Catherine Price Read online

  The Emperor’s Court in China, Twelfth Century

  It’s hard to pick the most evil ruler in the encyclopedia, but among the top ten was probably Emperor Chou. To please his concubine, Chou built a lake of wine and forced naked men and women to chase one another around it. Also, he strung the forest with human flesh.

  The Eighth Circle of Hell

  In Dante’s book The Divine Comedy, the ninth circle of hell is traditionally considered the worst. In this circle, betrayers are stuck in a frozen lake for eternity, their tears making blocks of ice on their eyes. But personally, I think the eighth circle sounds worse. This one has a river of human excrement that submerges flatterers. To me, ice sounds pretty good next to that.

  The North End of Boston on January 15, 1919

  This may be a stretch for this list, but I try to mention the Great Molasses Flood in everything I write. And it really was a bad place to be. It occurred when a giant molasses storage tank exploded and sent a fifteen-foot wave of molasses through the streets of Boston. Twenty-one people were drowned in the sticky stuff. Trains were lifted off their tracks and horses were submerged in the strangest and sweetest disaster in history.

  A. J. JACOBS is the author of The Know-It-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World.

  Chapter 10

  Hell

  Regardless of which circle you deem the worst, I think we can all agree that hell is not a great place to visit. Whether you choose to stop by the Greek and Roman Tartarus or the horrible O le nu’u-o-nonoa of Samoan mythology, you’re likely to be treated to some blend of fire, ice, and demons. Oh, and pain. Lots and lots of pain.

  The many variations of hell are a testament to humans’ ability to invent unusual methods of torture. But when it comes to specifics, you have to hand it to Zoroastrianism. Its version of hell includes precise punishments for everything from approaching fire or water when you’re menstruating to unlawfully slaughtering a sheep.

  If I had to pick a hell to visit, I’d probably go with the one in Michigan. Complete with a fictional nonaccredited college that offers “signed, sealed and singed diplomas,” Hell, Michigan, is a small town about twenty-five miles by car northwest of Ann Arbor that focuses more on puns than on punishments. Eager to capitalize on its name, the town has a part-time post office (for people who get their thrills through postmarks) and a tagline—“A little town on its way up.” And, for couples whose definition of romance includes fire and brimstone, Hell also has a wedding chapel.

  Chapter 11

  A Buzkashi Match

  How to play buzkashi:

  1 Kill a goat.

  2 Behead it.*

  3 Disembowel it.

  4 Soak it in cold water for twenty-four hours to toughen it up.

  5 Give it to crazed men on horseback to play a violent, gruesome game.

  6 Barbecue!

  An Afghani tradition, buzkashi is an animal-rights advocate’s nightmare: a sport in which three teams of horsemen compete to score goals with the body of a dead, headless goat.

  But that makes it sound too easy. In order to score goals, horsemen first have to grab the goat and carry the seventy-pound carcass around a small post. Then they gallop seventy-five yards down the field and hurl the goat into a small chalk circle. All this happens while they and their horses are being beaten, whipped, punched, and otherwise attacked by the other players, who can do anything, save tripping a horse, to prevent the other teams from scoring. Few games end without a horse trampling at least one rider or, for that matter, a spectator—buzkashi fields don’t have boundaries.

  Dexter Filkins, a war correspondent for the New York Times, witnessed a near disaster when a player rode his horse directly into the crowd. “Spectators scattered and screamed as the horses thundered close,” he wrote. “The referee reached for his Kalashnikov, then thought better of it.

  ‘ “Run!’ a boy squealed. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha! Run!’ ”

  When the game ends—which can take days, since there’s no official time limit or set number of goals—the winning team gathers for the traditional end of the game: barbecuing the goat. Buzkashi means goat-pulling, after all, and according to a hungry old man interviewed by Filkins, “All that pulling and stretching makes it very tender.”

  Note the goat

  Gideon Tsang/Wikipedia Commons

  Chapter 12

  Your Boss’s Bedroom

  This does not count as corporate team building.

