Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter (24 page)

With our gear and crew atop our stupid camels, we make our way through the relentless afternoon heat and into the Valley of the Kings. With a stream of tourists headed out of the Valley, we once again find ourselves in the unique position of having a little piece of Egypt all to ourselves. As much as this seems like a rare opportunity, I’ve come to learn that it doesn’t have to be. And as with many realizations, they involve my dad.

As mentioned earlier, I’m from a small town on the north shore of Massachusetts, Manchester-by-the-Sea. That’s the actual name of the town. Three hyphens. The place is like a series of Norman Rockwell scenes that have been stitched together and brought to life. Every morning, my father wakes up at about four thirty, starts his truck, and drives to the little village at the center of town. He buys a cup of coffee and sits on a bench by the pier, where he shoots the breeze with other “townies.” These are lobstermen, retirees, and other professional insomniacs who like to start their day before the sun. On the rare occasions when I’m jet-lagged enough to join my father on his morning ablutions, I’m struck by something. The Manchester-by-the-Sea of 4:45 a.m. bears no resemblance to the Manchester-by-the-Sea of 10:45 a.m. The cast of characters, the sights and smells, are utterly distinct. There is a stillness to those in-between hours, a meditative peace to the dawn that evaporates with sunlight, a solitude to dusk that is consumed by night. It’s a private place where we seem to have infinitely more clarity of purpose.

Years ago, on my first trip to Egypt, I eschewed the Great Pyramids in favor of an early-morning drive to the Pyramids of Dahshur. Only a few hours south of Cairo, these pyramids are some of the most spectacular in the world and are plagued by only a fraction of the mob at Giza. I jumped out of my car just before sunrise and was, by a long mile, the very first pilgrim to the site. I walked past a closed ticket booth and up the dunes, hearing only the sound of sand slipping beneath my feet. I approached the pyramids as the last man on earth and found myself moved not only by the view but by the magnitude of my isolation. I walked around and around the massive structures, laying my hands on the base stones and listening to the morning breeze. Eventually, a guard on a camel galloped up and told me that the site was not yet open. Good-natured, though, he dismounted, leaned his machine gun against the base of a pyramid, and proudly described the history of the structures. We got lost in conversation for a while and eventually turned in unison toward the valley below, disrupted by the sound of three enormous tour buses kicking up dust on the horizon. The morning quiet had only just arrived and yet expired in a moment.

Now, as the sun sets beyond the Valley of the Kings, I’m reminded of Dahshur and of Manchester-by-the-Sea. I’m here outside of the sun’s supervision, in a half-lit world. The silence of the valley is profound. This is, after all, a massive necropolis, a burial ground for Egypt’s most powerful pharaohs. Florence Nightingale once called it “the deathbed of the world.” The wind slips through the canyons; the many tomb openings appear as black punctures in a beige canvas in the failing light. We set up our gear just outside the exterior gate of KV 62, the Tomb of Tutankhamun.

Once the sun has set, we begin to power up our equipment. As we prepare to enter the tomb, a guard appears, and we introduce ourselves. He smiles, takes my hand, and places an ordinary key into my palm. I’m dumbstruck. Just like that, I’m holding the key to King Tut’s tomb.

I head back to our base camp, where, just as we’re about to begin the investigation, a high-pitched wind picks up. I glance back, startled by the loud flapping of tarps tied over a nearby excavation site. Above us, a horizontal blanket of sand whips over the escarpment and hails down onto our group. We scramble to cover our monitors and shove cameras under our shirts in the blinding sandstorm. And then, in an instant, it’s over. Stillness retakes the canyon, and we’re left staring at each other, shaking dust out of our clothes. The superstitious would call this the breath of Tut himself, warning our group to keep a distance. As I look down into the sooty tomb, I’m not sure I disagree.

