Now I Know More (26 page)

Manjhi hails from a small village in the northeast of India near the city of Gaya. Sometime in the 1950s or 1960s—sources differ on the exact date—his wife, Falguni Devi, fell ill and required medical care. According to DNA India, between Manjhi and Devi's village and the nearest hospital stood mountainous terrain, with no road running through it. The couple traveled around the mountains—a forty-five-mile (seventy-five-kilometer) trek—but by then, it was too late. Devi died, and Manjhi thereafter committed himself to making sure no one befell a similar fate. So he started tunneling.

For the next two decades, Manjhi worked day and night, carving a road from his village through the mountain; according to the
Hindustan Times
, he used only a hammer, chisel, and nails. By the time he completed the project in the 1980s (again, sources differ on the end date), Manjhi had dug a tunnel 360 feet long, twenty-five feet high, and thirty feet wide. Residents of his community could, due to his tireless work, now get through the mountain, which was no small victory. Manjhi's road cut the required travel distance from his area to the neighboring one dramatically, from a forty-five-mile distance to only about half a mile.

Unfortunately, that was only part of the job. Connecting the mountain pass to the main roadway required a public works project, and while the local government originally agreed to fund that, the project was put on hold in 2007. Manjhi died later that year and received a state funeral in honor of his work, and it is unclear if work on the road has resumed. But another project, perhaps more fitting, is underway. According to the Indian Express, the local government is building a hospital, named after Manjhi, near his village.

Kruzof Island is in the North Pacific Ocean, one of many Alaskan islands that run down what would otherwise be the Canadian coastline. It's not too far from the state capital, Juneau. Kruzof Island is home to Mount Edgecumbe, a dormant volcano stretching about 3,200 feet to its summit. Mount Edgecumbe is a tourist attraction—it makes for a manageable hike and is generally safe. The most difficult part about climbing the mountain is getting to it in the first place—Kruzof Island does not have a permanent human population, and therefore there are no regular transports to the mountain. The closest town, Sitka, Alaska, is on a nearby island. To climb Edgecumbe, one typically leaves from Sitka.

In general, placing a city near a volcano is a bad idea, but Edgecumbe has been dormant for millennia—its last known eruption was more than four thousand years ago. But in 1974, the town of Sitka got a scare. Edgecumbe, apparently, started to awaken from its long slumber. On the first day of April in that year, a plume of black smoke rose from the top of the mountain. Conditions in the area were unusually clear, and people from Sitka could easily see the now-festering volcano. Was Edgecumbe no longer dormant?

The Coast Guard went to check, dispatching a helicopter to fly over the volcano's crater and check for—well, who knows? What the helicopter pilot saw, though, was not an eruption. Rather, it was a message in the snow, spray painted in large black letters:

“APRIL FOOL”

Sitka was the target of an extravagant prank.

The prankster's name was Oliver Bickar, better known as Porky to his friends and family. The middle-aged man came up with the idea in 1971—three years earlier!—and started preparing. He collected dozens of old tires in an airplane hangar and waited. The conditions were near perfect on, coincidentally, April Fool's Day 1974. He convinced some friends (and a helicopter pilot) to help him transport his collection of tires to the mountain's summit, douse them all in kerosene, and light them on fire. He even went to the trouble of getting clearance for his prank from the FAA and local police—just to make sure that they didn't get arrested, and to make sure local officials could prevent a panic outbreak. (They forgot to or neglected to inform the Coast Guard.)

Not only did Bickar not get in trouble for his prank, but, as recounted by the website The Museum of Hoaxes, he actually got a lot of good press about it and positive reactions from locals. Even a Coast Guard admiral congratulated Porky on a prank well pulled.

In 1931, George P. Burdell graduated from Georgia Institute of Technology (better known as Georgia Tech) with a BS in Ceramic Engineering. A few years later, Burdell received a master's degree from this same institution. One of the college yearbooks lists him as a member of the basketball team and his engagement was announced in the major Atlanta paper, the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
. He'd leave Georgia Tech soon after, entering military service in World War II—for a time he was listed as being part of the air force, flying a dozen missions over Europe. But Georgia Tech was Burdell's home. He'd return to the school, enrolling in countless other classes, and remained active in the campus community, writing letters to the editor of the college paper; he is so ubiquitous at football games that he is regularly singled out by the public address announcer. There is even a store in the student center named after him. At Georgia Tech, George P. Burdell is a popular fellow.

He is also entirely fake.

In 1927, William Edgar Smith was admitted to Georgia Tech—but, accidentally, received two enrollment forms. While most people would simply throw away the second, Smith decided to pull a prank, enrolling a second, fake person as well as himself. Smith combined the names of his high school principal (George P. Butler) and the maiden name of a family friend (Burdell) and came up with the amalgam for his prank. From that point forward, Smith had Burdell mirror his actions at Georgia Tech. If Smith enrolled for a class, so would Burdell. When Smith turned in an assignment, he'd turn in a slightly adjusted one for Burdell. When Smith took an exam, he'd do so twice—one for him, one for his “ghost.” Burdell graduated and is an official alumnus, even though he never existed.

Other students have been carrying on Smith's legacy ever since, mass-enrolling him in classes despite the university's best efforts. (Multiple times the university upgraded its systems to prevent Burdell from appearing on the class rolls; the students proved savvier, defeating these attempts time and time again.) Burdell's inclusion in the air force, on the George Tech basketball team, and everywhere else is the byproduct of an organically developed ruse over the course of nearly a century—with no end in sight.

Benjaman Kyle is missing.

Benjaman Kyle also lives in Savannah, Georgia. If you had his address, you could go visit him, and he'd be there, doing whatever he does each day.

But if you go to the Doe Network, an organization that helps locate missing people, he'll be there. In fact, his case file is 1007UMGA. But unlike everyone else in the Doe Network's database, Kyle is not in there because no one knows
where
he is—rather, it's because no one knows
who
he is.

On August 31, 2004, Kyle was found unconscious behind a Burger King, near a dumpster. He was naked, beaten, and bitten by fire ants. His wallet and ID were gone—as was much of his memory. He could not recall any of the events of the past twenty years. He did not know what his name was, where he was from, and did not even recognize his own face. The mystery man adopted the name “Benjaman Kyle” in part because the initials—B.K.—are also Burger King's. He believes that his true first name is “Benjaman” (with the curious spelling) and therefore uses that name, but there is little to no evidence that he is correct.

His memory is shattered, but over the course of the past few years, he and others have pieced together some likely information about his life before the summer of 2004. He recognizes certain landmarks from Indianapolis, Indiana, which others have used to conclude that he lived in the area sometime in the late 1950s to early 1960s. His spotty but detailed recollection of certain parts of the University of Colorado, Boulder, library and other locations around the campus strongly suggests that he attended the university in the late 1970s or early 1980s. Together, these pieces of information suggest he's approximately sixty years old.

Kyle also has extensive knowledge of how the restaurant and food preparation business works, and he remembers how to operate the machinery. (While he lost his memory, many of his acquired skills remain intact.) Unfortunately, he cannot remember his Social Security number—until recently, he was unable to get an ID card issued and therefore, unable to gain employment. That changed in 2011, when a local government agency helped him get a government-issued ID, and he later found work as a dishwasher.