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other predators are known to lurk in Malaysia’s interior.
    Chu directs us to a neighboring aboriginal village, and we steer the 4x4 along primitive access roads deep into the jungle. We arrive at a modest collection of houses at around eight p.m.; it’s pitch-black here, and we exit the vehicle to the dim view of a few dozen people sitting around quietly in the dark. Dogs are barking loudly, and babies are crying somewhere close by. There are no less than six people in this village who claim to have seen Bigfoot personally, or so I’m being told by Gupta, who we’ve kicked awake to come along and translate. We’re led into a small hut where a man tells me that he didn’t actually see Bigfoot but believes he spotted a nest. He describes it at length, noting a foul smell in the area. We pinpoint the nearby region on a map and move to the next witness. I’m led into a barren two-room house made of hastily poured concrete. An old man sits on an empty floor with a single candle in front of him. I sit down, and we talk for a while in the flickering darkness. Behind him, I can barely make out his wife leaning motionless against the back wall, flies buzzing around her head. The man speaks to my translator in Malay for a few minutes, and I look up from the candle flame when I distinctly hear the word “orangutan.”
    “It looked like an orangutan?” I ask. “Is that what he’s saying?”
    “No. He says it was an orangutan.”
    This is intriguing, since these great apes, while native to Malaysia and Indonesia, are now found exclusively on the adjacent islands of Borneo and Sumatra. Fossil remains have been recovered on the Malaysian peninsula, however. Is it possible that a population of orangutans could have survived here in Malaysia’s interior? It seems unlikely, but I’m suddenly energized that this man, as well as several others that I speak to, appear to have had some sort of a legitimate experience. I’m quickly realizing that we aren’t just here looking for Bigfoot; we’re here to document a mystery. There may be no Bigfoot. There may be no orangutans, for that matter. But there is clearly something , and I, for one, am increasingly engaged in the search.
    We drive toward the sightings area along a logging road, and I let the cool night air wash over my face. Staring out into the black jungles, I run through the eyewitness testimony in my head and consider the possibility that somewhere in all of this dense rain forest a monster could be lurking. We park and then radiate out on foot into the jungle, powering up our cameras to give us some advantage in the darkness. We hike for a mile or more, looking for droppings, prints, the described nests, or any other physical remains. More than anything, we’re just hoping to avoid getting bit by any of the peninsula’s venomous snakes or spiders. We search for hours upon hours, eventually stopping to drink a little water and change tapes in the cameras. Eric points at Neil with his flashlight beam. “Neil. What’s on your shirt?”
    We all look over, and in the light we see a golf-ball-size bloodstain on the front of Neil’s safari shirt. Neil lifts up the fabric to reveal a small puncture wound leaking blood down his stomach.
    “Land leeches,” Gupta says solemnly.
    And with that little announcement, Neil rips off every single piece of clothing he has on. Everything. He’s suddenly naked and completely losing his shit. Even though the leech had already fallen off of him, there may be others, and he’s not taking any chances.
    In his defense, however, Malaysian leeches are truly horrifying creatures. They basically look like little brown worms but move like possessed Slinkys along the soggy ground. They are experts at sniffing out blood and sweat: the minute your foot hits the ground, you’re fair game for an attack. Without your even noticing their presence, these leeches will rush your shoes, climb up under your pant legs, and sink their teeth into whatever