No, this particular incident took place during the spring of my sophomore year in college, while my roommate Shoshanna and I were on the last bus from New York to Scranton, Pennsylvania on a very dark night. We should have been safe at her parents’ home in Hazleton by then, but thanks to our bus breaking down in New Have we’d gone through our very own version of Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, college-style and entirely lacking in the usual John Hughes smarm.
Worse, I’d somehow managed to forget my glasses in Northampton so was entirely dependent on my very hard contact lenses. I’d kept them in as long as I physically could but eventually they’d had to come out, and let me tell you, being led around the Port Authority in New York late at night by a seeing eye roommate is not an experience that I ever want to repeat, in this life or the next.
By the time we were halfway to Scranton, though, I’d put my contacts back in. I was too wired to sleep, too tired to read, and I didn’t want to mistake a random stranger, support pillar, or vending machine for Shoshanna’s father once we arrived. We were going to sleep late the next morning anyway, so I figured staring out the window at the silver-black countryside for an hour or so couldn’t hurt.
That was when I saw it, and suddenly I wasn’t tired or sore-eyed any more.
It was small, golden, and seemed to be composed of thousands of tiny glowing spheres that circled about each other as they rotated back and forth in a shallow curve. The arc of the little spheres was anchored to a trapezoidal shape that shone a dull yellowish brown. Aside from the constant movement of the spheres back and forth and around and around, it hovered motionless above the sleeping fields and farmsteads of rural Pennsylvania.
I froze. Behind me I felt Shoshanna sit upright. Somehow I managed to speak.
“Do you see — “
“Yeah.” Her whisper was barely audible over the rumble of the engines and the rush of tires on concrete. “I do.”
We stared up into the night sky. The object, whatever it was, hovered and glowed. The bus continued on its way. Soon whatever we’d seen was well behind us, lost in the dark spring night. Neither of us said a word.
Eventually we got to Scranton, where Shoshanna’s father was waiting for us. I took out my contact lenses once we were safe in the car, and an hour later we were stumbling into our beds. I’m pretty sure Shoshanna’s parents called my mother to let her know we’d arrived in good order, but I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
We didn’t tell her parents what we’d seen, and we didn’t talk about it later. I’m not sure I ever told Mum or anyone else, and I rarely discuss it now. I am deeply skeptical of the usual accounts of UFOs or UAPs or whatever the official name is now, and normally I would dismiss a similar tale with a shrug and a mumble about weather balloons and how late it was. Telling my story is likely to lead only to trouble, and that is the last thing I ever want.
It’s just...well. I know what I saw. I know I was awake, and so was Shoshanna. And I know what we saw wasn’t a weather balloon or a meteor or a stellar formation of some sort. It was clearly mechanical, clearly the product of advanced technology of some sort. But what sort of advanced technology? A test aircraft deployed from the nearby Tobyhanna Army Depot? Evil Secret Nazis on a reconnaissance flight over Lackawanna County, Pennsylvania? Or simply two college students who’d been up too long, under too much stress, and mistook a bright light for something more?
One thing I do know. What I saw was not an extraterrestrial craft. Weird it was, but I highly doubt that actual aliens would a) hover in plain sight within shouting distance of a military base, b) build spacecraft that look like something out of the old Ed Bishop UFO series, or c) have any interest whatsoever in the environs of Lackawanna County, Pennsylvania. I mean, most of the residents of Lackawanna County, Pennsylvania would be happy to be somewhere else, especially now that the anthracite mines and the steel mills have closed. Why would aliens from beyond the stars be any different?
Now, it’s entirely possible that I’m wrong and it was an extraterrestrial scout ship laying the ground work for kindly visitors wishing to share their wisdom, hungry visitors seeking the ingredients for a bubbling pot of hominid stew, or a sales force sent to peddle the newly patented Atmo-Suk Planetary Air Cleansing System to the unsuspecting public. The odds are millions to one against it, but in a world where an escaped, badly programmed audioanimatronic figure from Disney World could be considered a viable presidential candidate, even briefly, who’s to say what’s possible and what isn’t?
All joking aside, pseudo-scientific theories about ancient interstellar visitors, ancient catastrophes, ancient migrations, ancient infomercials and the like are more popular than ever. Old favorites like Chariots of the Gods? and The 12th Planet still befoul the New Age section of most bookstores, Dover Publications has never stopped selling Ignatius Donnelly’s Atlantis: The Antediluvian World, and let’s not even think about the evangelical bestsellers about dinosaurs romping merrily about the Garden of Eden waiting for Adam and Eve to name them. That way lies madness, or at the very least brain rot.
And then there are the television shows.
Dear God, the television shows.
