Ten minutes later, I stood in three inches of sewage, looking up a manhole shaft that rose three stories above my head. Some of the ladder rungs weren’t broken. The water dripping down from above ran in sinister trickles down my arms, before being absorbed by my gloves. Francois and Lawrence went first, Sophie and I followed, and Sebastien brought up the rear. After an exhausting and slippery climb, Francois shouldered the lid of the manhole off, and I crawled out onto the street and lay on my back.
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Image may be NSFW.
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Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Epilogue
It would be another two days before I had a chance to re-enter the catacombs, by myself this time. I spent two full days (and slept two nights) documenting and photographing as much of the system as I could. It was during this time that I found the ossuaries proper, as well as getting the chance to visit some of the out-of-the-way attractions. I met a few people, one interesting fellow by the name of Spinoza, who offered me a tract. A tract, he explained, is a piece of poetry, or wisdom, or a drawing or a photo, that cataphiles leave in the tunnels for whomsoever might pass through that way next. The one he gave to me, translated into English, reads:
“Is it true that all Cataphiles are Scataphiles? You go into a hole, you play around in the mud, (?)even the plaque that you have taken is not to remember your girlfriend.(?)”
The other:
“He writes songs in his own way, and he sings in his own way. And you, what do you do yourself, in your way, when you run in the dark?”
Other than that, I was for the most part alone, and didn’t encounter anything extraordinary. Though I must say it’s a rare and profound experience to be able to spend such time as I did in that silent and absolute dark.
