Crocodiles and Cowboys in Melaka, The Brave New World in Shanghai

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Perhaps the only thing dumber than grabbing a large saltwater crocodile by the tail is forgetting to check if any others are lurking behind you within striking distance. It’s well known that crocs can outrun humans, and these seemingly placid reptiles can explode into action like slapped tigers, more on which later. This I discerned several minutes before entering the muddy shelter, when I hand-fed semi-deceased chickens into the jaws of the beast. Holding the birds by their bloody wings, I dangled them over the safety railing while a dozen crocs came forward to claim their lunch. The speed at which they lunged up, snapping their jaws with a bone-crushing crunch, was frightening. Even the chicken, which was already dead, let out a shriek. That’s when I asked to go inside the pit, failing to notice Dundee against the wall behind me. Fortunately, the ever-vigilant Mr. Khabir brought the potential ambush to my attention, at about the same time a croc sprung into action a few yards from my head. Never before in the history of travel writing has a man retreated so swiftly. Thus, I can tell you that a crocodile’s tail is heavy, cold, thick, and not something to be held lightly. Later, hugging a two-year old crocodile named Manga (her mouth thoughtfully tied to prevent her from snapping off my ear), I confirmed that baby anythings are cuddly, even when they’re naturally inclined to eat us. See you later alligator. In a while, crocodile.

My last week in Malaysia was a zoo. I had hitched onto a press tour in the run up to Colours of Malaysia, the country’s biggest annual arts and culture event. Over two hundred members of the foreign press were invited to see a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and also sit through several hours of lectures about how Malaysia is conquering the world of southeast Asian tourism. It was a small price to pay, because it’s not every day you get special privileges when visiting a foreign country, such as having one of its best guides at your disposal, and a driver who is a TV star. It turned out that Rama was researching a role for an upcoming series, and that is how he came to be schlepping me around Malaysia in his black Mercedes. He was often surrounded by hordes of fans, who naturally became my fans, because I must be famous too, if I’m hanging out with someone famous. Uncle Mooti (Rama’s most famous role) continued to cordially greet his fans, earning untold admiration, and also complimentary parking, dismissed traffic violations, and blushing smiles. With Mr Khabir’s unparalleled knowledge of just about everything, this aided my cause greatly. Together, we continued to mine a rich vein of Gonzo, which is how I came to be stroking crocodiles, and later, cuddling a white-faced gibbon.

Now for those of you who have read Hunter S Thompson’s classic Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, or seen the movie starring Colonel Depp, recall the scene when our stoned hero enters Circus Circus and completely loses his mind to the surreal visions on display. I didn’t need the narcotics to find my own Circus Circus at something called Cowboy Town inside the Aformosa Resort, about an hour outside of Melaka. Picture, if you will, a parade through an old western town relocated to sticky-rice Asia. Gun slinging cowboys with painted beards, followed by scantily-clad Russian belly dancers, dancing elephants, flying white doves, orangutans with elastic lips, performing dogs, illuminated antique cars, jeweled tigers, fast horses and miniature ponies, and best of all, a line dance of confused chickens. In the crowd, dozens of Saudi women draped head to toe in black, screaming kids, bemused international media. Cue bad 80’s music (Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark - are they kidding me?) and an MC grasping the English language the way one grasps water. Conclude with enormous fireworks (”Big firework into sky!”) and you can see why I desperately craved a hip flask. This evening carnival is performed at the resort every night, and was only slightly less bizarre than the local legend of a sea crab returning St Francis Xavier’s lost crucifix (but more so than the Jonker Street Karaoke Debacle).

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