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Sarcofagi of Carajía in Provincia de Ferreñafe, Peru

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Sarcofagi of Carajía

Staring down from a cliffside in Peruvian river gorge, the vertical Sarcophagi of Carajía (or Karijia) kept watch over the Utcabamba Valley for hundreds of years before researchers were able to climb up and investigate the mysterious mummies.

Created some time in the 15th century by the Chachapoya civilization the seven standing burial capsules (formerly eight, although one of them collapsed during a 1928 earthquake) are located almost 700 feet above the valley floor. While a great deal of the Chachapoya culture was lost after being conquered by the Incan people and simply through time, the sarcophagi survived largely intact due to their seemingly impossible location. Each of the figures stands a remarkable eight feet tall and change, constructed out of grass and clay and built right into the cliff face. Some of the graves even still retain the human skulls that were installed atop the sarcophagi.

It was not until the mid-19th century that researchers were able to scale the cliff face and examine the mummies, dating them and speculating as to their construction. It is believed that the original architects of these graves worked from natural outcroppings which were later destroyed either deliberately or naturally. While the sarcophagi are largely protected from the elements by the rock walls around them, birds and other small animals have done some amount of damage. The researchers removed the contents of the sarcophagi to preserves the ancient innards from any further predation. 


FOUND: Mysterious Gold Object in a Jerusalem Cemetery

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The object in question (Photo: Israel Antiquities Authority/Facebook)

A few months back, a maintenance worker was in an old building in a Jerusalem cemetery and spotted an abandoned package in the structure. Naturally, the person called the cops, the Jerusalem Post reports. But once they determined the package wasn't a bomb, they were confronted with a greater mystery: what in the world was the golden thing inside?

Almost a foot long and weighing about 19 pounds, the wand had knobs on either end and rings around its bulbous center. For months, the Israel Antiquities Authority puzzled over it. Was it old? Was it new? What was it? 

Finally, this week, the government agency threw the question to the masses of Facebook. And in short order, the object was identified as a gilded Isis beamer—a New Age tool that's sold by a German company. It comes in sizes large and small, and is meant to "strengthen the body's own energy field" and also harmonize radiation or other energy fields. According to the company that makes it, about 25,000 have been sold. 

It may not be an ancient treasure, but it's valuable to someone. A large one of these things retails for more than $400.

Bonus finds: Charlemagne insigniaa galaxy with a tail, 39,000 cannonballs

Every day, we highlight one newly lost or found object, curiosity or wonder. Discover something unusual or amazing? Tell us about it! Send your finds to sarah.laskow@atlasobscura.com.

Fleeting Wonders: SpaceX Successfully Recycles A Rocket Booster

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Launch, re-entry, and landing traces from last night's Falcon 9 victory. (Photo: SpaceX/Flickr)

The Falcon 9 rocket, the star of Elon Musk's SpaceX endeavors, has taken its share of bruises, most notably a dramatic launch failure in June that ended in disintegration. But on the evening of December 21, the world watched as it did something no machine of its kind has ever done before—it came back from space and landed on its feet

The Falcon 9 lifted off at 8:29 p.m. from Florida's Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. It separated, sending 11 commercial satellites hurtling into space on the smaller, second-stage part of the rocket. Then the enormous booster part touched back down, 10 minutes later and six miles away, at SpaceX's new crash pad, Landing Zone 1. 

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Falcon 9 awaits takeoff. (Photo: SpaceX/Flickr)

This is not the first time a rocket has stuck the landing. Last month, Jeff Bezos's rocketeering outfit Blue Origin vertically landed a much smaller rocket, and SpaceX itself has pulled off a soft landing at sea. But the Falcon 9 is the largest and fastest rocket booster to manage a hard landing—large and fast enough to actually deliver goods or people into space. This brings the ultimate goal of low-cost space flight much closer, and makes for a one-small-step-for-rocket, one-giant-leap-for-rocketkind type of accomplishment.

TheNew York Timescalled the evening "a threefold success" for SpaceX—besides this unprecedented rocket-recycling, the company also introduced an upgraded design that incorporates colder fuel and liquid oxygen.

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A human awaits the new rocket overlords at Landing Zone 1. (Photo: SpaceX/Flickr)

You can watch (or re-watch) the entire launch on SpaceX's YouTube channel

Every day, we track down a fleeting wonder—something amazing that's only happening right now. Have a tip for us? Tell us about it! Send your temporary miracles to cara@atlasobscura.com.

Object of Intrigue: Two-Wheeled Transport for Regency Dandies

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Regency dandies drag-racing their draisines at the Jardin du Luxembourg in 1818. (Image: Wikipedia/Public domain)

This holiday season, millennials will be unwrapping futuristic-looking hoverboards, taking to the sidewalks, and incurring a mix of confusion, awe, and ire from people over the age of 30.

These sentiments echo those expressed almost 200 years ago, when another contentious youth-focused form of two-wheeled transport was introduced: the Laufmaschine. It was the first human-powered, two-wheeled transport device; it pre-dated the penny-farthing, a type of early bicycle, by more than 50 years.

Also known as the swift walker, the pedestrian hobby horse, the draisine, and the first velocipede, the Laufmaschine (“running machine”) was invented by German forester Karl Drais in 1817. It consisted of a pair of equally sized wheels topped with a wooden beam, which held the whole thing together. A leather saddle on the beam gave the rider a place to sit and a tiller-style steering post gave control over the direction of the front wheel.

There were no pedals—the rider would sit astride the Laufmaschine, let their feet touch the ground, and take long strides to get moving. To stop, riders dragged their legs along the ground.

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A drawing from Drais' three-page pamphlet on his 1817 invention. (Image: Wikipedia/Public domain)

Patented in France in 1818, Laufmaschines “soon became status symbols among young noblemen,” wrote Tony Hadland and Hans-Erhard Lessing in Bicycle Design: An Illustrated History. The contraptions were priced above the means of the working class, leading them to become a toy for pleasure-seeking dandies—hence another one of the velocipede's nicknames: the "Dandy Horse."

