Strange encounters: a trip to the catacombs of Paris, part II

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.

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- 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.

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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.

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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. 

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Before we continue, do not forget to check out the paintings in my Art Shop:

Continue reading ↓

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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.

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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.

Like this illustration? Bring it home!

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. 

Twenty meters below the surface: a trip to the catacombs of Paris, part I

Aside from a small part that has been turned into a state-run museum, the catacombs of Paris are closed to the public and visiting them has been illegal since 1955. The author does not encourage any illegal activity on the blog, so treat what follows as a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, or actual places, is purely coincidental.

My favorite cartoon growing up was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. To this day I remain convinced that the 1987 TMNT theme song is one of the best film scores in history, up there with the likes of Hans Zimmer or Yann Tiersen, that pizza is a cornerstone of a healthy diet, and that the underground is a fascinating place well worth exploring. On the other hand, I’ve come to learn that turtles do not make the most interactive pets, and that one is generally better off staying away from the sewers. Now a subterranean network of tunnels that are sewage-free would be a whole other story! Luckily, one of the French capital’s clandestine attractions is exactly that: the catacombs of Paris are a complex multi-level web of abandoned mines spanning about a quarter of the city’s undersurface, mostly on its left bank.

Venturing into the catacombs unaccompanied is a terrible idea. Kind of like scuba diving solo: sure, everything could turn out just fine, but if something goes wrong, it’ll go really, really wrong. How wrong? Imagine getting lost in a pitch-black maze 20 meters below the ground, running out of water and flashlight’s batteries, never to be seen again… Unless you are lucky enough to bump into someone who had a little more sense (the latter is actually not unlikely, so deaths are exceedingly rare - injuries, however, are not). Fortunately, I knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew two guys, who knew their way around the catacombs. (Such urbex enthusiasts are known as the cataphiles.) Introductions were made, and the date for our descent was set to one of the upcoming Fridays.

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A historical interlude

What is now colloquially referred to as the catacombs of Paris, started off 800ish years ago as underground quarries. Turns out, the Romans had the controversial habit of mining stone pretty much right underneath the city that they were building at the time. This practice continued throughout the Middle Ages, resulting in some embarrassing mishaps of a street caving in here, and a house falling through there. Despite these civil engineering setbacks, the city’s population kept on growing, and what happens when you have more people living somewhere? Naturally you get more people dying in that place, i.e. a growing number of bodies to bury. At some point, the French capital was home to over three times as many dead Parisians as live ones, and with ever-rising real estate prices, that simply could not stand! In the XVIII century, a decision was made to dig up some of those long-gone citizens and move their remains underground, into a section of the mines that came to be known as the catacombs. Eventually, the entire 300+ km long network of the underground passages was dubbed as such, including the parts that were never used for human burial. Throughout the following centuries, revolutions, and wars, the catacombs have been used as an ossuary, a storage space, a hideout, and, more recently, a popular destination for urban explorers. Venturing down these tunnels was outlawed in 1955, but the cataphile community is going strong to this day.

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The catacombs being illegal and all, I figured that posting photos taken there would be unwise. That’s why I created some mixed media illustrations instead. Want to see more of my artwork? Check out the paintings in my Art Shop below:

Continue reading ↓

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Prepping

A few days prior to the planned excursion the guides sent us a packing list: a flashlight (preferably of the headlamp variety) with new batteries, water, candles, a trash bag (to the cataphiles’ credit, they are known for being very respectful of the environment), and snacks - but no glass bottles, too heavy and breakable. Attire-wise, they suggested whatever clothes we don’t mind getting ruined. Rain boots? Not necessarily, at least, not the regular kind - water in the corridors often goes above knee-level, so you would just be stuck in wet boots that won’t dry. Taking the experts’ advice into account, I ended up packing an extra change of everything, including shoes. In hindsight, I may have overpacked - although an extra pair of pants is a must if you plan on taking a taxi home in the end! Being tall and naturally clumsy, I also opted for a climbing helmet with a fitted light - more on that later.

