Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter (19 page)

Food is knowledge. An hour in a local market tells the story of a country. You can divine the climate, the economics, and the character of a culture in simple baskets of produce, the way a fortune-teller reads a palm. The scents of native spices are languages that have hung in the air for generations, and a butcher’s choice of cut reveals time-honored values.

If simply looking at these foods is instructional, actually eating regional cuisines can crystallize your entire impression of a people. In Serbia, for example, the food is heavy and prepared slowly, encouraging drawn-out meals that strengthen familial bonds. The clay pots of slow-simmering Moroccan tagines reflect the earthiness of the North Africans. Small plates and family-style offerings of traditional Chinese dinners advise a simple modesty.

Another way to completely derail your travels abroad is to let someone else take the wheel. Oh, how I loathe the many incarnations of “organized travel.” An oxymoron of the first degree. The idea of relegating one’s discovery of another country to the designs of a corporate booking office or navigating foreign streets from behind the plexiglass veneer of a tour bus should be a crime. In general, any vacation that hitches you to an ungainly group is just about the worst way of seeing a place. Nothing cuts down the intrigue of the rock-carved city of Petra faster than fifty Japanese in matching neon shirts led by a woman with a flag and a bullhorn.

When did we decide that travel should be so easy? Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a hotel with five stars on the doormat once in a while, and I can understand the temptations of comfort. After all, when we travel, everything shifts. Our whole world is knocked askew. The weather, the people, the language, the food, even the act of using the restroom. Foreign places can seem overwhelming, unwelcoming, and inaccessible. That’s fair. But if you feel that way, take it as a hint that it’s time to alter your approach. We have become far too expectant of our plans, demanding as little friction as possible from every moment of the journey. As travelers, it is our responsibility to adapt, otherwise we miss the whole point: the opportunity to gain a new perspective.

So break free. Dress smart, travel boldly, and try ordering your authentic dinner in the local language. America is in dire need of citizen liaisons, and with a little intrepidity, we can all be the travelers we were meant to be. The revolt begins now, friends. Do your part and fight back against the dreaded Tourist Empire.

CASE FILE:
MINI MONSTERS AND JUNGLE DEMONS

NAMES:
Chupacabra, Pombero, Tokoloshe, Icelandic elf, leprechaun, Kalanoro, Duende, Chullachaqui.

DESCRIPTION:
Often humanoid, both in body type and personality, many with a streak of mischief, these diminutive beings are commonly heard but rarely seen. Some species wear little outfits (more on that in a moment). Several of these creatures, like the Kalanoro and Pombero, are classically described with “backwards feet,” presumably an evolutionary survival technique to disorient potential trackers. The fiercest and most famous is the Chupacabra (meaning “goat sucker”), a vampiric beast with a spiny back and a serious grudge against livestock.

LOCATIONS:
Worldwide. South America, Central America, Caribbean, North America, Europe, Africa, Madagascar.

STATUS:
Some of these creatures, like the African Tokoloshe and Kalanoro, are very often described as troublemakers that enjoy playing pranks. Believers in the Pombero take this trait one step further, as he is rumored to actually impregnate women. Unplanned pregnancies and particularly unattractive babies are credited to the little beast (Bad Pombero. Bad!). In general, actual eyewitness sightings are sporadic, and very little compelling evidence exists in the form of video or photographic records. Although, in 2008, a dubious Argentinean home movie of a living garden gnome made quite a splash on the Internet.

The Chupacabra is touted as considerably more dangerous, blamed for thousands of animal attacks since he was first reported in Puerto Rico in 1995. He is now a fixture of nearly every nation in the Americas, and various individuals claim to have discovered his physical remains.

VERDICT:
I’ve looked for a number of these creatures over the years, and most can be neatly tucked in a drawer labeled “Folklore.” The Chupacabra is slightly more difficult to dismiss. With so many animals killed in unexplainable ways, there’s at least room for more investigation here. In regards to the Chupacabra corpses that have been discovered, DNA testing nearly universally reveals them as garden variety canines with a severe case of the uglies. If the Chupacabra does exist, however, these mangy mutts are providing him with an excellent cover story.

Obviously, I’m open-minded about reports of strange cryptids roaming the earth, both big and small . . . but only up to a point. There are certain details regarding the mischievous monsters that are problematic for me. The Irish leprechaun is said to cobble his own shoes, and the Argentinean Pombero is said to don a red hat and carry a little knapsack. Okay. When tiny creatures have to go to some kind of mini-mall to buy clothes, I’m out.

15:

Ukrainey 2009

It started as a joke. A late-night, throwaway comment I made after one too many Red Bulls at the office. “What if we did a haunting episode at Chernobyl?”

It was considered by the rest of the group with the same gravitas as if I’d said, “What if we investigated an old synagogue with Mel Gibson?”

“What if we did?” someone countered. “Is it even possible?” After all, at this point we’d set a precedent by investigating the Suicide Woods in Japan, the Island of the Dolls in Mexico, and other unconventional locations. Our crew was also now well stocked with career travelers who love the sort of misadventure that
D.T.
dishes out. Our longtime MVP shooter (and Kenny G. hair impersonator) Gabe Copeland has filmed me from atop speeding buses, in rickety sidecars, and while swimming between unexploded bombs at the bottom of the ocean. Even he raises an eyebrow at the idea of going to Chernobyl.

It was a proposition not to be taken lightly. After all, the infamous meltdown at the Ukrainian power plant is the worst nuclear accident in the history of the world. Even the very word “Chernobyl” is toxic—laced with radiation, it seems.