London caricaturists had a fine time lampooning these cravat-wearing sidewalk menaces who trotted along on their running machines. The riders faced a "storm of ridicule," according to an 1883 edition of cycling magazine The Wheelman“Nothing could well have looked more absurd than a gentleman, exquisitely dressed in the fashion of the times, going along the muddy streets in this guise,” it noted. 

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A draisine at the Kurpfälzisches Museum in Heidelberg, Germany. (Photo: Gun Powder Ma/Wikipedia)

In the dying days of 1818, London carriage maker Denis Johnson released an improved version of the draisine, which he termed the "pedestrian curricle." It had larger wheels, a simpler steering mechanism, a lighter overall weight of 40 to 50 pounds, and an adjustable seat.

Convinced of the mass appeal of this modified Laufmaschine, Johnson opened a riding school in Covent Garden. There he taught fashionable young men how to cruise along on his curricles, and custom made the contraptions for each buyer, taking their weight and inseam into account to create the most comfortable ride possible.

It wasn't just men who got to go on velocipede joy rides—in 1819, Johnson debuted a version of the pedestrian curricle with a step-through frame, specially designed for ladies' comfort and modesty. By this time, however, the draisine fad had already peaked.

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The lady version of the pedestrian curricle had a step-through frame. (Photo: Ian.wilkes/Wikipedia)

Velocipedes made it to the United States by 1819, but their popularity was modest. About 100 of the machines circulated in the country, which was enough to warrant the establishment of riding rinks in the east. Those who couldn't afford to purchase a two-wheeler outright could rent them.

"Riding downhill at high speed was a particularly enjoyable activity," notes the Smithsonian's National Museum of American History, which holds a draisine from around 1818 in its collection.

By 1820, the Laufmaschine fad was over in both Europe and the U.S., having incurred the ire of pedestrians protective of their sidewalk space. Another issue leading to its demise was the fact that the draisine caused occasional rearrangement of riders' internal organs. “The defects of the velocipede, its rigidity, and the strain on the rider in propelling it by muscular thrust, besides rendering it impracticable for general road travel and subjecting the rider to a severe jolting, were a frequent cause of abdominal hernia,” noted The American Cyclopaedia

On the bright side, draisines did not have a tendency to burst into flames.

Searching for the Mystery Lights of Marfa, Texas

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Tumbleweed rolling down N. Highland Ave, Marfa. The building in the far left is the historic Hotel Paisano, featured in the classic film Giant with James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson. (All Photos: Peter Ash Lee)

This photo essay is one of a five-part series with Atlas Obscura and Olympus. We asked some of our favorite photographers to take a quest with an Olympus E-M5 Mark II camera, and these are the results of their adventures. All photographs in this story were taken with a Olympus E-M5 Mark II with a 12-40mm Pro lens. To see the full series, go here.

The town of Marfa, situated in the high desert of West Texas, has a population of just 1,981. It is difficult to get to—the closest airport is three hours away—and yet, despite its small size and relative in accessibility, it has become famous for minimalist art, and the mysterious Marfa lights.

The art scene began in the early 1970s, when artist Donald Judd moved to Marfa. He bought properties for his installations and collections, and Marfa is now home to the Judd Foundation and the Chinati Foundation, along with numerous other galleries. The heritage of the Marfa lights dates back further; under local lore, it was a cowboy in 1883 who first spoke of seeing the lights as he herded his cattle across the plains. They are described as either stationary or mobile bright lights seen in the desert, which may “pulse on and off with intensity varying from a dim to an almost blinding brilliance.” Witnesses to the lights often attribute them to paranormal activity such as UFOs and ghosts.  

With this in mind, it’s no surprise that photographer Peter Ash Lee wanted to visit Marfa. He was intrigued by its history and culture, and hoped that maybe he could also chase down the elusive Marfa lights. In late November, Lee made his way to Marfa from New York via two flights and a drive, to photograph this isolated and most unique town. 

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A classic Valiant with Texas license plates parked in Marfa.

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In this sign for Marfa, the beautiful font, and the shadows it created, caught Lee's eye. 

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Lee drove out of the town’s borders on Pinto Canyon Road, which led to beautiful rolling hills—apparently the same countryside as featured in the film No Country for Old Men.

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Prada Marfa, a permanent sculpture by artists Elmgreen and Dragset. "Right after this photo was taken, two other tourists ran in to pose in front of it wearing nothing but their cowboy hats," Lee says.

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The train tracks across the street from the Prada Marfa exhibition.

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A sculpture spotted by Lee as he walked around the town. 

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A mural painted outside the Thunderbird Hotel office.

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One of many beautiful vegetations growing in the desert.

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Lee visited the Marfa Lights Viewing Center, and watched the sunset—and waited for the mysterious Marfa lights. 

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Local flora silhouetted against the setting sun. 

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An alien-like face is formed from the binoculars at the Marfa Lights Viewing Center.

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The Marfa Lights? At the Viewing Center, Lee was told that the white light above the red light is indeed one of the Marfa Lights, and he managed to capture it on film. "It would appear randomly every few minutes and change and then slowly fade away," Lee recalls, "One of the other viewers told us that it was probably a reflection off a headlight from a nearby highway. No one seemed to really know what was and wasn't part of the Marfa Lights."

Kiptopeke's Concrete Fleet in Cape Charles, Virginia

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Bow of the SS Slater.

Standard street lights illuminate the fishing pier near Kiptopeke State Park at night. The eerie glow falls off into the dark water after a few hundred yards, but staring into the black long enough you'll begin to make out the looming ghost fleet that appears to be approaching the shore.

