Free Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter by Josh Gates Page A

area. One of the locals guides us to an abandoned World War II airstrip. We tag the coordinates on GPS and fire up a satellite phone, eventually linking to a helicopter pilot on the other island. While we wait for a chopper, the locals paint my face using their stained saliva. It smells awful, but they’re enjoying it too much for me to argue. Finally, we hear the sound of spinning blades and wave our arms at the approaching helicopter. Belong ’em Jesus, indeed.
    I climb into the front compartment, the crew hops in the back, and away we go. As we gain altitude, the entire island steadily resolves into a tapestry of palm trees and thatched roofs. The Duke of York Islands roll by as we course above the frothy waves and deep blue sea. As we approach New Britain, my eyes widen at plumes of menacing smoke that billow out of three active volcanoes. We arc around one of the larger cones, which, until fairly recently, was entirely underwater. In the 1800s it exploded up from the depths, and when it finally quieted, there was a new island here. Maps had to be redrawn. The large town of Rabaul constructed shortly after was one of PNG’s most cosmopolitan but also an astonishingly poor choice of real estate. In 1994 the inevitable finally happened.
    A brutal eruption devastated Rabaul, with rocks the size of cars raining down over the city and heavy ash crushing most of the buildings. Today it is a chalky, abandoned ghost town resting peacefully in the shadow of still-smoldering giants. Six hundred feet away, a new Rabaul is springing up, unwilling to learn from the mistakes of its past.
    Our helicopter lands on the outskirts of the ruined city. We are immediately presented with a hefty bill for our last-minute helicopter extraction, which Neil and I promptly charge to the network. We’re here to search for an iguanodon-like dinosaur that locals have reported seeing in the nearby jungles. Our mission is straightforward: head to the remote village where the creature was spotted, interview the locals, and attempt to figure out what they saw.
    We meet with the town mayor, who directs us out of town and kindly insists on loaning us an additional security guard. As the mayor diplomatically prattles on about how I’m going to love the unspoiled rain forests and friendly natives, I can’t help but notice that my new escort is carrying a fully automatic machine gun. We drive out of Rabaul past ash-covered ruins on streets lined with charred palm trees. Above the blackened foliage, I notice the volcano belch out a cloud of vapor and cross my fingers that I’m not about to find myself in a Roland Emmerich movie.
    After orchestrating the attack on Pearl Harbor, Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto moved his base of operations to Rabaul. By 1941, this entire island was overrun with more than 100,000 Japanese soldiers. Today there are still lingering reminders of this bloody past all around us. The natural vegetation is broken up by huge gun turrets and scattered mechanical debris. By the side of the road I notice a graveyard and a long-abandoned execution area. It’s a disquieting sight and we continue on in silence.
    The muddy road slits the jungle like a knife but becomes more and more compromised by the encroaching foliage. By the time we make it to our destination, the ground is barely visible. We step out of the jeeps into a clearing where I can make out a loose arrangement of huts. I also hear the sound of beating drums, which brings a smile to my face. We’re about to be given a proper welcome. The villagers emerge, and we’re surrounded by traditional painted dancers clad with necklaces of dried flowers. As the drumming picks up pace and the dancers encircle my team, I stand amazed at the vivid eruption of culture.
    Since the whole scene feels a bit like the arrival at Skull Island in King Kong , we’re doing our best to ingratiate ourselves. The quickest way to fit in here is also the simplest; my crew and I agree to partake in a mouthful