Monthly Archives: January 2007

The vast freshwater ecosystem of the Amazon River is home to abundant animal life, and many of its species thrive by virtue of their ferocity. If one were to ask the locals which of the river’s indigenous species is the most treacherous, a few might describe the roaming packs of carnivorous piranhas, or the massive anaconda snakes; but based on the general sentiment of the region, the most frequently uttered response would be “candirú.”

The candirú is a tiny catfish which dwells in the depths of the Amazon River. These fish do not hunt in packs like the piranha, nor are they exceptionally large like the anaconda. In fact, the candirú is among the tiniest vertebrates on the planet, and it is sometimes referred to as the “toothpick fish” due to its small size and slender shape. Only a handful of people have had the misfortune of crossing paths with the candirú, but their experiences serve as cautionary tales to any who venture into the mighty river.

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The history of Damn Interesting is a rich tapestry of events. In September 2005, the site sprang into existence. Then we wrote a bunch of stuff. Now, something new is happening… It’s rectangular, inky, and full of knowledge. And it’s not a frightened robotic squid.

If you tend to be stimulated by flattened tree guts, then this will come as exciting news. Damn Interesting the site has fallen in love with trees, and following a long courtship it is now ready to deposit its bounty into the tree-flesh. Within a few months, a little bundle of pages will arrive. To help bring this bastard to fruition, and to increase our overall posting frequency here on the site, we have a small favor to ask.

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This article was written by Gerry Matlack, one of our shiny new Damn Interesting writers.

In 1976, a farmer in northern India became alarmed when he was informed of his own death. Lal Bihari was in the process of applying for a loan when the bank representative delivered the bad news, and it wasn’t just that his loan had been denied. He was clearly a breathing, animated, fifteen-year-old, and he exhibited none of the classic symptoms of zombiism, yet government records indicated that he was no longer among the living. There was even a death certificate bearing his name.

There was no arguing that he appeared to be alive, but such evidence turned out to be insufficient to correct the error. After some investigation Bihari learned that his situation was not due to some administrative blunder, but rather it was due to an act of fraud. An unscrupulous uncle had bribed a government worker to provide a false death certificate, as well as bribing another fellow at the local Land Registry Office. For less than $100, the uncle had gained the title to Bihari’s farmland in Uttar Pradesh, leaving no legally living soul to challenge the claim. As Lal Bihari began the lengthy effort to bring himself back to life and reclaim his stolen lands, he discovered that there were many others like him, and that the death-by-paper practice was widespread in the region of India known as the “badlands.”

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The Tree of Ténéré in the early 1970s. © Krohn PhotosBecause trees are so abundant, it is rare for a single one to become well-known. Some trees become distinguished due to their historical significance. The Bodhi Tree in India, for example, is where Buddha is thought to have gained enlightenment; and the Liberty Tree in 18th-century Boston was a gathering place for American colonists who objected to British rule.

A few trees are also worthy of note due to being record-holders. The state of California is home to several such trees: the tallest one known, a 155.5 meter redwood called Hyperion; the largest, the 1,450 cubic meter giant sequoia named General Sherman; and the oldest, a 4,800-year-old bristlecone pine known as Methuselah. It’s difficult to be certain of which individual tree is the most remote. For several decades that distinction belonged to the Tree of Ténéré, an acacia tree standing alone in the vast, hostile expanse of the Sahara Desert. However, in 1973 this tree met an exceedingly improbable end.

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In the early 1940s, German secret police agents in Nazi-occupied France were on the lookout for a woman with a wooden leg. She was known only as “the woman with a limp,” but the Gestapo’s many wanted posters described her as “the most dangerous of all Allied spies,” asserting that the Nazis “must find and destroy her.” Her name was Virginia Hall.

She became a spy entirely by accident. She was studying abroad and working for the Ambulance Service in France when the Blitzkrieg struck, and she was suddenly in the middle of Vichy-controlled France. Despite having been turned away by the Foreign Service because of her handicap, Miss Hall was able to join the British Special Operations Executive and later the US Office of Strategic Services for her remarkable accomplishments.

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