The Concrete Fleet, also known as the Kiptopeke Breakwater, consists of several concrete ships lined end to end just west of the former Chesapeake Bay ferry terminal. The crumbling hulks consist of 9 of the 24 concrete ships contracted by the U.S. Maritime Commission during World War II. In 1948 the ships were brought to Kiptopeke Beach in order to bring protection to the terminal during severe weather. Once arranged, their bilge-cocks were opened to bring on water and they were left to settle on the bottom of the Bay. 

The ferry was closed in 1964 when the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel opened but the breakwater still protects the pier and beach while providing a home for coastal fish, shellfish, and birds. Since being scuttled in the bay the rusty bones of these ships have been exposed to half a century of weather creating an incredible show of decay. Certain sections of the wrecks offer holes large enough for a small boat to pass through where one can see the interior structure of these vessels up close.

The ships of the Concrete Fleet, all named after pioneers in the science and development of concrete, are listed below from North to South

  • S.S. Arthur Newell Talbot
  • S.S. Edwin Thatcher
  • S.S. Robert Whitman Lesely
  • S.S. Willis A. Slater 
  • S.S. Leonard Chase Wason
  • S.S. Ricard Kidder Meade
  • S.S. John Grant
  • S.S. William Foster Cowham
  • S.S. Willard A. Pollard

 

David Grohl Alley in Warren, Ohio

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David Grohl Alley

Only the second alley in the world to be named after a rock artist (after Oklahoma's Flaming Lips Alley), Ohio's David Grohl Alley celebrates the career of the acclaimed drummer with a collection of devotional fan creations including the world's largest drumsticks.

Turning the formerly filthy byway in Grohl's hometown of Warren, Ohio into a shrine dedicated to the musician was surprisingly the brainchild of a police sergeant. Warren native Joe O'Grady had seen his city begin to decline and realized the inspiration that Grohl could bring to the local youth, and with this in mind he lobbied the city council to change the name of a dingy alley and then spearheaded the clean up and renovation of the space himself. O'Grady contacted local artists to create various tributes to Grohl including statues, murals, and paintings honoring the man and his copious musical projects. 

Grohl himself attended the dedication of the alley in 2009 (proving himself once again to be one of the nicest guys in rock), which was repaved and is now a well-lit public gallery equipped with security cameras. Wishing the site to continue being an asset to the community, O'Grady commissioned the construction of the world's largest drumsticks, inspired by other "world's largest" attractions across the country. The massive drumsticks weigh 900 lbs. each, made out of a single log a piece.

Meet a Master Tarot Card Designer From Milan, Birthplace of Tarot

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Osvaldo Menegazzi's supply-laden desk. (Photo: Lakshmi Ramgopal)

Want to divine the future by looking at beautiful drawings? Pick up a tarot deck. These symbolism-heavy illustrated cards have been helping people make psychic predictions since the 15th century. But where did those cards come from before they hit your local witch store?  Perhaps from a master tarot artist who has devoted his life and livelihood to crafting occult imagery.

Osvaldo Menegazzi is one such master. A resident of Milan, Italy, the white-haired, bright-eyed septuagenarian has spent decades designing and selling tarot cards, or tarocchi, in his shop, Il Meneghello di Osvaldo Menegazzi. Decks of them form bright, teetering towers on every surface of the store, stacked alongside posters and calendars boasting tarot imagery. 

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Menegazzi's shop and studio in Milan, Italy. (Photo: © Cristina Dorsini)

As a creator of sumptuous tarot cards in Milan, Menegazzi holds a special place in the history of tarocchiMilan was a major center for tarot in Renaissance Italy. What we call tarot descended from playing cards that came to Milan and other European cities from the Islamic world in the 14th century. In the early 15th century, Milan’s reclusive Duke Filippo Maria Visconti asked the artist Michelino da Besozzo to make him a version of playing cards that included trionfi, or trumps.

These new cards eventually gave rise to the modern tarot deck. In addition to trumps, da Besozzo’s deck contained figures called princes and barons that were divided into categories called the Virtues, the Riches, the Virginities, and the Pleasures. This deck was probably more luxurious than most of the ones we would find today. Known for his fresco and stained glass work, da Besozzo was no novice. The cards he made for the duke may have been as opulent as his paintings, which sparkle with gold leaf to this day.

Other parts of Renaissance Italy also produced lavish cards around this time. Records from Ferrara describe an extraordinary deck that Bolognese painter Jacopo Sagramoro had made as a gift for Visconti’s 15-year-old daughter in 1441. According to the documents, Sagramoro had painted and even gilded the cards by hand.

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Boxes for storing tarot cards in Menegazzi's shop. (Photo: © Cristina Dorsini)

With his lavish, handmade cards, Osvaldo Menegazzi is clearly preserving the tradition of his predecessors in present-day Milan. As Menegazzi tells it, making tarot cards is no hobby. It’s a calling. He is the first in his family to be a tarot artist—his father, Aurelio Menegazzi, was a track cyclist who competed at the 1924 Olympics. A self-described “born painter,” he studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Brera. After graduating, he decided to combine his love of art and with his love for antique playing cards, the early ancestors of tarot, by founding a publishing house for out-of-print cards. But he also wanted to make his own designs. He published his first deck, inspired by seashells, in 1974.

The process, Menegazzi shares, isn’t always in his control. The images on his cards are often inspired by history, and ideas can appear without warning. Sometimes he finds himself stopping and sketching during a walk through the streets of Milan, or even while dining at a restaurant. But most of the work takes place in his shop, where he has a studio space full of paints, brushes, cardstock and discarded designs. Since Menegazzi researches every theme, some decks take up to a year to develop and print.

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Cards from the deck developed by Menegazzi in collaboration with his niece, Cristina Dorsini, in honor of Expo Milano 2015. (Photo: © Cristina Dorsini)

That means his shop boasts an endless variety of cards, making it a treasure trove for lovers of the occult in the Italian North. Some decks depict the major and minor arcana (tarot's “face card” and “number card” equivalents) in Cubist shapes. Others portray them as animals or even flowers, inspired by vintage science books. One deck reimagines traditional iconography with old maps that Menegazzi finds at Milanese flea markets. 