The old In Search Of…. starring Leonard Nimoy was bad enough. Ditto Sci Fi Investigates, an early 21st century confection that had virtually no science and precious little investigation. Nova, once a gem, has deteriorated so badly since the Kochs got their mitts on it as to be virtually worthless. I could name a dozen others, from Ancient Aliens to William Shatner’s latest money-grab, something called The UneXplained. There are so many that I would not be even slightly surprised if one of the lesser streaming services came out with a deeply researched series about the virtues of the Four Humors theory of disease, modern alchemists dousing for vibranium off the coast of Yucatan, reflexology as a cure for all ills, and (of course) how the last sixty years of space exploration were fake, fake, fake I tell you, FAKE!
Seriously, throw in a suitably grave host like Peter Coyote or Morgan Freeman, and you’d have a hit that would put the latest George R.R. Martin dragon thing to shame.
Fortunately we haven’t yet seen In Search of Medieval Vibranium, or even an infomercial on the newly patented Atmo-Suk Planetary Air Cleansing System (call before midnight tonight and get a free batleth and a set of Banzai knives guaranteed to cut through surgical steel! Guaranteed or your latinum back!). However, thanks to the wonders of modern technology it is now possible to waste several hours of your life watching an explicably popular “documentary” on Netflix called Ancient Apocalypse that is even sillier:
Fingerprints of the Gods, Magicians of the Gods, The Sign and the Seal, and at least a dozen other worthless tomes, by Graham “I used to be a respectable journalist but look at me now!” Hancock — one thing I’ve noticed over and over again during my forays into Badbookistan is how many bad books are written by well educated, respectable, utter ordinary people. I have no idea why this happens, or why it’s so common, but it’s so common I’m no longer surprised when I learn that Author XYZ is the daughter of two college professors, attended a fine liberal arts college, and worked for many years as a doctor/lawyer/marine biologist/mining engineer/Michelin-starred chef before publishing one or more books that would make the average adolescent fanficcer blush for shame.
I can almost understand this with a first-time author, or someone who isn’t trained in proper research techniques. But then I come across someone like Graham Hancock, and, well. You’ll see.
He looks so normal (Wikipedia)
Absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing, about Hancock’s early training or career hints that he would end up writing some of the very worst books of the late 20th/early 21st century. He graduated with a first class degree from Durham University, worked for some of the most prestigious newspapers in Britain (including the mighty Times of London), and spent nearly twenty years writing about economic and social issues. His early books are serious, well-reviewed explorations of issues like world hunger, exploitative charities, and the AIDS crisis. He even spent a couple of years as the East Africa correspondent for The Economist. If you’d seen his CV prior to 1990, you’d think you were looking at someone who would be on the Pulitzer Prize short-list if he lived in the United States.
And then he started writing some of the most ridiculous garbage this side of Zecharia Sitchin and his self-taught Sumerian, and it’s only gotten worse.
Consider his first venture into pseudo-science, The Sign and the Seal. Purportedly an investigation into the origins/fate of the Ark of the Covenant, the book takes virtually every theory about the Ark (it belonged to Solomon! No, Menelik I! No, the Templars stole it! It’s the Holy Grail! It’s in Ethiopia!), tosses it into the literary equivalent of the Super Bass-o-Matic ‘76, adds a healthy dash of Hancock’s travels to pretty much everywhere except an Indiana Jones film set, and hits EXTREME PUREE. The result, which sold extremely well despite the sort of reviews that normally would have an author flinging themselves into the nearest gorge, might have been dismissed as an anomaly in any otherwise promising career.
Except that the follow-up, Fingerprints of the Gods: The Evidence of Earth’s Civilization, made it very clear that the career of the former East Africa correspondent had taken an unexpected and very, very disturbing turn. For it seems that this man, who had made his name writing about world hunger, dodgy donations, and a global pandemic, now believed the following:
Early civilization had originated not in the Fertile Crescent, Anatolia, or even Africa, but in, my hand to God, Antarctica.
Yes.
Antarctica.
Really.
That professional archaeologists who’d spent their entire lives studying this question pointed out that, well, Antarctica a) was much too cold to support agriculture and b) had been frozen for several hundred thousand years was not relevant. Hancock’s own research had convinced him of the following facts, not one of which is supported by those pesky little things called “facts”:
- Antarctica was plenty warm and fertile until around 11,000 BCE ago, allowing the inhabitants to develop an advanced technological civilization.
- All was fine and hunky-dory until a major shift in the Earth’s crust and the magnetic poles caused a massive flood that displaced the entire continent, destroyed all the technology and civilization, and drove inhabitants to higher ground.
- This Antarctican wonderland was called — you knew this was coming — “Atlantis.”
- Traces of past glory can be seen in civilizations like ancient Egypt, Mesoamerica, and the Incas which show clear evidence of a common origin because they all have creator/teacher deities like Quetzalcoatl, Thoth, and Viracocha.
- This includes the claim that Tiwanaku in Bolivia, which was built as a planned city between 400 and 900 of the Common Era, is actually thousands of years older and very, very mysterious even though it’s been extensively examined by generations of archaeologists.
