Benjamen Walker's Theory of Everything - Desert Lies

Episode Date: January 22, 2020

Benjamen Walker the podcaster often receives emails meant for Benjamin Walker the actor. A few weeks ago your host received an email inviting Benjamen Walker to Saudi Arabia.

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Episodes every other week at neverpo.st and wherever you find pods. This installment is called Desert Lies. There's an actor named Benjamin Walker. And over the last decade, as his career has taken off, I've received a number of emails meant for him. Emails from directors and agents hoping to talk about potential theater and film roles. At one point, his mother was even emailing me. But today, most of the emails I get that are meant for Benjamin Walker come from his fans. Lady fans who are trying to reach out. And most of

these emails have attachments. I just wanted to say hi. I think you're a total hottie and super talented. I loved you in Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter. You're just so sexy. You're such a babe. Let's go out next time you're in New York City. A couple of weeks ago, an email from a Saudi government official showed up in my inbox. It was an invitation for Benjamin Walker to come to Jeddah for a special VIP party to celebrate the beginning of the Dakar Racing Festival. The invite promised a first-class round-trip flight on Saudi Airlines and a stay in a royal suite at the Jetta Ritz-Carlton,

and an exclusive action-packed party for celebrities and dignitaries in the desert. Ever since the journalist Jamal Khashoggi was brutally murdered and dismembered in 2018 on orders from Mohammed bin Salman, the kingdom's crown prince and de facto ruler, the Saudi government has committed vast resources to change the narrative. They've plowed money into their annual investment conference, making sure world leaders and business executives return to the kingdom in 2019. And last December, they flew in a number of supermodels, movie stars, and influencers for the MDL Beast Festival, where 70 world-renowned DJs like Steve Aoki performed on five stages to crowds of thousands. Models like Alessandra Ambrosio and actors like Armie Hammer posted pictures of themselves dancing under desert lights, decked out in abayas and keffiyeh.

The invitation to Benjamin Walker promised that the festivities in Jeddah would make the Beast Festival look like a Middle Eastern boarding school birthday party. Now, I have no idea what that means, but I was 100% certain that this email was not meant for me, but rather for Benjamin Walker, the actor. But it was addressed to B-E-N-J-A-M-E-N Walker, which is how my name is spelled. His is B-E-N-J-A-M-I-N. Which is why I felt it was within my rights to respond that, yes, I would be delighted to accept this invitation to this special, exclusive VIP event. And I also believe that this mix-up absolved me of any real ethical considerations, because while I, Benjamin Walker, would never participate in the whitewashing of cold-blooded murder, I was confident that the Saudis weren't in truth asking for my participation.

So a couple of days later, on December 31st, I boarded my flight. A direct flight from JFK to Jeddah. To be honest, I never expected to make it onto the plane, but I did. Perhaps because of the holidays, no one double-checked anything, or perhaps this is just what happens when you try to put together an elite VIP event in less than a week with very little help. As far as I could tell, my email contact, Ahmed, was doing everything himself. Two beautiful models followed me onto the plane,

and they started live streaming as they installed themselves in the seats or cabins or whatever you call those giant folding swivel beds they put you in when you fly first class on Saudi Airlines. They both had Eastern European accents. One of them was furious when she realized there was no alcohol on the plane. But it's New Year's Eve, she pouted. What do we do? They asked their fans to buy expensive champagne and have it sent to the Ritz and Jetta so they could celebrate when they arrived. Obviously, they were VIPs for the same festival I was headed to, but I had no idea who they were, nor any desire to endanger my cover story.

So I took my sleeping pill, fastened my seatbelt, pulled on my Hello Kitty face mask, and nodded off. When we landed, I was met at the gate by one of Ahmed's assistants and shepherded to a Mercedes. There was no sign of the models. What about the others on my flight, I asked. Here, every VIP gets their own Mercedes, he replied with a smile. When we arrived at the Ritz, I was taken directly to my suite on the 14th floor. To my relief, there was a minibar.

I sat down on the bed and downed a tiny bottle of Chivas Rigas. It was 10.40 a.m. local time, January 1st, 2020. I felt great. I felt ready for the new decade. I resolved to be the best Benjamin Walker I could possibly be. The Jeddah Ritz was constructed and unveiled in 2017, a few months before Mohammed bin Salman shut down the Ritz-Carlton in Riyadh and turned it into his own personal torture prison. MBS arrested over 400 high net worth individuals on vague charges of corruption. Most were willing to pay for their freedom. Rumor has it MBS extorted close to a billion dollars from this shakedown of his guests.