Menegazzi also sells the work of other Italian tarot artists in addition to his own. One of those artists is Anna Maria D’Onofrio, whose limited-edition watercolor decks are a unique example of modern Italian tarot. Menegazzi also carries Les Tarot Noirs, a deck by his Milanese friend Franco Coletti. Featuring stark black-and-white illustrations, Coletti’s cards depict the Magician as Osvaldo Menegazzi himself.

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Stacks of tarot decks by watercolorist Anna Maria D'Onofrio. (Photo: © Cristina Dorsini)

 Though he doesn’t read tarot himself—for him, it's all about the artistry—Menegazzi is immersed in the history and symbolism of the cards. And he’s no longer the only one in the family to make tarot cards: his niece Cristina Dorsini shares his passion, too. In addition to handling art direction and public relations for his shop, Dorsini studied art history at the University of Milan and aspires to follow in her uncle’s footsteps. This year, she collaborated with him on a deck celebrating the 2015 Expo in Milan by designing the Angel and Hanged Man. She’s looking forward to creating a full deck of her own in the coming years. The future of Milanese tarot is looking bright.

 


Reading Between The Lines in Limburg, Belgium

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Reading Between The Lines

From inside the Gijs Van Vaerenbergh-designed art church known as Reading Between The Lines, the natural sunlight hits the ground in a noirish checkerboard, belying the construction's almost completely insubstantial walls. However, from any other angle, the building seems like a solid little chapel. 

Basing their design on the traditionally built local chapel in Limburg, Belgium, the architectural duo created their church in 2011 in conjunction with the art museum Z33. The single-steepled house of worship is set atop a concrete foundation on which 100 layers of stacked steel forms create the semi-transparent walls. Each layer is separated from another by over 2,000 squat steel columns. The net effect of the odd metal construction is that when viewed directly from any side of the church, its walls appear to be roughly see-through. However if the viewer sees walls from a higher or lower angle, the structure is suddenly solid. All said, the welded wonder weighs over 30 tons. 

Effectively a giant optical illusion, Reading Between The Lines serves as not only a statement about the permanence of architecture but also the relative sturdiness of church institutions themselves by creating a quiet place of reflection where one is at once removed from and exposed to the outside world. 

African Renaissance Monument in Dakar, Senegal

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African Renaissance Monument

Dedicated in 2010 the massive African Renaissance Monument is a towering piece of brutal Stalinist machismo that is intended to celebrate the achievements of the African people but will likely be better remembered for the corruption and unpopular alliances that led to its construction.

The monument, which sits atop a hill surrounded by trash heaps and unfinished homes, depicts a man, woman, and child who are ostensibly meant to be African yet look glaringly like chiseled Soviet caricatures. The statue would not be quite so alarming if it were not for its sheer size, topping out at over 160 feet of bronze nationalism, a height that dwarfs the Statue of Liberty and makes it the tallest statue in Africa.   

The statue was the idea of then President of Senegal, Abdoulaye Wade. Wade was an octogenarian whose presidential service was marred by allegations of widespread corruption and nepotism, accusations that were only strengthened by the construction of the African Renaissance Monument.  

Opponents of the statue noted that the endeavor cost the Senegalese government over $27 million despite a country-wide economic crisis. In addition to the exorbitant price tag, the statue received a great deal of criticism due to the fact that it used very few African people in its creation. Despite claims to the contrary, it seems that the piece was designed by a Romanian architect and subsequently built by a North Korean construction firm. The design itself has also come under fire for its startlingly sexist overtones given the ripped male figure seemingly rescuing a damsel whose single breast has been revealed in the swoon.  

However despite the myriad protests and complaints, the African Renaissance Monument was completed in 2010. The giant landmark is expected to bring a great deal of tourist revenue to the country, however in a fiercely contested move, Wade himself claims 35% of all such revenue citing intellectual property rights. It seems like the renaissance might have a bit farther to go. 

Monastery of Saint Simon in Qasr Ad Dobarah, Egypt

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Monastery of Saint Simon

Large Christian communities are not abundant in Muslim-dominated Egypt. One of the more populous groups is the garbage scavenging Zabbaleen, who have retained their Coptic beliefs and established the largest Christian church in the Middle East at the Monastery of Saint Simon.

The Zabbaleen (meaning literally "garbage people") village at the base of the Mokattam cliffs began around 1969 when the Cairo governor decided to move all of the garbage collectors to a single settlement. The garbage collectors were largely Coptic Christians and as their numbers continued to grow over the years the need for a centralized church began to grow. In 1975, the first Christian church was built in the village but after a large fire broke out nearby, work began on a monastery that was built right into the cliffside. 

The Monastery of Saint Simon was the result of this new project. Simon the Tanner was a craftsman saint who lived during the 10th century and the cave church that was dedicated to him seems as though it might last for 10 more. Using a pre-existing cave and the slope that led into it, the current monastery seats 20,000 people around a central pulpit. Other nearby caves have also been built into separate church spaces and all of them have been linked to create a massive Christian complex in the heart of garbage city.

Since tourism through the scavenger's village is not a thriving industry, reaching the Monastery of Saint Simon is no small feat, yet as the largest Christian church within a handful of countries, hundreds of thousands of people make the pilgrimage each year.    

The Mythical Man-Eating Plants That Paved the Way for 'Little Shop of Horrors'

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 Nepanthes maximum, a carnivorous plant that eats insects (Photo: LadydragonflyCC/Flickr)

Once the idea of a giant, flesh-eating plant enters the imagination, it can be hard to dislodge. Imagine this: you’re in the jungle, and you discover a plant with surprisingly large, tentacle-like leaves. The clearing is full of a heavy, sweet smell. Maybe there’s an animal skeleton under the plant. Did the leaves move? Was that just the wind? You move closer, and the plant seems to yearn towards you….