  Chapter 13

  An Overnight Stay at a Korean Temple

  In theory, an overnight stay at a Korean temple sounds like the perfect activity for anyone struggling to escape the pressures of modern life. You’ll meditate, you’ll learn about Buddhism, you’ll go vegetarian. Concerns and cares will slip away as you drift into a blissful state of conscious awareness.

  Unfortunately, that’s not what it’s like.

  I signed up for one of these sleepovers through a program called Templestay. Created in 2002 by the Jogye Order of Korean Buddhism—the largest Buddhist order in Korea—the Templestay program aims to allow visitors to “sample ordained lifestyle and experience the mental training and cultural experience of Korea’s ancient Buddhist tradition.” In other words, it’s a chance to test-drive life as a monk.

  The meditation center I visited, about two hours from Seoul on Ganghwa Island, seemed like the sort of place that could inspire calm. The grounds are nestled between rice paddies and a leafy forest, and the center’s brightly painted temple sits several stone steps up from a gentle brook and a small pond stocked with lotus flowers and koi.

  When my friend and I arrived—several hours late, thanks to trouble reading the bus schedule—the Templestay coordinator introduced herself in fluent English and led us to the room where we’d be staying. It was empty except for sleeping pads, blankets, and small pillows stuffed with plastic beads (see nurdles, p. 101). After we’d dropped off our bags, she handed us our clothes for the weekend: two identical extra-large sets of baggy gray pants and vests, along with sun hats and blue plastic slippers. We looked like we’d stepped out of a propaganda poster for Maoist China.

  I’d assumed that most temple life involved sitting still and cultivating enlightenment, but instead our first activity was community work time. Clad in our Mao suits, we followed the coordinator to the garden, where eight other Templestay guests squatted between raised rows of dirt, piles of potatoes scattered around them. They gave us hostile glances as we approached—thanks to our late arrival, they’d been forced to harvest potatoes for three hours in eighty-

  degree heat. I couldn’t blame them for their animosity; if I’d been

  digging in the dirt while some assholes took the slow route to Ganghwa Island, I’d be pretty pissed off too. But such negativity seemed to go against the spirit of the retreat. I adjusted my sun hat and joined them in the field.

  After we’d assumed our squatting positions, the coordinator explained that we were supposed to sort the potatoes into piles of small, medium, and large—and then left without demonstrating what the Buddhist definition of “small” was. After a half hour spent tossing any potato smaller than a golf ball into a nearby box, I looked up to find a monk standing above me, examining my work. I smiled. Expressionless, he picked up my box and emptied it onto the ground.

  It was time for meditation.

  Once we’d learned the correct way to arrange our shoes outside the temple door, the Templestay coordinator demonstrated how to prostrate according to the Korean Buddhist tradition: kneel down, touch your forehead to the floor, and rest your hands, palms upward, on the ground. Then do it all in reverse, like a movie playing backward. Repeat, ideally several hundred times.

  To me, the main value of the prostration practice was as a quadriceps exercise, but any improvement in the shape of my thighs was mitigated by the pain it caused in my arthritic knees. I had plenty of time to reflect on this discomfort when we followed our prostrations with a meditation: sitting in silence
for a half hour, a slight breeze blowing through the open doors at our back as if beckoning us to escape.

  After a slow walking meditation through the temple grounds, a vegetarian dinner, calligraphy practice, and a discussion on meditation led by the temple’s head monk (I spent most of the time killing mosquitoes and then feeling guilty about the karmic implications), we were sent back to our rooms to get rest before our 3:30 A.M. wake-up call. Lying on the floor, still dressed in my Mao suit, I fidgeted till 1:30.

  Two hours later, the sound of the mokt’ak—a wooden percussion instrument played every morning to start the temple’s day—jolted me awake. I pulled myself up from my floor mat and stumbled through the predawn darkness to the temple, where pink lotus lanterns illuminated a small group of people inside, creating the kind of picture you would send home to friends to make them feel jealous about the exotic experiences you had while on vacation.

