by Josh Gates
If anyone is going to make this happen, it’s him.
I contact Rohde’s office and have the good fortune to not be hung up on by his lovely associate, Jennifer Gerstin, who either believes my story or is so bored at work that she’s at least willing to listen to it. I tell her that we’d like to donate the print to the Yeti Museum at Animal Kingdom. She says she’ll talk to Joe about it. I hang up, assuming that I’ve finally hit a dead end.
Jennifer calls back in fifteen minutes and says that Joe is interested. He hops on the phone, an unbridled bundle of energy coursing through the wire. “Where did you find the print?” he asks.
“In Nepal. In the Himalayas,” I answer.
“Right. But where?” he wants to know.
“Oh. A few days’ hike from Everest base camp.”
“Where exactly?” he presses. He starts mentioning specific valleys and villages. I’m amazed. It turns out that Joe Rohde knows a lot of shit. We have a twenty-minute phone conversation that concludes with his offer to fly me to Florida so that I can deliver the print to him in person. And just like that, I’m going back to Disney World.
Meeting Joe Rohde in person is like meeting a lightning bolt. He’s one of those magnetic iconoclasts who’s probably a little bit crazy but in just the right way. When I’m introduced to him, he’s wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and a cowboy hat. Hanging from his left ear is a collection of strange earrings and charms of such substantial weight that his entire lobe is now stretched out to accommodate them. Walking around Animal Kingdom by his side is a trip. Despite the fact that he’s genial to everyone we meet, Disney cast members are falling all over themselves in his presence. He’s traveling with a bizarre entourage of individuals, among them a Kenyan safari guide who has been flown in for a meeting. Not only has the man never seen a theme park, but this is his first trip outside of Kenya. In the African-themed section of Animal Kingdom, I watch with delight as his eyes pop out of his head.
We arrive at Expedition Everest and pose for publicity photos where I hand the plaster footprint off to Joe. And then, with the formalities out of the way, we all ride the roller coaster. The Kenyan guy doesn’t even know what a roller coaster is and spends the entire ride screaming with laughter. He loves it.
On the flight back to Los Angeles, I happen to be seated next to Joe. We spend the five hours talking about everything from exotic foods to ancient weapons. I just do my best to keep up. “How much do you know about the use of armored dogs in Colonial Spanish combat?” he asks me. Up until this moment my only knowledge of armored animals is that polar bear from The Golden Compass. I decide not to mention this.
A month or so later, the footprint, a photo, and supporting materials are granted a thoughtful display located just before riders exit the Yeti Museum at Expedition Everest. I couldn’t be happier about this. If nothing else, the print is a tangible connection to an important oral tradition. It is a twenty-first-century footnote to a saga nearly as old as the Himalayas themselves. I’m so glad that people can see it firsthand in the context of an attraction that brings the legend to life.
I spent a childhood enthralled by the magic of Disney. Peter Pan’s ships carried me on my earliest flights, and my first expeditions unfolded on the exotic, albeit predictable, waters of the Jungle Cruise. This wanderlust of mine was surely conceived somewhere in the “world of yesterday, tomorrow, and fantasy.” That Joe Rohde has seen fit to add my modest relic to Animal Kingdom has reminded me that Disney World is, quite literally, the place where dreams come true.
14: The Tourist Empire
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Machu Picchu, Peru, 2009
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It’s as picture-perfect a moment as any traveler could hope for. A sun-dappled view of the cloud-framed plateau of Machu Picchu. Raising my camera, I hold my breath to steady my shot. Beams of light angle down through breaks in the sky; there’s even a llama in the foreground munching quietly on lime-green grass. I’m going to win a Pulitzer for this. And then, without warning, an enormously fat woman in a Planet Hollywood shirt spills into the frame. The llama, as startled as I am, moves along. The photo is lost. A momentary image of the mighty Inca Empire dissipates, the ancient mountain city freshly conquered by an insatiable, seemingly unstoppable new superpower: tourists.