Or this: in a grey European greenhouse, there’s a strange plant growing. No one has been able to identify it, and it’s yours to study. This could be your shot at botanical immortality; for now, no one needs to know that you’re keeping it alive with hunks of meat...

These are tales that get told over and over again–whether they’re about a “man-sucking tree” in east Africa or the Devil’s Snare in Central America, whether the strange plant is in a hothouse in England or a little shop of horrors in New York City. Like the carnivorous plants they describe, they’re very hard to kill off.

Is it comforting that no plant that eats humans has ever entered the annals of science? That even a rat is perhaps too ambitious a meal for any known carnivorous plant? It doesn’t seem to matter: people just keep inventing plants with a taste for human blood.

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J.W. Buel's blood-sucking plant (Image: Wikimedia)

Stories of man-eating plants particularly flourished in the 1880s. Generally, an intrepid European in an unfamiliar place would encounter the plant and subsequently witnesses its carnivorous habit when a local stumbled into its grasp. Often, these accounts came second-hand. In Phil Robinson’s 1881 Under the Punkah Tree, for instance, the author’s uncle finds a tree with “great waxen flowers” and “great honey drops” of fruit, with leaves that open and close like tiny hands. A local boy runs into the thicket of the tree’s leaves while chasing a deer.

“There was then one stifled, strangling scream, and except for the agitation of the leaves where they had closed upon the boy, there was not a sign of life,” Robinson writes. J.W. Buel’s Sea and Land, published in 1889, includes stories from “travelers” about a plant with a thick trunk and giant spines, which squeezes the blood out of its victims until “the dry carcass is thrown out and the horrid trap set again.”

But perhaps the most gruesome man-eating plant tale came from an apparent first-hand account. In the popular press, a scientist named Karl Leche described encountering a plant with a base like a pineapple. It had eight long leaves, fat and spiky like an agave’s, and six white tendrils that moved languorously in the air. When a woman is sent to drink from the sweet liquid pooled at the plant’s top, the tendrils grab her, the leaves close in, and a mix of plant fluid and blood seeps down the trunk.

For a time, it wasn’t clear these stories were fiction. Buel’s account of the man-eating plant follows reports of a number of real, fascinating species–a bread-fruit tree, a pitcher plant, and a tree that produces poison used to tip deadly arrows. He does express doubt that the blood-sucking plant is real, but hedges. “Hundreds of responsible travelers declare they have frequently seen it,” he writes. The Leche story was published in magazines and newspapers as fact; it wasn’t until decades later that it was busted as a wholesale fabrication.

Why were people willing to believe in something so horrendous? Even if people like Buel doubted, they had to judge whether a blood-sucking plant was more unbelievable than some of the other reports that reached them. After all, awesome octopi existed in the ocean; why couldn’t a plant that grasped its prey with vegetal tentacles exist, too?

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Darlingtonia californica, another real-life carnivorous plant  Photo: NoahElhardt/Wikimedia

The actual reality of carnivorous plants is less dramatic. Plants need nitrogen, and in places where the soil is poor, they catch small creatures to provide that nutrient. Over 600 species of plants have evolved to consume insects and other living creatures; at least five different groups independently developed these strategies.

There is something gruesome about these plants, though. Pitcher plants, for instance, use a pool of somewhat acidic liquid to slowly digest the insects they trap. But their pitchers cannot expel waste.

“As it's getting older, it gets filled with a lot of insect parts. It can't digest everything,” says Tanya Renner, a biologist at San Diego State University who studies carnivorous plants. “There are exoskeletons leftover. It's sort of like a graveyard.”

Some larger pitcher plants have been known to consume rats. But an animal of that size is a huge meal for a plant, akin to a human trying to eat a whole cow. If a rat is an almost overwhelming meal, digesting a human is impossible.

Still, what would happen if a pitcher plant was fed part of a human–a finger, perhaps?

“It would be able to digest it to a degree,” Renner says. “But it's going to be in there for a long time.” And, as with insects, there might be leftovers. “I don't know how well fingernails would get broken down,” she adds.

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Nepenthes Rajah, a very large pitcher plant (Photo: Wikimedia)

There’s a second strain of story, more clearly fictional, about plants with a taste for human flesh. In these stories, the plants have help. An introverted botanist is so captivated by the idea of having discovered a new species of plant that he secretly feeds the monster, until it turns on him and somehow succeeds in making him into a meal.

Little Shop of Horrors closely follows this template. Seymour, the shy plant store employee, treasures his blood-sucking plant, Audrey II, and feeds it ever larger portions of meat, until it grows too hungry to keep hidden. In some versions, the humans triumph by destroying the plant; in others, the play ends with a giant plant occupying the entire stage, having eaten basically every other character.

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Ugh, Audrey II (Photo: KlickingKarl/Wikimedia)

It’s probably the most terrifying musical ever written, but it’s part of a longer tradition. Perhaps the most clear precedent is a story published in France in the 19th century, in which a Venus flytrap-like plant grows large by consuming masses of raw meat. The obsessed botanist keeps the plant secret, until his wife and a friend sneak into his conservatory. The plant’s tentacles begin to drag the wife into its maw; the friend saves her by hacking at its roots; the botanist dies because he’s so upset at losing the plant.

In John Collier’s 1930s version of the story, the plant enthusiast is consumed but doesn’t die, exactly; he is reborn as an orchid bud. But, as part of the plant, he’s powerless to stop his bad-seed nephew from ultimately killing him, by pruning the flower that contains his consciousness. The end of the story is chilling: “Among fish, the dory, they say, screams when it is seized upon by man...in the vegetable world, only the mandrake could voice its agony–till now.”

