by Josh Gates
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 h
ead, 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.
The celebration turns out to be in honor of Chinese New Year, and we slip in between dancers, dragon puppets, and white-powdered dancers who wink at me from atop neon-lit floats. The streets are hot, humid, and utterly alive. I hop on the back of a truck full of Malaysian children and join the procession. Gupta scans the crowds as we go, trying to keep pace from the sidewalk. Carter bobs and weaves with the camera, documenting the frenetic crowd.
The night ends at a strange little bar down by the docks. We throw back more than a few drinks and reminisce about our misadventure into the jungle. I spin around on my stool to catch sight of one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s alone at a corner table. I may be in love. Gupta sidles up beside me at the bar and leans into my ear. “Josh. That’s a man.”
My introduction into the pervasive “ladyboy” culture is a harsh one. Incidentally, here’s a bit of rock-solid travel advice: when getting hammered in a bar in Southeast Asia, make sure to kick the tires a little before you drive off the lot. As we spill out of the bar, I’m still in disbelief about the transvestite, but at least Gupta has finally earned his paycheck. Back at the hotel I head to my room and collapse. I smell like Chinese incense and American cigarettes and drift off to fitful dreams about spiders and cross-dressers.
The next morning we decide to enlist the help of a few local investigative groups that have a head start on researching the recent Bigfoot sightings. Eric has called and arranged for them to meet us at our hotel. I emerge from the elevator bleary-eyed and take in our eclectic recruits. Perched on a couch are three very attractive young women dressed all in black. They sit silently alongside an older man named “Uncle” who sports a mesh tank top and bright camo pants. Together the four of them make up a paranormal group called The Seekers and boast a Malaysian television show by the same name. Uncle jumps up and comes at me fast, vigorously shaking my hand and excitedly launching into news of another recent Bigfoot sighting. His authority is mitigated slightly by the fact that I can see his nipples. The Seekers girls don’t appear to speak English and seem a little glazed over. As best I can tell, the premise of The Seekers show is that Uncle cavorts around in the dark with three submissive Malaysian girls twenty years his junior, looking for ghosts. I have no idea how he pulled off this arrangement, but the man is clearly a genius. Despite the sideshow quality of their group, Uncle has great local connections and will be a huge asset with logistics.
Nearby, a rather serious-looking collection of people mill about the front door. They’re clearly identifiable as a group since they’re all sporting matching shirts that read “SPI.” “SPI” stands for “Singapore Paranormal Investigators,” and while they may lack some of The Seekers’ presentational flash, they seem infinitely more scientific. Rounding out this circus is Jan McGirk, a Californian reporter writing for the UK newspaper the Independent. This haphazard consortium is starting to feel like the cast of a Michael Crichton novel, and I’m hoping to get through the afternoon without being party to an act of international espionage or a dinosaur rampage.
After exchanging hellos and comparing notes, we all pile into our respective cars and motor out of Johor Bahru in convoy. Our destination is the rain forest of Kota Tinggi, a few hours from the city. Here, several large footprints were recently discovered and have been attributed to Bigfoot by the local press. A few hours of driving and we arrive on the outskirts of Kota Tinggi, where we park our cars just beyond a haphazard cluster of tin shacks and lean-tos. As we open our doors, a troop of monkeys scampers into the dense foliage along the side of the road.
Our first priority is to examine prints that were reported upriver, and for this we need a boat. A ragged collection of skiffs sits along a half-submerged dock, and we begin a lengthy haggling session with a few local fishermen. The Seekers girls, Uncle, and the SPI gang prove useless at negotiation, even though they’re the ones who speak the language. We manage to talk the fisherman down from an astronomical starting price to something more appropriate, considering half of the boats are missing engines and most are visibly sinking. It takes another half hour of mechanical repairs before any of the motors will turn over. We bide our time in the shade, keeping a close eye on a young boy smoking a cigarette three inches from an open container of fuel. The last thing I need is for this kid to blow up the dock and take the entire Southeast Asian paranormal community with him.
