Far from being the realm of the dead, Paris’s catacombs play unofficial host to a thriving nightlife. From dusk to dawn, hundreds of so-called “cataphiles” take up residence and for these modern troglodytes, the underside of the capital is nothing but a gigantic playground. We paid them a visit.

Another night has fallen over the 14th arrondissement and the city is quietly dozing off. My rubber boots are hidden under my jeans. I have stuffed a backpack with a headlamp, batteries, candles, cellular phone, identity card, and some beer. “Our first attempt to drop into the quarries accidentally led us to a sewer,” François-Xavier, 26, a business executive and presently our guide, tells me. “And the first time we went in, we got lost until dawn.”

François-Xavier reaches a bridge guardrail, climbs over it and slips down a 70 feet grassy slope. I join him on the decayed tracks of La Petite Ceinture, the abandoned open-air railway that circles Paris and is now strewn with plastic bottles and paper wrappers. We enter a large tunnel. The dark envelops us entirely. Time to switch on our flashlights.

After twenty minutes of fumbling on the rails, François-Xavier holds his light to the ground, points out a narrow opening: “This is the entrance.”

****

Welcome to Paris’s true belly, the city of darkness under the city of lights.

Underneath Paris is a web of commonly-used subterranean networks: 136 miles of metro lines, more than 2,000 miles of sewers, water, and gas pipes, as well as electrical distribution facilities. More interestingly, the city also sits atop a 186-mile labyrinth of former quarries from which stone was extracted in Roman times and the Middle Ages to build the city. In the late 1700s, as the downtown cemeteries overflowed, Paris used these galleries to stack away over 6 million corpses. The bones were stored in burial chambers known as the catacombs.

Nowadays, visitors can take guided tours of the catacombs, a tiny portion of the quarries, located at Place Denfert-Rochereau, in the 14th arrondissement (see Kids’ Corner p.13). According to a decree passed in 1955, anyone sneaking into the rest of the network, which has been officially blocked up for security reasons, is liable to be fined between 50 and 100 euros.

Far from being the realm of the dead however, Paris’s quarries play host to a thriving nightlife. From dusk to dawn, hundreds of so-called “cataphiles” take up residence underground and for these modern troglodytes, the underside of the capital is nothing but a gigantic playground—with countless opportunities for adventure, exploration, and dreams.

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Under the tunnel, I slide through the opening like a lizard, crawling on my knees in a low corridor until we reach a narrow rocky gallery, with barely enough space to stand up. Guillaume B., 27, a project manager in catering, unfolds a hand-drawn map downloaded from the Internet and searches the street names engraved on wall plaques. “Every name below has its equivalent above,” he explains while François Xavier and I slosh forward, knee-deep in muddy water. Galleries crisscross every 300 feet, leading to new passageways.

When we planned our trip Guillaume B. had told me he was only a “tourist,” using the catacombs’ jargon. “Real cataphiles—those with years of experience—are few in number. They don’t appreciate occasional sightseers like us.”

We cannot see 60 feet ahead. Only sounds of our breathing and boots splashing in the water pierce the silence. My hair, face, and clothes are covered with chalk dust. It smells musty. Despite the yearlong 55° F temperature, the atmosphere feels muggy, causing us to sweat heavily. At 100-foot intervals, deep shafts with iron ladders secured to their sides lead down from the surface above and are the sources of welcome fresh breezes.

Suddenly, we hear remote laugher and run into a band of cataphiles. White lights blind us and obscure their faces. “Hi, I am Albator!” (a name taken from a 1980s Japanese cartoon), one of them says with a nod. “Cataphiles use nicknames,” Guillaume B. explains. “It’s all part of the game.”

****

Underground bystanders range from teenagers to over-equipped fifty year olds. Veteran cataphiles wander on roller skates, graffiti artists try out their painting skills on the uneven walls, while others halt for a beer in nooks, light candles, and turn music on while solving the world’s problems. “Since the quarries are safe and clean, with no rats, I have heard that some guys spend entire weekends down here in their tents,” says Guillaume B.

Cataphiles preserve “their” underground religiously. The ethical code includes not leaving litter (although the quarries are getting progressively dirtier) and never divulging entrances. “It’s out of question to exchange the inside dope with strangers,” Adrien, 25, a marketing manager at a web agency explains. “It is like the mushroom corner: you never share it.”
“If it becomes too common to visit the quarries, they will lose their appeal,” adds Nicolas M. a 36-year old automobile executive and a cataphile since the age of 18. “My charter is: you want to ensure that others will experience it in the same way as you do. The magic must go on!”

Many cataphiles, however, love to bring back anecdotes from their underground amusement park. “We were resting in a cellar when I saw a shadow slipping on the walls, with a scythe and a hooded black cap,” Baptiste recalls. “It was Death walking by.