Sometimes, though, the plant lover survives. In H.G. Wells’ story of a blood-sucking orchid, the shy botanist is saved by his housekeeper. In a 1905 story, “Professor Jonkin’s Cannibal Plant,” by Howard R. Garis, the steak-loving plant tries to eat the professor. But the plant is foiled by a friend, who stuns it with chloroform and pulls the professor out before he reaches the plant’s pool of digestive juices.

All of these stories have essentially the same theme: they are about awkward people who love plants too much. In the end, the protagonists' fates are determined by whether they have built strong enough relationships with the people around them to be saved–if they care more about humans than plants, they tend to survive.

International Car Forest of the Last Church in Goldfield, Nevada

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International Car Forest of the Last Church

The dream project of two Nevada artists, the International Car Forest of the Last Church looks more akin to a druidic henge of junkers than any Christian chapel.

The product of artists Chad Sorg and Mark Rippie, the Car Forest began when Sorg saw just a seed of the project. As he was driving through Goldfield, Nevada, Sorg saw a car standing on its nose in the sand. Intrigued, the artist found that it was the work of Rippie and by 2011, Sorg had moved to the city to help Rippie expand their "forest."

Today, over 40 automobiles including cars, trucks, and vans have been balanced delicately on their ends or stacked on top one of another, looking like a group of toys some giant child simply left lying around. Each of the junked cars has also been uniquely painted with designs varying from skulls to caricatures of politicians.

There is no sign explaining or naming the work, but its official name, the International Car Forest of the Last Church, was given to it by Rippie based on his religious belief that eschews organized religion. Unfortunately the two artists no longer work together after an angry falling out at a party. Even Rippie, who owned the land, is no longer there as he was sent to jail on gun charges. However the forest still stands and will likely outlast those who planted it. 

FOUND: Largest Landslide in North America Since 1980

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Tyndall glacier (Photo: NPS/Jacob W. Frank)

Back in October, 200 million tons of rock slid down a valley and onto a glacier in an isolated part of eastern Alaska. It was the largest landslide in North America since Mount St. Helens erupted in 1980, the Associated Press reports. And almost no one noticed. 

The landslide had a magnitude of 4.9, which is not too far out of the ordinary. The activity registered on sensors that Columbia University scientists had set up to detect seismic activity. They confirmed its existence with satellites, and reported their finding this December.

One potential factor in the landslide was that the glacier in this area, the Tyndall Glacier, has retreated 10 miles since the 1960, leaving the ground below exposed and weak. Climate change may have also contributed.

On Sunday in Shenzhen, China, though, there was a landslide that was much more clearly man-made. There, people had created what the AP describes as "a mountain of construction waste material and mud." It had reached 330 feet when heavy rain caused it to collapse and flood into an industrial park. 

More than 70 people are still missing, the AP says. But one lucky man was pulled out of the wreckage 60 hours after the landslide. He had broken a hand and a foot. But he survived. 

Bonus finds: Secret 500-year-old Polish gingerbread recipetiny, golden Tudor treasuresforgotten slides of 19th century telescope images

Every day, we highlight one newly lost or found object, curiosity or wonder. Discover something unusual or amazing? Tell us about it! Send your finds to sarah.laskow@atlasobscura.com.  

Short on Snow? Try Ice-Block Sledding

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Bringing a slippery surface to those snowless summer slopes. (Photo: icesled.com)

Winter break, for most of the world, usually means outdoor winter sports. But this year, with predicted temperatures of 71 degrees on Christmas Eve Day in New York City, 65 in Boston, 62 in Cincinnati, and 52 in Ann Arbor, sandwiched by general drizzle (drizzle! in late December!), winter’s not looking so wintry. In Europe, too, skating rinks in London are melting and ski resorts in the Alps have been able to open only a fraction of their slopes. Across the northern hemisphere, prospects for sledding are looking grim. 

But—there’s a potential solution, or at the very least, a passable substitute. Instead of sledding on snow, you can sled on blocks of ice, gliding smoothly down those naked, snowless slopes. It’s not exactly sledding, but it’s better than no sledding at all.

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This guy tries a surfing stance atop his ice block, with a dog leash extension handle. (Photo: Jonny Roller/flickr

Ice blocking, as it’s called, is usually a summertime activity. It has no clear origin, but the idea of sliding down grass on ice is one that many different people have stumbled upon, whether parents trying to entertain kids or teenagers trying to let off a little steam. In the 1960s and 70s, ice blocking was apparently popular among groups of high school students in California who smuggled slabs of ice to hit the slopes at night. Groundskeepers and park authorities are not particularly gung-ho about the hobby, since it can damage grass. 

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Ice blocks are usually between four and six inches thick, and rather heavy. (Photo: Jonny Roller/flickr

Jonny Roller, creator of Ice Blockers, a website providing everything you need to know about ice blocking, says that he hadn’t actually considered ice blocking in the fall or winter, though he thinks it’s a good idea. It’s nice in summer to sit on the ice and cool off a bit, he says, since in the wintertime cold hands and feet can shorten the outdoor excitement. But Roller’s town of Dublin, Ohio doesn’t look to be getting any subzero temperatures anytime soon.

Jonny’s ice block method, the result of some trial and error, involves lining a box with a trash bag, filling it with water, and letting your freezer work a day or two magic. It’s helpful to drape a rope in the water to provide a handle, and if you’re feeling fancy, you can add colorants or glitter to give your ice block a little extra pizazz. Put a towel or sweatshirt on the block to keep your bottom dry, and to steer, keep one hand dragging on the grass to counter any spinning—et voilà, you’re ice blocking!

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Rope handle, towel cushion, and game face: this kid is ready to hit the slopes. (Photo: Jonny Roller/flickr

The first year Roller and some friends took the ice blocks to their favorite snow sledding slope, they tried going off a small jump they used on inner tubes. They got a little air, but when they landed, the ice broke. Lesson: with ice blocks, no jumps. Roller says the best way to get speed on an ice block is to lie on your stomach or chest in Superman position. Friction with the grass prevents reaching speeds you might on a sled, which means ice blocking can be safer for younger kids.