The evening of April 26, 1986, was probably just like any other in the city of Pripyat. Many of the more than fifty thousand residents had finished their shifts at the power plant. It’s unlikely that they observed anything out of the ordinary as they shuffled home in the chilly night air. City Hall was closed up for the evening, and guests streamed in and out of the nearby Hotel Polissya. A carnival had just been set up in a clearing behind the local gymnasium, and children were no doubt peering in at the bumper cars or gawking up at the bright yellow baskets swinging on the huge Ferris wheel.

Pripyat was a very young city, built only seventeen years before, but a railroad depot and cargo dock on the adjacent river ensured a vital link to Kiev. Early on, it boasted a unique and innovative architectural layout referred to as the “triangular principle.” The design mandated that the tallest buildings be constructed along the circumference of the town so that, from any angle, an individual would have the perspective of free space. It was not this revolutionary design, however, that came to define Pripyat in the years to come. It was the power plant.

Chernobyl.

Heralded as a wonder of the modern atomic age and a symbol of Soviet engineering might. In an act of unbridled hubris, engineers even erected a statue of Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, which may now qualify as the single most ironic object on the face of the earth.

At 1:23 a.m., a systems check was initiated in reactor number four. Once this seemingly routine test began, a chain reaction of events was set into motion that would lead to global catastrophe. A fatal power surge caused explosions in the core of the reactor, and within minutes all hell broke loose.

To say that the fallout, which ejected into the atmosphere, was massive would be an understatement. Amazingly, the Soviets originally tried to mask the event altogether. That is, until a radiation alarm went off at the Forsmark Nuclear Power Plant in Sweden.
SWEDEN
. Go get a map. Look at Ukraine. Look at Sweden. Holy shit. The plume of radiation spread over half of Europe and parts of the Soviet Union, but Belarus turned out to be the big winner in this unlucky lottery by garnering as much as 60 percent of the lethal isotopes.

Since the sinister effects of radiation can take decades to manifest, the final death toll of the accident is hard to quantify. Clearly, though, the statistics are nothing short of tragic. Hundreds directly associated with the accident, the workers and first responders from the fire brigade, died from acute radiation poisoning within days. A UN report estimates that up to four thousand additional Europeans alive today might eventually perish from cancers caused by the accident. An even more disturbing report by prominent Belarus scientists working with Greenpeace predicts as many as a quarter of a million cancer cases and more than one hundred thousand fatalities.

In the immediate aftermath, officials refused to evacuate Pripyat at all, dragging their heels for a full twenty-four hours. But eventually they clumsily emptied the city, advising residents to leave their possessions behind, since it would be “safe” to come back in a matter of days. Nearly a quarter century has passed, and the city of Pripyat remains deserted, population: zero. The residents were never allowed to return. Five hundred years from now, this will still be an urban dead zone, unsafe for human occupation.

As for many abandoned places, there are long-standing rumors that Pripyat is haunted. Guards and the occasional visitor have recounted strange apparitions moving in the windows of the defunct hospital, sounds of children playing on the emptied streets, and phantom shadows climbing apartment building stairwells. Intriguing, to be sure. But was it possible to film there? Could one travel to the flashpoint of this atomic fiasco, walk into the heart of the city of Pripyat, and withstand the effects of the radiation for an entire night?

Our new team member, Jael, dove into research and placed a number of phone calls to Ukrainian contacts, and the officials at Chernobyl seemed more than willing to tell us that it could be done. But then again, the Ukrainian track record for atomic prudence isn’t exactly unblemished. For their part, the executives at the Channel were appropriately freaked out by the idea, but we carefully explained that all of this was going to be completely safe. Which it would be, right?

The flight is brutally long, and I can’t seem to sleep for more than seconds at a time. In the midnight hour we land in a daze and drive wearily into Kiev, a city that benefits from a veil of darkness. Our hotel is either built into the side of a whorehouse, or a whorehouse has been built into the side of our hotel. It’s hard to say. I trundle past three of the most scantily clad women on the planet without even raising my head. I’m so exhausted I barely notice them.

Even though my room is about as cozy as a prison cell and I can hear pounding music from the bar downstairs, I still feel utterly at home. This is what it’s like to work on
Destination Truth
. Adapt or be miserable. Wherever you are at the end of a long day, you just pretend it’s right where you want to be. I hear a gunshot outside, close my eyes, and peacefully drift off to sleep.

The gray light of morning finds us driving around the concrete capital shooting B-roll and interviewing former workers from Pripyat. These are hearty people. Stoic. They mostly talk about the accident with a detached air, running through the events as though everything has already been said. Then their eyes float past me and out into the endless apartment blocks of Kiev, a reserved sadness permeating their gaze. Once enough questions have been asked and enough remembrances forced to the surface, though, emotion begins to bubble up, and color comes to their faces. They recall their lives before the accident gradually, like a dream barely remembered after a long, deep sleep. Due to time constraints, few of these interviews will make it to air, which is a shame. These are the real ghosts of Chernobyl. The citizens betrayed by the very atomic power they tried hopelessly to harness and then swept under the rug by the government who commissioned them to do it.

We leave Kiev and drive sixty miles north. The landscape is low and dull. For the most part, I hate it here. A large sign by the side of the road—which I cannot read—advertises the approach to what is known as the Zone of Alienation. Sounds charming, doesn’t it? The Zone is made up of three concentric rings of increasing restriction (and radioactivity) around the site of the disaster. The outermost zone is a full thirty kilometers from the plant. Inside, a ten-kilometer ring contains the reactor itself. The bull’s-eye is Pripyat, guarded by a five-kilometer enclosure. In other words, the accident forced the surrender of an area sixty kilometers across. Within this ecliptic no-man’s-land, human civilization has been forfeited; we’ve lost.