In the outer courtyard I squint at photo displays of Carter and his team on the threshold of discovery. We pass down the staircase and narrow corridor that ends at a thick metal door. I slip the key into a weathered padlock and jump as the tumblers click with a snap. The door opens with a high creak, and as I step forward, I meet Tut himself. Though not nearly as shimmering as his gilded mask, the man is no less impressive. Small in stature but big in presence, he lies under a layer of glass, his hair, teeth, and facial features still well preserved after thousands of years. A sobriety has set in amongst our group, and we move in reverence through the antechamber.

The room beyond is brightly painted with scenes of Tut wandering through the afterlife. Black-eyed gods stare in silent judgment. On the far wall are vivid paintings of twelve monkeys representing the fleeting hours of the night, a message to my team and me that we had better get to work. We string cameras throughout the chamber and proceed to conduct isolation sessions in front of Tut’s mummy. If there’s any truth to the legend that anyone who dares disturb the tomb will feel the wrath of the pharaoh, crowding him in his own grave is as good a trial as any.

My isolation session is actually a little overwhelming. I have my teammates lock me into the tomb and then retreat to the surface. The heat and humidity make my clothes feel sticky, and I sit on the ground, staring ahead into nothingness. Behind me, the lifeless body of Tutankhamun is giving me goose bumps. Alone, without any light, in my mind I try to reconstruct the walls and hieroglyphics. In this tiny subterranean chamber, the darkness and silence conspire to reveal Tut’s tomb through the eyes of Carter, Carnarvon, and the ancient Egyptians themselves.

Finally, my eyes seem to focus on something, a sliver of light just outside the chamber. At first I think it’s someone from my crew, but a walkie-talkie check reveals that they’re all huddled at base camp. The image is soft and unformed but luminescent. I can’t quite discern a shape, but I’m rattled. Rising and staggering toward the slats of the exterior metal door, I reach out my fingers as the light extinguishes.

To this day, I’m not sure what I saw down there. Maybe just a trick of the eyes. But maybe not. While the logical side of my brain doubts my senses, the legend of Tut’s curse is so bewitching that I don’t have the heart to dismiss it. It seems silly to me sometimes that a boy who’s been dead for millennia should hold any sway over us, but if I’m being honest, when I was alone in that blackened tomb, there was a part of me that felt sorely afraid of the still-mighty Tutankhamun.

Egypt is, in the end, a place of striking contrasts. It is a country in a state of youthful revolution, yet rife with old-guard corruption. It is also forever hewn to its ancient past, caught between the chaos of car horns and the silence of the sands. Its graceful monuments are overrun with khaki-clad armchair adventurers and wall-to-wall elderly travelers on some sort of a golden-years farewell tour.

A common tip from career adventure travelers is usually to move against the masses and sidestep the world’s more obvious destinations and swim against the tourist current. But with the right attitude, a keen eye on your wallet, and a little early-to-rise ingenuity, you can have it both ways in Egypt. Tourists and pharaohs. You just have to submit to the stream, for better and for worse. Lest you miss one of the greatest shows on earth.

Postscript

It was clear from the longing gazes exchanged between our tech manager Sharra and fixer Ramy that there was a yet to be written chapter from our Egyptian expedition. And not long after we returned home—a matter of months, actually—Sharra announced that she had fallen in love. An engagement and wedding followed, and on August 18, 2010, Sharra and Ramy welcomed into the world Sophia Marie Romany: the very first
Destination Truth
baby and—who knows?—perhaps the next generation of international monster hunter.

CASE FILE:
MOVIE MONSTERS

NAMES:
Dracula, the Mummy, the Wolfman, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

DESCRIPTION:
These cryptids come right off the silver screen and are the collective property of Universal Pictures. Although the red carpet is their primary domain, versions of these celebrity monsters have actually been reported in the real world for years.

In 1931, Bela Lugosi donned the infamous black cape and fangs to play the lead in the film version of
Dracula.
Perhaps his performance would not have been so historic, however, had it not been for the deep belief underlying Bram Stoker’s tale. There are references to vampires dating back more than a thousand years. Said to possess a corpse or be transferred from one soul to another courtesy of a seductive bite, vampires are reported to be nocturnal creatures with long hair, sharp fingernails and teeth, and an insatiable appetite for blood.