Roller would love for ice blocking to become a big neighborhood activity. He’s hosted an annual event at a town park but is thinking of doubling his efforts next year to get a bigger turnout. 

Ice blocking is the original inspiration behind the Slicer, a four-season sled that incorporates blocks of ice into its design, functioning like a regular plastic sled in winter (or at least, winters with snow), and with compartments for ice in the summer (or snowless winters). The idea behind the Slicer is that if you can’t bring the sled to a slippery surface, then you bring a slippery surface to the sled. It’s ice blocking taken to the next level.

Scott Ireland, head of Slicer’s North America sales, had seen teenagers and their friends buying blocks of ice from the grocery store or making their own ice slabs at home, but he noticed some problems: the former were too small to sit on and the latter extremely heavy. In both cases, the downward, concentrated pressure tended to tear up the grass. The Slicer features an internal grid, which Ireland compares to putting wire mesh into concrete, that allows the ice to be much thinner without breaking and in addition to keeping your tush dry and cushioned.

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Sledding in sunglasses and shorts. (Photo: icesled.com)

Ireland says that they see more sales in winter than summer, but in places like California, Georgia, Florida, and Arizona, where the iced-up Slicer is often a kid’s first “sledding” experience. What’s ironic, explains Ireland, is that the better the conditions, the shorter the time frame; it needs to be above freezing for the ice to melt and become slippery rather than sticky, but the slipperier the ice, the faster it disappears.

A lot of people have never heard of ice blocking, says Ireland, so the concept behind the Slicer is not immediately obvious. Its slightly goofy nature has earned it some measure of media exposure, including a spot on David Letterman. Still, it's hard to imagine replacing snow days with the Slicer.

 


Mystery Soda Machine in Seattle, Washington

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Mystery Soda Machine

A contraption out of time, Seattle's Mystery Soda Machine dispenses cans of sugary pop for just 75 cents, and while no one knows who stocks this aging landmark, the real question is what it will spit out when the "Mystery" button is pressed.

On the corner of John Street and 10th Avenue East, in the heart of Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood lies the world's most mysterious soda vending machine. Nobody knows the true history of the rusting machine, which looks like it was spat straight out of the Seventies, but locals continue to plunk down their change and the machine never seems to run out of stock. Who first installed the outdoor machine, who stocks it, and who collects the money are all a mystery. 

The modern antique offers a comparatively limited selection of drinks with yellowed plastic buttons offering Coke, Mountain Dew, Pepsi, and Barq's, but the intriguing button marked "Mystery" generally produces none of these. According to one report, after spending five dollars in change on the mystery button, the machine produced six different brand of soda, none of which had their own button on the machine.

Given the air of the unknown that surrounds the vending relic, many locals have tried to divine the origins of the machine and its endless wellspring of name-brand soda, but so far no answers have been forthcoming, no matter how many times the "Mystery" button is pressed.

Meoto Iwa in Ise-shi, Japan

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Meoto Iwa

Located just off the shore of Futami, Japan, a pair of oceanic rock stacks have come to represent a holy union that created the spirits of the world in the Shinto faith. 

The two rocks, known as Izanagi and Izanami respectively, are together called Meoto Iwa and are connected at all times by a thick rope that tether the lovers together. The stones are seen as a representation of paired dualities, hence the outcroppings have gained nicknames such as the "lover's rocks" and the "wedded rocks." 

Physically, the stones are not remarkably large, with the larger of the two (Izanagi) standing just nine meters tall and the smaller one (Izanami) just over three meters. However the key feature of the site is the shimenawa, a thick rope made of rice straw that has been braided in a specific way that is sacred to the Shinto religion. The huge rope wraps around both rocks and is said to weigh at least a ton. The cord is continually eroded by sea water and the elements, but it replaced three times a year in a special ceremony.

Meoto Iwa is also near to a Shinto food shrine in which frogs are an important symbol, so in addition to the camling wonder of the wedded stones, visitors are also surrounded by curious looking frogs.       

The Uncertain Future of Santa’s Village, An Abandoned 1950s Christmas Park

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The former Good Witch's Bakery at Santa's Village. (All Photos: Sandi Hemmerlein)

Christmas in Southern California is a funny thing. All the usual tropes of the holiday season just don’t apply—sleigh bells don’t ring, and no one dashes through the snow or walks in a winter wonderland. Sometimes, you can barely tell it even is winter, unless you go to the mountain ski resorts (and even then, you’re not guaranteed to see any real snow).

But that hasn’t kept Southern Californians from trying to create some Christmas magic. Case in point: Santa’s Village, a storybook-style pastel-hued Christmas theme park near Lake Arrowhead that opened just six weeks before Disneyland in 1955. Shuttered in 1998 after struggling to compete with neighboring rollercoasters and high-tech attractions, the park may yet be reopened—but fans of the original holiday wonderland aren't holding their breath.

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Santa's Village opened in 1955 one week before Disneyland, and closed in 1998.  

Even though a lumber operation used much of its open space as a staging area for a few years, most of the fantastical structures—The Good Witch’s Bakery, The Chapel of the Little Shepherd, Santa’s house—managed to remain standing. Still, the living ruin tended to attract the usual suspects: vandals and thieves.

As the park stood there abandoned, nostalgia for it began to grow. One day, somebody’s Christmas wish came true: in 2014, the logging operation sold the property—Santa and all—to an independent investor, who vowed to reopen Santa's Village. There was just one catch: its new identity would be “SkyPark at Santa’s Village,” featuring ziplining and mountain bike trails and other activities that you’d never see at the North Pole. 

This could be a dream come true for many—but how much of the original merriment would be preserved at Santa’s Village? Two years later, it’s still unclear. Santa’s Village still hasn’t reopened, and its new owner, Bill Johnson, is being mysteriously tight-lipped about it. In emails sent earlier this December, SkyPark at Santa’s Village announced, “We tried folks, we really tried to get the Park open this year.” After bumping the opening date from May 2015 to Summer 2015, now they are projecting Summer 2016.

