Click here for part 1 to read about the history of the catacombs, our preparations before the descent, and how we accessed the forbidden tunnels underneath Paris. Well, allegedly accessed - the author wouldn’t want to promote illegal activity on her blog.
- We are coming up on a chamber [the best translation I could think of for the french “salle” in this context], - said RC, turning the music down. - I will go first, to see who is there.
Now that I could hear something other than our mobile rave party, I could discern a new melody coming from around the corner. As I struggled to remember where I recognized it from, RC spoke to whoever was there - saying that we were a group of 10, and asking if we could come in and hang out for a bit. Having apparently received the green light, he turned back to us and announced that we would be taking a break here before continuing on.
Once I made it to the chamber’s entrance, it finally clicked: Viktor Tsoi! The legendary late soviet rock musician, that’s whose music the three guys sitting around the candle-lit table were playing.
- Are you guys Russian?
The two on the left let out an exclamation that I had a hard time deciphering.
- This one is American, - the tone of the guy sitting closer to the entrance was somewhere between sarcastic and accusatory, as he pointed at his red-haired friend.
The ginger shook his head in violent disagreement and excitedly asked if I was Russian.
- Yes… Half-Ukrainian, actually, - I specified, since the recent events have been bringing the other part of my heritage forward.
- I love Russia! - cried out the redhead. - And I hate the states, - he added angrily, glaring at the guy who spoke earlier.
- Uhmmm, - I was not expecting this sort of welcome, especially these days, but on the other hand, considering where this exchange was taking place, I figured I should let go of any expectations altogether.
Like this illustration? The original is no longer available, but the prints are up for sale on Saatchi Art!
Our group joined the trio around the table - or rather, the giant slab of limestone serving as such. A Russian band from the 90s replaced Tsoi and got momentarily drowned out by the hissing of the beer cans being opened. I fished a box of apple juice out of my bag, and sat down on the stone bench next to the two apparent russophiles.
- What’s your name?
- Olga.
- That sounds like your real name.
I nodded, sipping through the straw.
- This must be your first time down here, - the ginger’s friend gave my helmet a puzzled look. - Most people do not give out their real names down in the catacombs, you are supposed to come up with a cata alias.
- Are you really from the US? - I was curious what the redhead’s deal with the states was.
- I am French, but I was born in, - the guy rolled his eyes, - Utah.
I nearly choked on my juice.
I thought this night couldn’t get any stranger, but it just did. You see, one of the unlikely places I had found myself living at in the past was Salt Lake City, the capital of “the only state where a majority of the population belongs to a single church” © wiki, a.k.a. Utah. That in itself is a story for another day, but apparently, at the time when I was taking the SAT and attending anti-war protests in Salt Lake, there was a screaming red haired baby somewhere in the vicinity, whom I would meet two decades later deep under Parisian streets. The world is a small, and weird, place.
The accidental American hopped around the table, sharing stories about his previous urbex adventures, most of which involved some sort of radioactive waste. He was pretty bummed about the ongoing war in Ukraine, but for a rather selfish reason: apparently, he had been planning on camping in Chernobyl, with the goal of breaking into the Pripyat hospital’s basement - the one that still has the firefighters’ clothes from 1986. I watched the radiation-enthusiast wave a gasmask at RC’s face and proceed to tell a story that apparently required the level of gesticulation normally reserved by fishermen for their most exciting catches or by Italians to give directions to the nearest post office. Curious, I asked the Utah-born’s friend whether a gasmask was a useful item to have in the catacombs.
- No, no, it’s just a keepsake that he dropped into a radioactive pool once, he likes to carry it around.
- Why?.. - I asked with a confused frown.
- Because he is an idiot, - pleasantly explained the guy and asked if I wanted a smoke. When I declined, he lit up a cigarette, squinted, and pointed at the large letters carved high up into the chamber’s wall.
- Do you know what La Kantoch means?
- No, what is it?
- It’s slang for canteen. See those pots over there? Sometimes we bring down a portable stove and cook. We’ve even made raclette [a french dish made mostly out of melted cheese] here once, that was great.
- Wow… By the way, does anyone live in the catacombs? Like, long term?
- No, never heard of it. People just come here to party and explore, and sometimes stay for a few days at a time.
I turned to my right and saw PP staring peacefully into the candles’ lights.
- So how did you become a cataphile?