But in some cases, torture was necessary. Major General Ali al-Qahtani, an aide to the former governor of Riyadh, who's from a rival line of the Saudi royal family, didn't make it out. Apparently, he accidentally twisted his neck. As far as we know, MBS's Tiger Squad didn't use their signature bone saw on anyone at the Ritz in Riyadh. But then again, it's only thanks to Turkish surveillance that we even know about the bone saw that was used on Jamal Khashoggi and the Saudi embassy in Istanbul. As I downed my second mini bottle of 18-year Macallan, I decided I should take a tour of the hotel and plan out a potential escape route. But then the phone rang. It was Ahmed. After inquiring about my flight, he informed me that all of the Western guests of the event were now gathering for a special co-ed party in the spa. When I tried to beg off,

he launched into a lecture about how women are only allowed to use the spa from 5 a.m. to 7 a.m. But today, in honor of the special VIP Western guest attending the Dakar opening party extravaganza. The hotel was allowing male and female guests to mix until 1 p.m. And, Ahmed added, there is a very special female dignitary who wants to meet you. I told Ahmed that unfortunately I'd forgotten to pack my swim trunks. He laughed and instructed me to open up my closet. Hanging from a metal hook was a gold-embroidered Versace Speedo. See you soon, he said merrily, and then he hung up.

There was a commotion outside of my door. I opened it. The two Insta models were outside in the hallway, arguing with their female escort. Both of the models were wearing thongs and hoop earrings, and their escort was having none of it. Holding up two burkinis, she shouted, In order to use the spa, women must dress appropriately.

One of the models, the blonde one, took a burkini and threw it on the carpet, and then she ground her heel into it. I closed the door. Their escort pleaded, No, no, you mustn't do this. Perhaps the commotion would lead to the spa party getting canceled. But about 30 minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Ahmed. We are waiting for you, Benjamin Walker. Please come now.

I put on my suit and a robe, and I took the elevator to the spa. The first thing I noticed were the two Insta models. They were both in the hot tub, wearing burkinis, but neither seemed angry. In fact, they both looked happy, each locked into a deep conversation with a large, strapping, soddy man. I looked around. Every single man in the spa was buff. Then I noticed the couple. A man and a woman. They were both staring at me. She was wearing a burkini, but she was also decked out in fine jewelry. I took off my robe.

The woman was taken aback. She seemed angry, and she motioned for the man to go and talk to me. Hi, I'm Ahmed. Who are you? I smiled back. Hi, I'm Benjamin Walker. His smile turned. He looked me up and down. I heard you were very good looking. He walked back to the woman. She shook her head and took out her phone.

She showed him a photo. He walked back over. You are not Benjamin Walker, Hollywood actor. No, no, no. I am Benjamin Walker, New York podcaster. He snapped his fingers. Two men in uniform suddenly appeared. Please come with me.

They didn't even let me put the robe back on. I was marched through the hallways and down some stairs to a windowless room wearing nothing but my gold Versace Speedo. After we all got cozy in the private room, Ahmed let loose. I was given the responsibility of bringing Benjamin Walker, the actor, here to Jeddah, he seethed. It was our sponsor's number one request. She is now angry with me. Someone must be punished for this deception. No, no, no, I replied. I deceived no one. The invitation was addressed to me. My name is Benjamin Walker. I assume that... Achmed held up his hand, interrupting me. Silence. You are not Abraham Lincoln, vampire hunter. Why would we invite you to Jeddah to dance in the desert

with the fast cars and roaring motorbikes? I assumed you were a fan of my podcast, I answered. I've been invited to places all over the world. Siberia, Tunis. He let out a sigh and folded his hands underneath his chin. Do tell me why you assumed we would be interested in having Benjamin Walker the podcaster come here. I didn't know what to say, so I just made a noise. Everyone stared at me like I was crazy. What are you doing? Ahmed asked. I replied, yes, yes. What is that noise? Is that the sound of a bone saw? Ahmed's eyes bulged. The two men at the door looked at each other in horror. No, no, I smiled.

That is not a bone saw. That is the sound of freedom. The following day, I was taken out to the desert to record the sound of the motorbikes and the fast cars. It all began with a phone call at 7 a.m. Your driver is waiting for you in the lobby, Achmed said tersely. Bring your podcast recording equipment and a bottle of water. He hung up before I could ask for any more details. My driver turned out to be a team of five rugged, tough-looking men.

