Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter by Josh Gates Read Free Book Online

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 The sound of banging wrenches and coughing engines has been replaced by the muffled sibilation of rain forest.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 few last