  There is a difference, however, between postcards and reality. For example, no one sends postcards at 3:30 in the morning. Nor do most people’s vacation plans involve getting out of bed in the middle of the night to sit for a half hour in silence with their eyes closed. I watched through cracked eyelids as the Templestay coordinator repeatedly jerked herself awake just before tipping over, like a commuter on an early-morning subway train. I was close to succumbing to the same fate myself when I noticed something that kept me awake: a gigantic beetle crawling on a lotus lantern hanging above my head. This beetle was easily the size of a large fig; having it fall on my head would have been the equivalent of being smacked by a mouse. I began to focus my attention entirely on the beetle, sending prayers into the ether for its secure footing.

  My prayers worked—the beetle remained aloft, and we were eventually allowed to go back outside. After sneaking a cup of instant coffee with a Venezuelan couple, I pulled myself through another walking meditation and followed the other participants to the main room for a Buddhist meal ceremony. A highly choreographed process of place-setting, serving, and eating, it included a final inspection by a head monk to see if our bowls were clean. “You do not want to disappoint him,” said the coordinator. “Doing so would reflect poorly.”

  She then walked us through what would take place during the meal ceremony, including a final cleansing: we were to take a piece of pickled radish and use it to swab our dishes. This caught the attention of a young Canadian woman.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But how is wiping my bowl with a radish going to make it clean? What about germs?”

  “We fill the bowls with very hot water,” said the coordinator, sidestepping the question. “So when you use the radish, the bowl is already very clean.”

  “Is it, like, a hygienic radish?” asked the Canadian woman.

  “Yes,” said the coordinator. “It is a hygienic radish.”

  Things went downhill from there. Exhausted and cranky, one by one we began refusing to play monk. If one of the whole points of Buddhism was to cultivate acceptance, why, I asked, did we have to go through such an elaborate meal ceremony? The Venezuelan couple went a step further: they left.

  Wishing that we had the same kind of courage, my friend and I instead counted down the hours until we returned to Seoul, and upon arrival treated ourselves to a bottle of wine. Several days later, the Templestay coordinator e-mailed the weekend’s participants and invited us to a workshop to perform three thousand prostrations to “inspire yourself into practice.” The idea sounded horrifying, but it reminded me how difficult it would be to live like a monk. Which, as the coordinator suggested, may have been the point.

  Chapter 14

  Pamplona, from the Perspective of a Bull

  Your day starts precisely at 8 A.M. when, standing in the pitch darkness of your temporary corral, you hear the sound of people singing. “A San Fermín pedimos, por ser nuestro patrón, nos guíe en el encierro dándonos su bendición,” they chant, asking a guy named Saint Fermín to give them his blessing as they participate in something called an “encierro.”

  “What’s an ‘encierro’?” you ask yourself, still sleepy from your long journey from your farm the day before. But before you get any answers, a gun goes off and someone presses a Taser to your skin, prodding you from complete darkness into total, blinding sunlight. Confused and frightened, you trip over your own hooves as you try to figure out what is going on. Your eyes adjust just in time to see a crowd of people, all dressed in white with silly red neckerchiefs, start to… hit you with rolled up newspapers? What the hell is this? And why are all the other bulls running so fast?

  I’ll tell you why: because those jerks with the newspapers are now chasing you down the street, whooping and hollering and poking you with their papers. “Really?” you think, hooves skittering on cobblestones as you force yourself around a corner. “Are you really trying to outrun a bull?”

  It’s enough to make you want to gore them, but there’s no time—you’ve now reached a large ring and are surrounded by a different group of people, who force you into a new corral and give you some food. It tastes good, but man, it’s making you sleepy. You haven’t been this tired since that breakfast they gave you the day you left the farm. Maybe you’ll just lie down for a little nap…

  Suddenly it’s 6:30 in the evening and you’re being prodded back into that big circle, where thousands of people are staring down at you from the stands. Several men come up to you on horseback, but before you can figure out why the horses are wearing blindfolds, the men take sharp lancets and twist them into your neck and back muscles. What are they doing, trying to kill you? You try to raise your head to gore them, but the lancets are making it hard to move. You’re still really sleepy, the blood is flowing freely down your legs, a different man just came in and stuck a harpoon point in your back, and now some asshole is standing in front of you with a red cape.

  www.andysimsphotography.com

  This is officially the worst day ever.