No one said anything as we drove out into the desert. I didn't panic until the car rolled to a stop and I was instructed to get out. We were in the middle of nowhere. But what is this? I asked. This is the shakedown, one of the other men replied. This made everyone laugh and then they drove away. And that's when the bikes roared over the dunes. It turns out that shakedown is simply what the racers in the Takkar Rally call practice

time. Achmed had dumped me in the middle of one of these shakedown staging fields. These are some of the bike sounds that I captured. Totally sounds like a bone saw, right? Over the past year, the kingdom has brought numerous boxing and athletic competitions to Saudi Arabia. But according to Javier, this photographer I met from Brazil, getting the Dakar rally, well, this was Saudi Arabia's ultimate sports-washing coup. Hundreds of sports journalists who were initially unhappy with the idea of the rally leaving South America where it's been held since 2008 were provided with free first-class tickets to Saudi Arabia. Javier was able to get in on the boondoggle even though he's not even a sports photographer. He does weddings. I met Javier on the dunes, and it certainly made me feel a

little better, knowing I wasn't the only fake journalist out there. The Dakar rally began in 1977, when a Frenchman named Thierry Sabine got lost while riding his motorcycle in the Libyan desert. The stark, arid landscape inspired him, and the following year, he gathered over 200 racers to join him on a course that stretched from France to Dakar. Scores of racers, including Thierry Sabine, have died over the past 40 years during rallies, and dozens of spectators, residents, and journalists

have also been struck along the course. The Dakar rally will serve Saudi Arabia the same way the Tour de France serves France. But according to Javier, this blood-soaked history is the real reason MBS spared no expense in order to bring the race to the kingdom. And if no one dies, he continued, many government officials are worried that MBS will throw a tantrum and torture or kill some of the organizers. Perhaps this is why Achmed sent me out to record the shakedown. I have to say, it was quite harrowing standing on a sand dune holding out my microphone as motorbikes and ATVs roared past me. After a bit, Javier invited me to check out the press camp. Most of the racers, their crews, and the journalists were bivouacking in the desert, in temporary housing.

It was impressive. The Saudis had hired an international architecture firm known for building some of the most elaborate living quarters at Burning Man to design and build the encampments. Nobody was impressed when I told them that I was staying at the Ritz. In fact, Elena, a videographer I met from Chile, told me she felt sorry for me. You are missing all the action. Elena was covering the female drivers who were competing in the race. And when I asked her if I could accompany her to meet some of them, she initially said yes. But on the way over to their camp, I asked her if any of these women had ethical concerns about racing in a country where women activists languish in jail

for simply promoting the right to drive. Are you some kind of moron, she said. And with that, she walked away, making it clear that she wanted nothing more to do with me. Then my cell phone rang. It was Ahmed. I have news of a very special shakedown, one that will be perfect for your podcast.

Formula One world champion Fernando Alonso is competing in the rally, and he'll be testing out some of his vehicles with some of his team in a half hour. But how will I find them? Ah, don't worry, Ahmed left. We are tracking your phone. Ever since you joined the Ritz-Dakar WhatsApp group. So I will instruct someone from Alonzo's team to find you. Just walk away from the base camp, towards the sun. Difficulty. Big crash.

I never made it to the special shakedown. Looks like the back is broken. There was an accident. That's bad news. Bad news. Just as I walked out of the base camp, a Ford Raptor 4x4 barreled past me and somersaulted onto its back. It was a very close call, a few meters to the left, and I would have been flattened.

As I stood there, shaking, a group of journalists ran onto the scene. At first, everyone was very excited about me. You might be the only person who has footage of the crash, someone shouted. But then they all realized my shotgun microphone was not attached to a camera. I think he's a podcaster, someone shouted, horrified. Medics pulled the racer from his car. He was still alive. Later, I found out his name, Martin Kolmy, a racer from the Czech Republic. They laid him out on a stretcher.

Then, a drone showed up, hovering above the accident. I'm pretty sure that's MBS, one of the journalists said, pointing up at the sky. Under his breath, he added, the bloody bastard. He noticed my recorder was still on. Jesus, man, you can't use any of this, okay? Are you frightened of MBS? I asked. The drone dropped from the sky for a close-up view of the wrecked 4x4. No, no, he replied. I'm pretty sure MBS would write me a check if he found out I called him a bloody bastard. Then what's the problem, I asked. I don't want to get cancelled, dude. What do you mean, I asked. During the MDL Beast Festival last month, SJW trolls got a bunch of Instagram influencers and models canceled. By replying to all of their posts with emojis of bones

and that clown from the movie Saw, some of these models had to turn their profiles private. A bunch of them even lost clients. My primary client is the Special Olympics, and they would drop me in a heartbeat if some self-righteous hater started doing that to me. So if you please, I'd like to stay here on the down low. And with that, he rushed away to get some close-ups of Martin's body

as they loaded it onto the helicopter to take him to the hospital. I never found the special shakedown, but to be honest, I didn't look that hard. I spent the rest of the day wandering around the dunes, recording the sounds of the sand and the sun and the acrid smells of burning fuel. When I finally got back to my room, I climbed into my bed and instantly fell into a deep, fitful sleep. Excuse me, Mr. Walker, but there's an emergency, and you will need to pack your things immediately.