Still waiting, I wander aimlessly along the road looking for the monkeys and spy a concrete structure obscured by clinging vines. I take one step into the jungle for a better look and am immediately surrounded by another world. The sound of banging wrenches and coughing engines has been replaced by the muffled sibilation of rain forest. Insects buzz, birds chirp, and with the sun diffused I feel eerily alone under the shady canopy. Upon closer inspection, the cement structure reveals itself to be a pillbox from World War II. These British-built bunkers are scattered all along the river and are part of what was once the Kota Tinggi defense line. Brigades were stationed in these remote bunkers to detect and beat back a potential Japanese assault. I crawl over the bunker and drop down to the narrow entrance in the back. The interior is badly flooded and crumbling, and I catch sight of a thick green snake slithering into the dark water. Based on my one eventful night in Endau Rompin Park, I can only imagine the forgotten exploits of soldiers stationed in this wilderness for months. However, stories in remote jungles like this are consumed like the bunker itself and eventually become hidden from the light forever. The whine of a running boat engine penetrates the forest, and I turn away from my imaginings and back to the road.
With the boat finally up and running, we speed upstream, cutting the glassy surface of the broad river like a blade. I lie down along the bow of the boat, pull a hat down over my face, and drift off to sleep in the breeze. I sit up when I hear the motor idle down and see that we’re edging up along the bank of the river. Jumping out onto the shore, we trek up into the jungle, which is every bit as thick and lush as Endau Rompin. We machete up a trail and emerge into a sandy clearing. “This is the place that footprints were found,” the translator whispers nervously.
We divide up, scouring the soil for any signs of tracks, droppings, or other evidence that a large primate has been in the area. Nothing. The search goes on for hours, and late in the day we’re advised to return to the boats, since tigers are known to inhabit the area. The guides cannot guarantee our safety after dark. As we push off the banks, rain arrives in sheets, dumping down on us. We spend the boat ride home ripping leeches off our legs and watching rivulets of blood trickle down the fiberglass hull of the boat.
Back at the dock, we find that the monkeys have shit on our car. More accurately, it appears as though they’ve shit on the car and then thoroughly rubbed it over every square inch of the entire vehicle like some sort of fecal hand wax. It’s almost impressive in its disgustingness. Neil grumbles and swears, his relationship with Malaysia’s animal kingdom already tenuous at best. Sensing that we’re eventually going to get caught in the spider-infested darkness, he bows out of the final leg of the day to head back to Johor Bahru and begin his own investigation for the elusive filet mignon.
Back in the cars, we make our last stop at a swath of jungle to the north where additional prints were recently claimed. The convoy stops along a seemingly anonymous section of road. As I climb out of the vehicle, I hold up a newspaper photograph in front of me, dropping it down to reveal that I’m standing at the exact spot where it was taken. We’re led into the jungle by our guides and scout around for prints. The search takes hours, and the day eventually grows long; the relentless humidity is exhausting. As we finally double back toward the road, I throw a f
ew last glances along the ground and happen to notice a distinct marking in the nearby mud. I do a double take, see what appear to be toe prints, and quickly swat through the brush to get a better look. I call over the reporter, who happens to be standing closest to me. We both crouch down in disbelief at what is now unmistakably a footprint-shaped cavity. “Carter!” I scream out. “Get a camera over here!”
Before I know it, I’m surrounded by people staring down at a seventeen-inch-long mystery print. We scour for more, but the patch of mud is surrounded by hard earth and a few indistinct depressions. A Seekers girl pipes up and says, “Now what?” Good question. It never occurred to me that anything like this would actually happen, so I’m at an absolute loss as to what to do next. With cameras rolling, people crowding around me (and my career as a televised explorer possibly hanging in the balance), I’m hoping for a miracle. My salvation appears in the form of a slight-statured Singaporean girl from SPI who quietly says, “Should we cast it?”
I crane up from the dirt. “Hold on. Do you have casting powder?”
“Yes,” she says enthusiastically, adding, “but I’m not really sure how to use it.”
She hands me a box of powder marked “State Crime Lab.” Even though I don’t have a clue how to use this stuff, it’s starting to get dark here in tiger town, and nobody else is taking the reins. I’m not all that keen on being eaten alive, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen enough episodes of CSI to pull this off. I make quick work of mixing the powder with bottled water, and once the mix reaches the consistency of pancake batter, I start filling in the depression. It seems as though it’s going to take some time to harden, so I quickly wash off my hands and grab the satellite phone out of Eric’s bag.
I rush out to the middle of the empty road looking for a signal. I breathlessly punch in Neil’s cell phone number and listen impatiently as the other end rings. “Hello?”