  Editor’s note: In addition to the Running of the Bulls/subsequent nightly bullfights that occur in Pamplona during the eight days of the Fiesta de San Fermín, watch out for the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals protest that occurs the day before the festival begins. Formerly known as the Running of the Nudes, it involves hundreds of naked people parading through the streets smeared with fake blood—and is a total buzzkill for anyone looking forward to the sight of drugged, wounded bulls being brutally slaughtered in front of a live audience.

  Chapter 15

  The Gloucester Cheese Rolling Competition

  Certain activities make me question how the human race survives. For example, the Cheese Rolling Competition, a yearly festival in which scores of people gather at Cooper’s Hill near Gloucester, England, for the chance to chase a piece of cheese off a cliff. Bones are broken. Joints are dislocated. Contestants are carried off the field on stretchers. This might be understandable for a sufficiently large prize, but in this particular contest, runners are risking life and limb for the glory of winning a seven-pound round of Double Gloucester cheese.

  Fans of the Cheese Rolling Competition will accuse me of oversimplifying things, so let me take a step back. The proud tradition of cheese rolling dates back some two hundred years (diehard fans insist it comes from the Romans) and follows a strict order of proceedings. First, competitors line up on the top of Cooper’s Hill, a rugged, uneven pitch so steep that from the top of the slope, it appears concave. A master of ceremonies, wearing a white coat and a silly hat, escorts a guest “roller”—the person responsible for releasing the cheese—to the edge of the hill. On the count of three, the roller releases the cheese; on the fourth count, the runners throw themselves down the hill after it. Originally the point was to try to catch the cheese, but given that it can travel more than seventy miles per hour and has a one-second head start, the winner is usually just whoever crosses the finish line first.

  It’s a painful race to watch. Most people lose their footing almost immediately and begin violently tum
bling down the hill, bouncing onto shoulders, ankles, and heads, occasionally landing back on their feet before being thrown forward again. Lucky runners make it to the bottom intact, where volunteer rugby players known as catchers try to intercept them before they crash into the safety barrier of hay bales. Unlucky contestants are taken away by ambulance.

  The 2009 competition alone saw fifty-nine injuries, of which only thirty-five were competitors. The rest were catchers and spectators, some trampled, some wounded when hit by the wayward cheese. One particularly unfortunate man held up the entire contest when he fell out of a tree.

  But regardless of its inherent dangers, history dictates that the competition must continue. When World War II rationing forbade using a real round of cheese, contest organizers fashioned a cheese-shaped piece of wood with a token piece of Gloucester stowed inside. And even when the contest itself has been canceled, as it was during the foot-and-mouth scare of 2001 and again in 2003 when the contest’s volunteer Search and Rescue Assistance in Disasters teams were called off to help victims of an Algerian earthquake, organizers rolled a single piece of cheese off the hill anyway—a symbolic act to ensure that the tradition would remain unbroken. If only the same were true for contestants’ bones.

  MICHAEL AND ISAAC POLLAN

  The Worst Meal in Barcelona

  It’d be hard to pinpoint the best meal in Barcelona, a city known for its excellent Catalonian food. But on a recent trip there, our family had no trouble identifying the worst: a frozen, microwaveable paella—basically, a Spanish TV dinner—available in low-end eateries near tourist destinations. A true paella is a delicious thing, a saffron-infused concoction of meats, vegetables, or seafood cooked with rice in a two-handled pan over an open flame until the ingredients are tender and the bottom has formed a savory crust. Unfortunately, however, the dish does not stand up well in the microwave.