In 1922, producer Carl Laemmle heard news of Howard Carter’s discovery of King Tut’s tomb and the legend of the Pharaoh’s Curse. Ten years later,
The Mummy
was shot partly in the Mojave Desert, with the eponymous villain portrayed by Boris Karloff.

In 1935, Henry Hull starred in
Werewolf of London.
Six years later, Lon Chaney Jr. starred in
The Wolfman.
But the legend of lupine beasts with a lunar aversion was actually born centuries earlier in the powerful folklore of pre-European cultures. Werewolves are described as hunched shape-shifters with a pronounced muzzle and, of course, a serious unibrow. In Argentina, it is believed that the seventh son born in a family is destined to become a
lobizon,
or werewolf.

One of the first 3-D movies to be released in the States,
Creature from the Black Lagoon
premiered in 1954. Real-life sightings of similar reptilian monsters paint him as a seven-foot-tall upright creature with scaly skin and glowing red eyes.

LOCATIONS:
Eastern Europe, Egypt, the Amazon, Argentina, the United States.

STATUS:
Vampire: The legend is an old one, but as recently as 2004, superstitious villagers in Romania came to believe that a deceased local man was a vampire. They dug the unfortunate body of Petre Toma out of his grave, cut open his chest, removed his heart, burned it, and then ingested the ashes. So much for resting in peace.

Mummy: Reports of the Pharaoh’s Curse have been carried on the wind since Carter first cracked open Tut’s tomb. Even the head of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities, Zahi Hawass, has spoken about exercising caution during excavations so as not to elicit curses. Workers on current excavations in Egypt are still notoriously superstitious, some refusing to disturb the entrance to newly discovered tombs altogether.

Werewolf: In remote corners of Eastern Europe,
the legend of the werewolf continues to inspire terror. In Argentina, fear of the lobizon prompted a law stating that every seventh son be baptized by the president of Argentina, who then becomes an honorary godfather to the child. This tradition continues to this day.

The Creature from the Black Lagoon: In 1988, a young man named Christopher Davis reported a sighting of a Lizard Man near Scape Ore Swamp in Bishopville, South Carolina. He claimed the creature mauled his vehicle and that he barely escaped the monster’s wrath. The incident created a media frenzy in the small town and gave rise to a local mascot. In 2008, resident Dixie Rawson’s car was viciously attacked, causing some to believe that the swamp creature had returned.

VERDICT:
Vampires: Currently experiencing a resurgence in pop culture, this age-old myth is underscored by paranoia and an inherent fear of evil, demonism, and impurity. But really, the only thing you should be scared of is accidently wandering into one of those
Twilight
films.

The Mummy: In Egypt, the
Destination Truth
team put the Pharaoh’s Curse to the test and was assailed by a mysterious sandstorm. I’m not saying the curse is real, but one of our producers did fall ill in the Valley of the Kings. Plus, I still have grains of windblown sand lodged in my underwear. Werewolf: Stories of these hirsute creatures stem from Old World beliefs and predominant superstitions about wolves that began as early
as the seventh century B.C. Though the etiology is disputed widely, it has been attributed to everything from an explanation for serial killings to the misdiagnosis of mental disabilities.

Creature from the Black Lagoon: We ended up calling the story of South Carolina’s Lizard Man a hoax. Other tales of humanoid reptiles strain credulity for even the most open-minded monster enthusiast. Reptilian men may be scary, but evidence suggests they’re nothing more than the terrors of Tinseltown.

18: Amazonia

Brazil, 2008

The world around me is utterly alive. As our jeep lurches over the badly mangled roads of Brazil’s interior forests, I have the sensation that I’m traveling inside a massive living organism—which, of course, I am.

It’s the kind of environment where, no matter how prepared you are, it doesn’t take much for the tables to turn. This is one of the last great wildernesses on earth: nearly two billion acres of intertwined jungles and rivers named after the fierce and exotic female warriors of Greek mythology, and just as dangerous. In this species-rich ecosystem, we don’t have to travel far to run into some of nature’s most lethal predators. In fact, we’re actually looking for two of them.