- Ditto the Pyramids and the Great Sphinx, even though we have extensive written records explaining when they were made, who made them, why, and how.
- Ditto at least one Roman site, and if I really have to explain how stupid that is, please take away my car keys to prevent me from flinging myself bodily in Quechee Gorge.
- And oh yeah, the direct sequel/updating, Magicians of the Gods, claims that all of this is thanks to a bunch of comets hitting North America around 12,000 BCE and disrupting the climate/magnetic poles/Gulf Stream/etc. while leaving a layer of platinum-rich soil as a precious souvenir.
That all of this bears a strange resemblance to a multitude of terrible books, from the aforesaid politician/real estate developer/”historian” Ignatius Donnelly’s work on Atlantis to the “scholarship” of Heinrich Himmler’s Ahnenerbe, is probably not a coincidence. Neither is the redating of major ancient sites, the dismissal of trained archaeologists as bumblers who have ignored evidence that was plain as a pikestaff to the savvy journalist, or the “research” based entirely on books that were thoroughly debunked by the likes of Isaac Asimov, Carl Sagan, Martin Gardner, and other scholars who are alas dead and cannot eviscerate this nonsense the way it richly deserves to be eviscerated. It’s the same story behind the works of so many other authors who think they know more than the experts and will not accept even the slightest correction.
What makes Hancock so popular, and ultimately so dangerous, is that his training as a journalist has made him a much, much better, more readable, and more plausible writer than the average pseudo-scientist. Even the harshest critics admit that his work is fun to read, especially if you know enough about pre-history to notice how much he gets wrong, misinterprets, or outright fakes, and several otherwise bad reviews I discovered ended by recommending Hancock’s latest as an enjoyable bit of hokum that was a perfect way to pass an idle hour and/or drop into the bathtub during a long, relaxing soak.
All of which is just fine as long as you don’t take Graham Hancock and his silly theories at face value...but unfortunately, a lot of people these days know so little about ancient civilizations that they do take Graham Hancock and his silly theories at face value. They want to be informed as well as entertained, and Hancock is such a fluid writer that it’s all too easy for someone who isn’t deeply read to pick up Fingerprints of the Gods, read it, and think “hm, he has a point” even though he really, really doesn’t.
And then there is all the broadcasting work Hancock has done, because it turns out he’s just as smooth and plausible on camera as he is in print.
I can almost — almost — excuse Sir Michael Palin using Hancock as a talking head in a 1992 documentary. He’d only written one bad archaeology book at that point, and it was still possible to argue that he’d come to his senses in due time. But appearing on a Horizon episode called “Atlantis Reborn Again”? Making his own documentaries on lost civilizations? Giving a freakin’ TED talk on “The War on Consciousness”?
And then there’s Hancock’s most recent project, Ancient Apocalypse. This one, which The Guardian openly compared to the sort of “documentary” that Z-grade cable channels show in between sensationalized accounts of plane crashes and explorations of Nazi architecture, not only sends Hancock to pretty much every popular pseudo-site around the world, but gives him plenty of time to carp bitterly about the Evil Archaeological Establishment that won’t take him seriously. He also gets to interview the likes of right-wing favorites Joe Rogan and Jordan Peterson, neither of whom knows anything about archaeology either but are happy to seize yet another opportunity to complain about how badly the Evil Liberal Media Establishment treats them.
Needless to say, the critics have not been kind to Graham Hancock, his documentary, or his choice of guests. Multiple reviews called it “dangerous” for its conspiratorial mindset, others said it was a declaration of war on archaeology and science itself, and still others called it “preposterous,” “bunk,” and “metaphysical” instead of historical. Youtubers Miniminuteman, and Flint Dibble (both trained archaeologists) basically tore Ancient Apocalypse and its guiding light to shreds, even to the point of Dibble appearing on Joe Rogan’s podcast (and being roundly mocked by Hancock and Rogan’s flying monkeys for being a tweedy academic with a beard and an odd name). The Independent even went so far as to say that Ancient Apocalypse was a powerful argument for keeping the BBC publicly owned and managed, since at least that way the producers of alleged documentaries would be accountable to the public.
Not that Graham Hancock particularly cares. He’s yet another pseudo-scientist who knows he’s right and everyone else is wrong, and he will keep writing, filming, and agitating until he’s taken seriously. That he is also doing a tremendous disservice to his readers, viewers, and anyone who innocently picks up one of his terrible books at a tag sale, a remainder table, or a library doesn’t seem to have crossed his mind.
If only he’d stayed with The Economist….
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Have you ever read a book by Graham Hancock? Tried to watch a documentary based on his theories? Wondered why anyone took this nonsense seriously? Wailed into your drink of choice at the stupidity and ignorance of the public? Used a copy of Fingerprints of the Gods to prop up a table leg? It’s a cold night here in Massachusetts, so bundle up and share….
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