- There is an engineering school here in Paris, it’s called École des mines. One of their specializations is mining, so they have an official entrance into the catacombs straight from the school. A lot of students there have been to catas, or know a cataphile, so it’s not hard to find the right people if you are studying to be an engineer in Paris, - smiled PP. - I used to go down with the cataphiles and loved it here, so I decided to become a guide.
PP might be a project manager in his day job, but he would have made an excellent teacher, or a tour guide (I suppose, he already has). He went on to tell me all about the history of the quarries, and the Inspection générale des carrières, the tunnel-upkeep organization established in 1777 and running continuously to this day.
- Have you ever bumped into these inspectors inside the catacombs?
- They are state employees with regular working hours, - PP winked. - We always go at night or on a weekend, so there’s no intersection.
Before we continue, do not forget to check out the paintings in my Art Shop:
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RC and PP stood up and started gathering and smashing down the empty beer cans. They put the flattened pieces of metal inside the trash bag, packed it up, and bid farewell to our passing hosts. It was time to hit the tunnels once again.
The guides shared a map of the catacombs with the group just before our descent. There are several versions of the map that can be found online with a little digging, including the one our guides used, but they all look pretty different. The thing is, the layout of the corridors continues to change even today: some passages collapse or get filled in by the authorities when deemed unsafe, and new walkways also appear when cataphiles decide to connect two galleries, for example. Once on the surface, I tried to find the chambers we visited on the map, but couldn’t - the truth is, I knew where we got in and how we got out, but that did nothing to help me figure out what trajectory we took in between. Speaking of in and out, none of the maps you’ll find contain locations of the access points. This is intentional: first of all, whatever entries are publicly known, will be the next ones to get shut down by the police, causing the cataphiles to go through the trouble of either reopening them, or finding new ones. Second, the cataphile community, while friendly and charming (the latter in RC and PP’s case, at least), is not actually very accepting of tourists - that is, anyone who is new to the catacombs. There are valid reasons for this: e.g. the accidents that require the authorities to get involved are usually caused by tourists, and their number would no doubt skyrocket if the said tourists were able to get into the quarries without a guide. Also, you cannot expect every single newcomer to take care of the tunnels the way a seasoned cataphile would. Finally, part of the cata magic lies in its tight-knit community, where students and professionals, CEOs and homeless people, all mingle underground, status differences be gone.
As we continued our tour, I started to recognize some of the street names, occasionally carved into the walls. We were underneath the 6th arrondissement of Paris, deep below its posh apartment buildings, upscale boutiques and chic cafes. We passed by a few other groups on our way: apparently, Friday and Saturday nights can get pretty crowded, by the catacombs’ standards.
RC said that we were going to visit another chamber soon. RC and PP seemed to know exactly where we were headed, which certainly helped with the group’s morale when we had to crawl through the particularly narrow passages (the unofficial catacombs of Paris are no place for the claustrophobic). So when the headlamp of the person in front of me lit up a pool of water on the ground, I did not think much of it - we’ve crossed puddles before, and so far my calf-high rain boots did a great job of keeping my feet dry. However, as we walked forward, the water was not going anywhere - while the ground level was steadily going down. The people at the front of the group had slowed down, allowing the rest to catch up, and that’s when I got a glimpse of RC - walking nonchalantly, knee-deep in the water. Somewhere between the beginning of the pool and where I saw RC, the milky liquid got to the edge of my boots, and proceeded to pour inside on my next step. It was cold, but not shockingly so, and thankfully, it felt clean enough. Whoever was in front of me squeaked. The guy behind RC yelled out something about his “couilles”, signifying that the water level had reached his private parts. As the water continued to go up, I took off my backpack and carried it up in my arms. This was the first (and, as the rest of the trip was to show, only) time that I was glad to be tall - water reached where I used to have a thigh gap ages ago, and started to recede.
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Once out of the pool, we took some time to pour water out of our shoes before continuing on. I turned to see PP, who had been in the back this entire time, roll down his fishing boots to reveal perfectly dry jeans. “Now that’s a professional at work,” - I thought enviously, struggling to pull the wet boots back on my soaked feet.
RC said that the room he was taking us to was not far now, and that unfortunately, we would be taking the same way back. With a few muffled groans, we queued back into a column and marched into the blackness of the tunnel ahead.
… Stay tuned for part 3.