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The former bee hive. Some of the old attractions will not be able to be used when—if?—the park is restored. 

So what is it about the original Santa’s Village that people want back? A visit to the Facebook fan page for the original Santa’s Village, created and run by local designers Kevin Kidney and Jody Daily, gives a glimpse into the magic of the mid-century theme park. Because they both grew up going to Santa’s Village, Kidney says they wanted to create a forum for people to share their memories and reminisce.

In addition to sharing memories, the admins for the Facebook page also get asked a number of oddball questions—including about the theme park’s famous "Pixie Dip”—a packet of seasonings from the Mrs. Claus’ Kitchen that you could stir into sour cream to make a dip (and various other recipes). “People are crazy about it,” Kidney says, “and constantly ask us if it's still available somewhere.” (It’s not…yet.)

“The original park had such great design and a wonderful color palette,” said Kidney, who’s one half of the design team better-known as Kevin and Jody. They both worked as art directors for Disney, and they were designers for Disneyland for many years. “We've found so much inspiration from those miniature buildings, bridges, turrets, and candy canes. It had so much whimsy and charm….” he said, noting the collection of Santa’s Village memorabilia he’s amassed over the years, including View-Master 3D reels, a record album, a jigsaw puzzle, and a lot of postcards. “For years, we thought these things would be the only thing left of Santa's Village that we could ‘return’ to.”

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The park's original color palette has been praised by designers. 

Despite all the suspicion and intrigue surrounding the new SkyPark at Santa’s Village, Kidney says he’s very excited about the possibilities, noting: “I don't think any of us ever expected that even a portion of the park could be reopened.” 

To those contemplating a trip to the site to check on its progress, SkyPark has advised via email that the place is "in 'No Peeking' mode and will remain so until opening day." And they're not just saying that—pop-culture historian Charles Phoenix, who has contributed to much of the online storytelling of the park’s days of yore, was denied access when he tried to visit unannounced on December 18.

Though information on the park's reincarnation is scant, we do know that all of the original Santa's Village stores and buildings remain on the property, as do some of the rides. New safety laws, however, will not permit the use of some of the old attractions in their original ways (like the bumblebee monorail). The rest of the rides were sold off years ago. Santa's house has been restored, and Santa is promised to be at the park year-round. There will also be new characters introduced to the wonderland.

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The former bumblebee monorail. The park is slated to reopen in the Summer of 2016, as "Skypark at Santa's Village".

The longer that SkyPark at Santa’s Village keeps the details of its rejuvenation enshrouded in secrecy, the more that nostalgists are inclined to speculate. “People can only be excited about some new paint and a few piles of old rubble removed for so long before they start doubting, you know?” says Rick West, founder of the website ThemeParkAdventure.com, who has been following the Santa’s Village story closely. And he makes a bold prediction: “You're in for a huge let-down,” he says, “If it does eventually re-open, it's not going to be the theme park we all want back….I don't see any Christmas miracles saving Santa's Village at this point.”

Tomb of Jesus Christ in Shingō-mura, Japan

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Tomb of Jesus Christ

The small village of Shingo in Japan's Aomori Prefecture is known not only for its cattle ranches and yam production, but thanks to one rogue cosmoarcheologist the village is also home to the supposed Tomb of Jesus Christ. 

According to apocryphal religious writings known as the Takenouchi Documents, it was not Jesus who was crucified on that bloody Golgotha, but in fact it was his younger brother, Isukiri. After being captured by the Romans, it is said that Jesus escaped by switching places with his younger brother, taking only a lock of the Virgin Mary's hair and one of his brother's ears while he fled to Japan. After settling down in Shingo, Jesus is said to have had three children with a local woman before dying of natural causes at the age of 106. It is even believed that many of the village's current inhabitants are the descendants of that holy blood.  

It appears that the Takenouchi Documents, (found in 1936 and conveniently destroyed during World War II) were the work of cosmoarcheologist Wado Kosaka who would later gain fame by attempting to contact aliens on live television. A reproduction of the documents is on display at the nearby Jesus museum, yet the work is still thought to be a hoax. Despite how outlandish the story seems, many believers point to variations in speech, custom, and even eye color in the villagers of Shingo as evidence of Jesus' Anglo-Christian influence among the people.

The Tomb of Jesus Christ itself sits atop a hill and is an actual burial mound with a large cross sticking out of the top. Next to it, another, nearly identical mound is said to hold Isukiri's ear and the Virgin Mary's lock of hair.   

Fleeting Wonders: Octopus Plants Invade England

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A lot of non-native plants and animals at least seem like they belong–starlings and dandelions in North America, squirrels in Europe, rats around the world. But some introduced species seem truly alien.

Meet clathrus archeri, your friendly neighborhood tentacled fungus that erupts from a slimy egg and smells like rotting flesh. Originally from Australia and New Zealand, the fungus crossed the ocean with military supplies during World War I and has been popping up around Britain over the past couple of months.

C. archeri has a variety of well-earned common names, including "octopus stinkhorn," "devil's finger," and "phalloid fungus." When deposited in a suitably decaying environment, its spores turn into clusters of gelatinous eggs, each about the size of a ping pong ball. Eventually, large pink fingers burst out of the top, covered with spore-filled brown goo. The stinky gunk attracts flies, which roll around in it, whizz off, and spread the spores to other spots, beginning the cycle again.

Lately, the octo-phallo-devil-shroom has been making cameos in the New Forest of southern England. It has also been known to visit North America, Asia, and other parts of Europe. If you see one, wave with five fingers to make it feel welcome.

Every day, we track down a fleeting wonder—something amazing that's only happening right now. Have a tip for us? Tell us about it! Send your temporary miracles to cara@atlasobscura.com.

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