someone will intervene and put a stop to all of this, right?

  Wrong.

  Hours later I’m sitting in the dim cabin of a Singapore Airlines jumbo jet somewhere over the endless black Pacific. Even though the aircraft’s tracking map on the seat back in front of me indicates that we’re en route to Singapore, I’m still in a state of giddy denial as I gaze at the blanket of stars outside my window.

  Odd as it might seem, night on board a 747 is one of my absolute favorite places on, or above, earth. I feel blissfully adrift up here and always have. When I was a child, my parents and I frequently flew to England to visit my grandparents. During the flight, my mother would lower our three tray tables and cover them with a blanket while I slipped down onto the floor of a makeshift cave. Enveloped by the darkness of 30,000 feet and cradled by the hum of those four massive Rolls-Royce engines, I would snuggle up and happily fall asleep.

  Even as an adult, I’m struck by an implicit liberty to air travel that’s often overlooked on account of cramped quarters. In actuality, we aren’t constrained at all: we’ve broken free. In flight, we slip the heavy tether of responsibility and no longer belong to the world below. We are answerable to no one. Phones cease to ring, and our distractions are few. Even Time, that constant companion, loosens his grip around us. Entire days can be wound back or skipped over at these lofty heights, as we exist merely in a world of vapor. Adventures are both beginning and coming to a close up here as people from opposite ends of experience paradoxically move in one direction.

  By now most of the plane’s passengers are asleep, so I’m surprised to see Neil stumbling past my seat toward the forward lavatory. Neil is what you might call a sleeping pill enthusiast. He usually pops a Xanax with a glass of full-bodied Cabernet on short flights, or an Ambien CR, which is, as he likes to say, “the Mercedes-Benz of sleeping pills.” However, on tonight’s long-haul trip he’s forgone his usual capsule cocktail for a double dose of a stronger pill that should come with a printed suggestion that users wear a diaper lest they soil themselves in a drug-induced stupor. The pill also prompts sleepwalking, a side effect that Neil is experiencing in full force as he marches down the aisle wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Though the plane is flying smoothly, Neil careens like a drunk in turbulence and manages to get himself into the bathroom, where he’ll probably fall back asleep.

  With the cabin now still, I quietly unbuckle my seat belt to take a stroll, a customary habit of mine on overnight flights. I tiptoe past the center staircase in my socks and then down the aisle of the main cabin. I happen upon a flight attendant in one of the galleys who could easily double as a supermodel (those who have flown on Singapore know that their hiring policies haven’t evolved much since the 1960s). Recognizing that I can’t sleep, she pours me a glass of red wine, and I curl up in the jump seat next to the emergency exit. We talk for a while, sharing broken conversation and laughing quietly in the otherwise silent cabin. She asks me why I’m headed to Southeast Asia. “I’m not entirely sure,” I reply. “I’m looking for something.”

  She flashes a confused smile.

  In the morning, my crew and I touch down in Singapore’s eponymous capital city. The country is only 750 square miles, which makes it roughly half the size of Rhode Island. Its legendary reputation as a lawless pirate den stands in stark contrast to the strict modern government, sprawling air-conditioned mega malls, and gleaming skyscrapers. Orchard Road, once home to nutmeg and pepper plantations, is now lorded over by white-walled spas, expensive boutiques, and chic eateries. The sterility of present-day Singapore and its draconian legal system have made it something of a letdown to many an adventure traveler. (I myself am not a huge fan of any place that threatens to arrest and beat the shit out of me for spitting gum on the ground.) Still, if you’re in the market for a Gucci handbag or a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos, it’s just the spot.

  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.