The day before C-Day I figured I should come up with some backup plans for my pets, in case our outing lasts beyond the anticipated 5-6 hours. I gave a spare apartment key to my neighbor, and asked her to come check on Zina (the whippet) and Saathi (the cat) Saturday morning, if I don’t text her that I am back by then. The neighbor asked what she should do if I didn’t turn up later in the day. I started making a list of friends who could potentially babysit my furry family: two for the cat, two more for the dog. One of the four posed a reasonable question of what his responsibilities were, as an emergency cat contact. That prompted some soul-searching on my part. I finally responded with “Make sure she survives until my family gets here,” before noting down my parents’ contact info, as well as the names and phone numbers of the people I was going down to the catacombs with. 

Clearly my preparation has taken a turn for the morbid. I googled what it means to “get one’s affairs in order”. Some of the action points seemed like a bit of an overkill and/or required an appointment with a notary, which I certainly wouldn’t be able to secure while still above ground. Others were easy enough, like making a list of the financial institutions that my assets were held at. Personal finance is an interest that I did not develop until all of France was put under house arrest in March 2020, so this was an easy one to summarize. I wrote down the numbers of my checking, savings, and investment accounts on a sheet of paper, put it inside the folder where I keep my mortgage documents, and told my mom where to find it. Now I was ready for my catacombs adventure!

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Down the rabbit (man)hole

At the appointed hour, I got out of a metro station located in one of the central Parisian arrondissements south of the Seine. The time being Friday evening, the streets were almost as busy as the cafe terraces lining them up. I walked towards the meeting point that our guides sent while I was still on the metro: a little patch of green just off one of the main streets, a fenced off mini-square, of the kind that you often see in that part of Paris. As I stood across the road, I saw a tall sporty guy around my age sitting on one of the benches, and two younger looking kids chatting on a bench nearby. The pair hopped over to the guy and asked him something that I was not yet close enough to hear. He shrugged in an indeterminate way and said something about the group already being 10 people. The kids nodded and disappeared back onto the street, just as I approached.

- Are you one of ***’s friends? - the tall guy asked me in french.

- I am Olga, a friend of J’s [I will be referring to a few people by their initials from now on]. And you are RC? - I figured he could have been the guide who shared the meeting spot, since he was the first to arrive.

- Yes! How do you know J?

- Erm, Tinder?.. - I said sheepishly. 

RC gave out an amused half-snort and asked if I had brought a flashlight.

- Yep, it’s already on my helmet.

- And… You plan on wearing it?

- Definitely! Why, something wrong with a helmet? - I stared back with wide-eyed naivete.

- Only that it will tell everyone down there that you are a tourist.

- Trust me, that will be painfully obvious regardless of what’s on my head.

RC chuckled as a couple of the other explorers-to-be walked into the square. In J’s words, our group was made up of “the French plus one well-integrated Chinese, so do not expect people to be on time”. Indeed, by the time everyone arrived, it was a quarter to 10 pm (21:45 for my European audience, or 45 minutes after our planned starting time). Spring days are long here in Paris, so the sun had just set down. RC and the other, equally tall and sporty cataphile guide PP, said it was time to go down - quickly and in groups of three. Next thing I knew, the cataphiles lifted a rectangular manhole plate just outside the mini-square’s fence (“That’s where those muscles must come from,” - I thought to myself). One by one, people started disappearing into the hole in the pavement while the cars continued to drive by. As I got ready to be next, I listened to PP saying that being the last to descend is the tricky bit, as one has to close the heavy plate with one arm, while holding on to the railing with the other. Some of the entrances into the catacombs start with a 20 meter climb down the rails, and apparently there have been cases of people falling down to a broken spine. “It is harder with the circular plates, - reassured PP. - Worst thing I’ve seen happen with these dual-triangular ones was a guy who got a few of his fingers snapped off when closing up… Also, it’s only 4 meters down here.”

