Six places to swim with crocodiles, just before you die

Of all the possible travel experiences, one of the most under-reported is swimming with crocodiles.

But a new study by the University of Phoenix Graduate School for Crocodile Research shows that the number is far larger than previously thought.

“In the past, data was hard to get because people who go in for that kind of thing usually don’t talk about it later, as they are so often deceased,” said the school’s Acting Director, Bob Payne.

But Payne said that with new information-gathering technology the picture is changing rapidly, especially in countries like Australia, where potential encounters between people and crocs so often happen near easily monitored locations, such as those selling beer.

The study’s most revealing finding, Payne said, is that most reported cases don’t happen while the humans are in the water but after they’ve gotten out, are toweling off, and have let their guard down.

“We’ve always known that crocodiles are successful as predators in part because they are masters of disguise. Anyone who has ever been swallowed whole by what they thought was a floating log can tell you that,” Payne said. “But it wasn’t until these latest studies that we learned just how murderously effective crocodilian deception can be.”

The study chronicled six places around the world where people who swim with these baddest of beasts are at particular risk of coming out of the water to discover crocodile leather is wearing them.

Philippines

It’s almost too easy for the crocodiles of the southern Philippines, who disguise themselves as belts, shoes, wallets, and, especially, handbags, then wait alongside popular swimming holes for the Filipinos to start haggling over price, seemingly unable to learn that price doesn’t matter when all sales are final.

Malaysia

In another case of hiding in plain sight, the crocodiles of Malaysia, some growing to more than 20 feet in length, disguise themselves by lying very still in front of a museum, as if they are stuffed, sometimes even wearing sunglasses and a silly hat. Then, when a tourist bends down to have a photo taken of the tourist’s head in the mouth of a creature that, the tourist might note with only momentary pause, almost seems to be grinning, the crocodile snaps.

Ethiopia

Crocodiles have always had a bad reputation in Ethiopia’s watershed region of the Nile River, where even in ancient times, when the sharp-toothed beasts were worshiped as wrathful gods, biting the hand that feeds you was considered good business practice. For the past few decades, though, to snare victims all the crocodiles have had to do is pretend they are International Aid Workers, like everybody else does.

Australian Outback

It is not surprising that so many of the reported cases of crocodile attacks have occurred in Australia. Evolution has not yet allowed much of its population, which is largely of European stock, time to adapt to what can be this island continent’s harsh, often unforgiving environment. The crocodiles take advantage of this by lying around on Outback river banks, especially near pubs, shedding tears. Inevitably, unsuspecting Aussies will approach to see what the matter is, and that’s when the crock strikes one.

Florida Keys

Having an especially easy time blending into the surroundings of just about any Florida Keys resort, a wiley crocodile will crawl beneath a poolside umbrella, roll onto its back, displaying a white, fleshy-appearing belly resembling that of a New York businessman’s, slip off its wedding band, and order a margarita, with salt. Soon enough, its prey will come strolling by, the crocodile only wishing, its digestive system not being what it once was, that so many of them didn’t wear spiked heels.

Cuba

The cleverest of Cuba’s lizard-like los depredadores disguise themselves as 1957 Chevy convertibles, with smoke-grey crocodile-leather upholstery. The Cubans themselves are wise to the ploy, but German tourists fall for it almost every time.

Best adventure travel books for encouraging readers to stay home?

A recent survey by the travel writing website BobCarrieson.com has found there is currently far too much coddling of readers by publishers of travel books.

“Just look at what’s out there,” said Bob Payne, who is the Non-E-Book Editor for BobCarriesOn.com. “Happy Herbivore Abroad, Birnbaum’s Walt Disney World 2013, Glamping with MaryJane. If travel publishing is to survive, what you want are adventure titles that inspire people to stay home, and read,” Payne said.

“For proof of how egregious the situation is, consider that a book about a mountaineer’s adventures in Kashmir, which included death threats and a kidnapping by people who may have been Taliban, is titled Three Cups of Tea, which sounds like it ought to be shelved with Happy Herbivore,” Payne said.

Among Payne’s recommendations for classic titles that encourage readers to remain in the easy chair are:

In Trouble Again, by Redmond O’Hanlon

During a four-month journey among primitive people in farthest reaches of the South American rainforest, the author of In Trouble Again finds himself in the dire situation of having ingested an hallucinatory drug that is making the women of the most violent men on earth start to look good to him.

The Worst Journey in the World, by Apsley Cherry-Garrard

No doubt to overcome the burden of having such a wussy name, this young English gentleman joined Robert Falcon Scott’s 1911 expedition to the South Pole. It was an expedition that Scott, despite his far more heroic-sounding moniker, did not survive. What Cherry-Garrard discovered during the expedition was that Polar exploration is “the most isolated way of having a bad time which has been devised.”

The Valley of the Assassins by Freya Stark

Freya Stark was a fearless Englishwoman who usually traveled solo though many of the most dangerous parts of the Arab world, including the journey chronicled in The Valley of the Assassins, to Syria in 1927, to a “part of the country where one is less frequently murdered.”

No Picnic on Mount Kenya by Felice Benuzzi

The story of adventure in its purest form, No Picnic on Mount Kenya involves three Italians who broke out of a British prisoner of war camp in Africa in 1943, climbed Mount Kenya with home-made gear, then, not sure what to do with themselves next, broke back into the camp, where for their efforts they each received a week in solitary confinement.