There is a very real distinction between being a tourist and being a traveler, and we should all aspire to the latter. Being a traveler means being an enthusiast, a vessel eager to be filled with the exotic. Being a tourist means checking off a prescribed itinerary, behaving like a sheep, and generally resisting the influences of the unknown in favor of familiar comforts. Citizens, this is a plea for sanity—nay, a call to arms! It’s time for a revolution against the imperial forces of tacky travel. I submit to you that there is a better way.
When we travel, we don’t just go someplace else, we also bring with us the place we’re from. Whether we realize it, we are emblematic of our homeland. When we set foot in a foreign country, we inject our own presence into it, either adding flavor or poisoning the cultural water. And so I would like to humbly offer a little basic travel etiquette (and a tip or two on how to not be an international douchebag).
Let’s start with wardrobe. I’m not sure when it happened, but at a certain point in history people collectively decided that in order to travel somewhere, they ought to wear a costume. The issue is perhaps most painfully illuminated on any trip to Africa. From Cape Town to Casablanca, the continent is under siege by colonialist khaki pants, beige epaulets, and floppy safari hats. If I see one more pasty-skinned Brit in a fedora ogling animals through a pair of oversized binoculars, I’m going to start frothing at the mouth. Look, I’m all for wickable fabrics, and, sure, I own my fair share of cargo pants; but if you’re wearing a pith helmet or sporting a hunting vest covered in pockets, you better be able to take down a lion.
I’d also like to ask that, unless you’re going to the beach, you consider leaving your shorts at home, guys. Beyond the fact that it is the easiest way to distinguish yourself as a tourist (men almost never wear shorts in their own country), I don’t really want to look at your hairy legs. Not in a restaurant, never on a plane, and, for the love of God, never ever in a temple. Remember, you’re an ambassador for your country. Throw some pants on, buddy. And, ladies, cool it with the tube tops in downtown Dubai.
While we’re on the topic of sartorial choices, let’s put a worldwide moratorium on shirts that read, “I survived (insert something totally survivable).” Also, no more Joe’s Crab Shack logos at the Wailing Wall or Ed Hardy patterns distracting from Picasso paintings in El Prado. Crocs are hereby banned from restaurants worldwide, and finally, I’m sure you loved your last trip to Paris, lady, but that bedazzled Eiffel Tower shirt is really f-ing up my view of the Acropolis.
However, if there’s one touristic sin that makes me cringe above all others, it’s this: the travel wallet. You don’t carry a wallet around your neck at home, do you? No. You don’t. So stop doing it abroad. It’s the badge of an embarrassing paranoia and announces you as a complete maroon to every local you meet. You may as well be wearing a nametag that reads: “Hi. I’m not from here, and I think your country is full of criminals.” You also advertise to the few actual thieves in town that your money is hanging openly around your throat. Perfect for a late-afternoon neck shanking. It’s as simple as this: if you’re too scared to keep your money in your pocket, you really shouldn’t be out of the house.
Full disclosure: I’m terrible at foreign languages. Awful. After a combined eight years of Spanish classes in high school and college, I can barely order a burrito at Taco Bell. But even if you can’t speak the local lingo, your efforts are always appreciated. Really. Use your overseas flight to learn some basics and struggle through as best you can. Expecting people to speak English in another country is ugly. As a side note, when you do have to fall back on it, speaking louder or with an accent will not make locals understand you better. “I need to go to the Marriott. THE MAA
ARRRRIIOOOTTT.” The cabdriver is Greek, not retarded.
You cannot expect to eat the same way abroad that you do at home. Nor should you. In fact, the human palate was meant to stray beyond the confines of the local food court. Sadly, I’ve watched Americans happily sit down for dinner at a Sbarro in Moscow next door to an authentic Russian eatery. I’ve looked on in horror at people choosing a KFC in Tokyo instead of any of the six sushi restaurants on the block. The worst side effect to gastronomical laziness overseas is that it encourages American franchises to pop up in places where they fundamentally don’t belong. There’s now a McDonald’s across from the Pantheon in Rome. And it’s packed.
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:
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Ukrainey 2009
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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, eng
ineers 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.