Five minutes later, a werewolf came by! A Halloween party was being organized in the nearby Room Z. Smoke filled the place; candles had been lit; 120 costumed twenty-somethings were gathered. They made us pass though makeup stands. It was so unreal!”

“You feel like you are a kid,” Guillaume B. exclaims. “This takes you back to childhood! And then, you can tell your story to your buddies.” Dozens of websites featuring stories, videos, and pictures pop up on the net. Homepages welcome “catanautes” with a picture of a death’s-head moth against a dark background, and in chat rooms people with aliases like Lafouine, Muddy Fox, and Titan exchange tips and experiences.

The most visited quarry network lies under the 6th, 14th and 15th arrondissements, with smaller labyrinths under the 5th, 13th, 16th, 17th and 18th arrondissements. Cataphiles enter the galleries using secret passageways: drains, ventilation shafts, manholes, basements, or entrances along La Petite Ceinture. Creating entrances with a crowbar or a buzz saw and carving out cavity walls in search of a former plugged network is a favorite pastime for the most committed.

Sometimes, cataphiles meet somewhat unexpected outcomes: “I was once recommended an exit, Baptiste, 25, an engineer recalls. We emerged by chance at 11 pm inside the Denfert-Rochereau administrative offices of the metro station: it took us 45 minutes to get out. We behaved like a commando unit; it was like in a movie!”

Baptiste has gone underground over 50 times. “I am an urban explorer with a historic bent,” he declares. “Under every building, there is a piece of history,” he contends. “That is what attracts me.” Throughout the ages, the quarries have served as a refuge to Christians escaping Roman persecution, to sorcerers during the Middle Ages, and to bandits and smugglers in the 18th and 19th centuries.

During World War II, a German bunker was established below the Lycée Montaigne, a high school in the 6th arrondissement, while the French resistance set up a hideout beneath the Place Denfert-Rochereau. Although only 20 minutes apart by foot, “they never met underground!” Baptiste laughs. In the 1950s, students organized parties in a vaulted cave, the Room Z, below the Val de Grâce hospital, and a decade later an atomic bomb shelter was built under the National Engineering School for Bridges and Roads, in the 15th arrondissement. Cataphiles still explore and revitalize these legacies of Paris’s past.

In September 2004, breaking news spread like wildfire throughout Paris: while training in tunnels under the 16th arrondissement, policemen came across an underground cinema with a restaurant. Telephone service had been installed at the bar, with electricity connected to the Palais de Chaillot power lines. The police confessed that they had “no idea whatsoever” who was behind it.

Another discovery had been made two weeks earlier: inmates at La Santé, a high-security prison in the 14th arrondissement, alerted guards of unusual noises coming from under their cells at night. Investigators discovered shovels and picks in five enlarged tunnels in the prison’s underground, and they concluded it was not a jailbreak attempt.

“There used to be 300 entrances,” Nicolas M. recalls. “A lot of them were blocked in the 1980s [by the Quarries Inspection, the administrative body responsible for monitoring the underground], but the craziest of cataphiles unsolder the iron plates so the network is being opened and closed all the time.”

Cataphiles play a game of hide-and-seek with the police, a squadron of 110 policemen who make up Compagnie spécialisée d’intervention and are commonly called the “cataflics,” or catacops. With headlamps on their helmets and guns on their hips, they inspect the quarries twice a week and regularly shut down newly opened entrances. “We usually use an entrance until the police discover it,” Batiste explains. “Another great game consists of lighting up a smoke bomb to escape them: it is all part of the ambiance!”

“You have to imagine an inverted Paris. They feel this is their world,” a sergeant who prefers not to be identified by name explains. “Maps evolve over time. The latest dates back to 2005 and is passed around among cataphiles.”

In recent years, police crackdowns have become more frequent and, as a result, the cataphile population has been declining. “Relations are not as good as they were,” acknowledges the sergeant. He adds: “But we have a safety mission and some are happy to meet us for the first time!”

Indeed, the catacops often set free lost “tourists.” “We once had to rescue three people who had been trapped for 24 hours without lights, hanging onto the sides of a shaft, poking their fingers through a manhole trying to alert passersby,” the sergeant narrates, obviously appalled. Although landslides and casualties remain extremely rare, he cautions: “Some maps indicate the sky may be breakable in the 13th and 20th districts.”

****

After two hours of trudging in the dark, we cross a large, famous room called La Plage, or The Beach, a succession of large rooms with benches and tables carved in the cavity nooks. Soon we reach the remote Carrefour des Morts, or The Crossroad of the Dead, a circular chamber with a low ceiling, filled with hundreds of skulls and bones scattered on the dusty ground. We come across a fifty-year-old woman wandering alone with her dog.

After five hours, it’s time to end our adventure and turn back to the railroad. We follow the underground tunnel below rue Daguerre and labyrinthine corridors covered with colorful drawings of devils. We finally surface at 3 am—feeling relieved and exhausted, and delighted to have been under the ground and above the law…