Oddly semi-comforted, I started to climb down and soon felt my feet touch the floor. Most of the others were already standing around the seemingly endless underground gallery, illuminated by nothing but our headlamps. One of the walls was equipped with long metallic supports holding up what looked to be inch-thick communication cables:

Like this illustration? Bring it home!

Once PP closed the lid behind him and climbed down to complete our group of urbexers-to-be, RC announced that we had to get moving. The technical gallery was merely a way in, and getting caught by the police before we even made it to the actual catacombs would have been disappointing. As we jogged along the cable lines, I looked at my phone: the signal was already gone, so I turned on the in-flight mode to conserve the battery in case I ended up needing an extra torch.

After some time we reached a narrow hole at the bottom of the gallery’s wall. If it was not for RC’s stopping, I would not have thought much of it, but our guide clearly intended to crawl into the opening. Nearly 5’10 and sized proportionally, I am quite a bit larger than an average french person, but I figured that if the cataphile’s broad shoulders could go through, so could my butt. And so it did - I had to push my backpack through first, and crawl on my belly, until I finally fell out into the corridor that clearly predated the gallery that we entered from by several centuries. Ladies and gentlemen, we were not in Kansas anymore: welcome to the catacombs.

Like this illustration? Bring it home!

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Maze running

Our journey through the ancient quarries started the way most of life’s fun things do: with a safety briefing. RC was to head the group, whereas PP was designated “la fin” - “the end”, i.e. the last person of the column. The catacomb tunnels had a much lower clearance than the technical gallery - the ceiling height varied, but, since I could not stand up straight in most places, I would guesstimate that most corridors were under 1.75 meters (including some long stretches that were only 1.5 meters high or less). Since the helmet added a few centimeters to my already substantial height, this meant that I had to alternate between hunching, crouching, and basically performing walking squats for the next several hours. 

There were many spots where large chunks of limestone were hanging down from the ceiling: the first person to notice one was to yell “Tête!” (“Head!”) to alert the others. Similar signals were given to call attention to the presence of holes in the ground, obstacles in the path, pools of water, and slippery stones. Since the group tended to stretch out as we made our way through the maze, in order for the cue to propagate through the column each of us would hear it from whoever was walking in front, and yell it out once again when he or she reached the danger zone themselves. Same thing was done at the intersections: we would yell out “right”, “left”, or “straight”, or wait for the rest of the group to catch up if the intersection was the meeting point of more than four streets. Did I say streets? Yep, I did. Although it is hard to think of the narrow claustrophobia-inducing corridors as the equivalent of wide Parisian avenues and quaint tree-lined rues, many of the underground passages were actually built to follow their surface counterparts. That’s why here and there we would come across a street name chiseled out on the stone wall. Cataphiles use these to orient themselves inside the catacombs, but be warned: the carvings date back to the XIX century, and many of the streets’ names have changed since then!

Like this illustration? The original is no longer available, but the prints are up for sale on Saatchi Art!

We had a lot of ground to cover in the night, so RC picked up a fast pace at the front of the group. Whenever we were going through areas with a higher clearance and fewer obstructions on the ground, we would basically run, and then catch our breath when we had to crawl or balance on the stones to avoid stepping into water-filled holes (a precaution that, frankly, you might as well throw to the wind from the start and just accept that your feet will get soaked). This was all rather physically intense, and the weight of my backpack was starting to feel doubled. On the bright side, I was certainly feeling warmed up, despite the catacombs being a little chilly: the temperature down there remains a constant 12°C (about 54°F) throughout the year. One of the guides, RC or PP, brought a portable speaker, and was blasting music at full volume as we were making our way through the corridors. I have had my fair share of unusual experiences in life, but I have to say, running in a pitch-black maze, dug out centuries ago, to the sounds of a techno mix, following a dim light that would disappear whenever the person in front of me took a turn, all twenty meters below a bustling European capital, definitely makes my current top 10.

Just as I was musing about the peculiarities of life, I heard a strangely familiar sound cutting through the electronic beat. 

Click here to continue to Part II