Please be in front of the elevators on your floor in 30 minutes. You're going to be evacuated. That's what Ahmed said to me when I answered the phone in my room at 5.32 a.m. This time, I had no funny noise to offer. The only sound that came out of my mouth was a sad and deflated gasp. Ahmed was calm. He was enjoying this. There's been an international incident, Mr. Walker, and to play it safe, we are evacuating a few of our extra special VIP guests.

I opened up my phone and went to Twitter. Everyone was commenting on Donald Trump's most recent post of an American flag. Did Trump just start a war? I wailed. No, no, Ahmed replied. As I said, there's just been some international drama, and we're merely taking precautions. A U.S. military helicopter will be chaperoning you to our airport, where your flight will depart. And don't worry, you will still have these same luxurious accommodations. So please, get your things together. There's no time to waste. For the next ten minutes, I tried to get a sense of what was going on. I learned that the Iranian general, Qasem Soleimani, had just been droned outside of the airport in Baghdad.

And I learned that Trump's flag tweet made it official. The U.S. was claiming responsibility for this assassination. As I stuffed my clothes into my carry-on, I weighed my options. Perhaps it was a bad idea to fly right now. Perhaps I should stay put. But then, what if war breaks out? What if bombs start flying? I could end up trapped here for the rest of my life, which probably wouldn't be a very

long-lasting life unless I had some kind of protection. Certainly not Achmed, maybe his friend. Perhaps she would accept that I was her responsibility, and she'd bring me to her guarded compound. And then perhaps we would discover that there never was a mix-up, but rather something meant to be. Perhaps ten years from now, we will joke about our first meeting and how disappointed she was that I was not Benjamin Walker, the Hollywood actor,

and how over time she came to love me for who I am, Benjamin Walker, Jdah Podcaster. Perhaps this adventure will end up as the foundational myth for my new family, my new clan. I zip up my suitcase and splash some water on my face, and then I exit my room. Outside of my door, one of the men who had driven me to the shakedown is waiting for me. He doesn't say anything. He just nods. We walk to the elevators. He enters a special code that takes us to the roof, and then he says goodbye and good luck. The only other people on the roof are the two models. They're both wearing their Ritz-Carlton bathrobes. The blonde has stuffed her pockets with bottles from the minibar.

Why didn't I think of that? Perhaps Ahmed is just using this international incident as a way to rid himself of the troublemakers. Then the helicopter arrives. Two American soldiers jump out onto the roof. At first, I feel like I've been transported to the set of a terrible Vietnam movie remake. But then, as the two models start whooping and yelling, I realize, no, this is a Hollywood adaptation of a fire

festival doc. One of the soldiers struts up to the models. You must be Kiki and Genesis. Can I see your passports, please? The blonde throws her arms around him and starts shouting. The other model pulls out two passports from her Ritz-Carlton bathrobe. Neither is American. The second soldier walks up to me. For some reason, he's holding a framed photograph of Donald Trump. I hand him my U.S. passport. You are Benjamin Walker, the podcaster, right? I never pretended I was the actor. I start to explain. Dude, he interrupts. We don't care about that.

It's just that we listened to your podcast on the way over. It fucking sucked. The only thing that wasn't boring was the treason part. Nope, the other soldier shouts as he ushers the models onto the helicopter. That part was boring too. You know, our first idea was to just drop you into the desert and say it was an accident. That's really what we need to start doing with you, fake news enemies of the people. But don't worry, he says, patting me on the shoulder.

We came up with a better idea. And with that, he hoists up the framed photograph of Donald Trump. I want you to get on your knees, and I want you to show your president the respect he deserves. He's your commander-in-chief, the leader of the free world, the other soldier adds to the order. Then the models start chanting again. You is I. You is I. You is I. The blonde takes her burkini off and sets it on fire with her lighter. What do you want me to do? I ask.

I want you to give the president a big, wet, sloppy kiss. I want him to feel how much you love him all the way here from Saudi Arabia. Both of the soldiers are now towering over me. As the burkini goes up in flames, they force me to my knees. The models start taking selfies from the doorway of the helicopter. The flashes from the phones irradiate Donald Trump's face, but the light from the doorway of the helicopter. The flashes from the phones irradiate Donald Trump's face, but the light from the burkini fire does something to the glare. It's unclear what I'm seeing.

Some demonic corporeality? Or my own reflection? reflection. You have been listening to Benjamin Walker's Theory of Everything. This installment is called Desert Lies. This episode was written and produced by me, Benjamin Walker, and Andrew Calloway. The Theory of Everything is a proud founding member of Radiotopia, home to some of the world's best podcasts. You can find them all at radiotopia.fm.