Jaguars Ripped My Flesh by Tim Cahill

As this is a collection of short pieces written mostly on assignment for Outside magazine, Jaguars Ripped My Flesh doesn’t have the narrative power of most of the other titles on Bob Payne’s list of recommendations, but as Payne himself has spent nights alone in the South American rainforest, listening to the distinctive cough-like sound a Jaguar makes, the title has for him a certain “What am I doing here?” resonance.

The Fearful Void by Geoffrey Moorhouse

With the exception of occasionally coming close to dying of thirst, lice were the biggest threat on this six-month camel journey across the Sahara. Still, lice can easily convince you that you should have stayed home.

BigStock photo.

Trouble saving your seat? Let wild animals help.

It’s happened to all of us. You get up from your seat on a bus, or train, or Southwest Airlines to use the lavatory or ask somebody behind you not to cram their carry-on bag into the same space already occupied by your souvenir sombrero, and when you return another passenger is sitting where you were. Or worse, when you start back you realize you have no idea where your seat is.

That’s when wild animals can help.

The example shown here is of a leopard, spotted on a train between Marseille and Barcelona. But any wild animal will do as long as they have a tail that will allow them to hang down from overhead. That way they are plainly visible no matter how far you wander, and they make it clear to anyone who thinks of occupying your seat while you are gone that there will be consequences.

As successful as wild animals have proven as place savers, even being known to keep celebrities at bay, be aware that there are times when they do not work.  One example is if the animal is seen as symbolic of man’s inhumanity to man, such as an elephant or wild donkey during U.S. political campaigns, when you may return from looking for an in-flight magazine that doesn’t already have the cross-word puzzle filled in to find your guardian hanging from the end opposite its tail.  Or you may return to discover that a five year old you don’t recognize insists on sitting in your lap.

In those few instances, the best alternative is to hang a stalk of wild asparagus.

Take my towel. Please. The rules for going home with hotel amenities

Among the drawbacks of  carrying on your bags when you fly is that you can’t fill them with nearly as many hotel amenities as you once could. Remember when luggage was so volumnious you could walk unnoticed out of a hotel with a TV, and perhaps even a light fixture or two?

Complicating the problem is that many hotels now expect you to take certain items, items that for promotional purposes usually have the hotel logo branded on them. But since there is no uniform set of rules, it is difficult to know what branded amenities you can tuck away without being labeled a kleptomaniac or, even worse, abtuctor of mini bars.

The W Hotels in particular leave me feeling uncertain about what is expected, as I am reminded at the W Barcelona, where I could just about fill up a steamer trunk with items banded with the upscale chain’s single-letter logo — and another steamer trunk filled with items that are not.

The W notepads, post cards, book marks, key cards, Do Not Disturb signs, and napkins that came with my welcome drink are clearly mine if I want them. And surely the laundry bag and the slippers, both of flimsy, throw-away material, are meant for me to keep, and would fit nicely in a carry-on bag. But the clothes-hangers, robes, towels, telephone, iPod dock, and giant letter W fixed to the hotel’s facade, probably not.

So how do you judge if removing a hotel amenity would be theft?

It is not branded.

At the W Barcelona, that means I have to leave the throw pillows, bedspreads, curtains, flat-screen TV, desk, and sofa, all of which wouldn’t fit in my carry-on anyway. (Oddly, the bathroom items do not carry the W logo, which is a disappointment to an amenities collector who has not purchased soap or shampoo since about 1983.

It has a  card attached stating how much it costs.

At the W Barcelona, for instance, a bottle of Bacardi rum, accompanied by the mixers necessary for making a mojito martini, costs $22 Euros.

You would need a screwdriver to remove it.

That eliminates most art work, the wall mirrors, the shower head, and the bathroom vanity.

A charge for it appears on your credit card.

This has never happened to me, at a W.

 

 

When can you say you’ve been to a country?

One of the more difficult questions for a traveler to answer can be whether they have been to a country. Can they count it if they pass through on a train or visit on a cruise ship without ever disembarking? Must they go through the entry formalities, such as having their passport stamped, or at least, in the case of arriving by air, leave the security area? Do they have to have been there a certain length of time, overnight, say, or, more commonly, as long as whoever is asking the question?

Have I, for instance, been to Yap, a Micronesian island group in the far western Pacific where my plane touched down just long enough for me to stretch my legs on the tarmac while I waited to continue a flight from Guam to Palau?

I would argue that I have, though I was not there long enough even to see  examples of the one thing Yap is known for — the coin-shaped stone money, some of it as big around as truck tires, that has prevented the Yapanese from developing the concept of pocket change.

I base my claim on the interaction I had with an old Yapanese woman who sat next to me on the flight from Guam. She was not friendly at first, fearing, I suspect, that I might be offended by the overflowing baggy in which she spat the betel nut juice that was dripping blood red, vampire style,  from the corners of her mouth. But when I offered her the airsick bag from the back of my seat, her bag having gone missing, possibly as a result of use by a betel nut chewer on an earlier leg of the flight, the practice being fairly common in that part of the Pacific, she warmed considerably, and we passed the flight in pleasant conversation, despite her dribbling. And by the end of the flight I had an invitation to her daughter’s wedding, an invitation I had to decline because the airlines are so unreasonable about letting you change your mind about itineraries in mid journey.

Her daughter, who had seen much of the world, having traveled even as far afield as Hawaii, was back home in Yap now, making final preparations for the wedding. But there was a problem, the woman told me. All the daughter’s traveling had put the notion in her head that she should not have a traditional wedding. And the woman, as mothers often are in these situations, was upset about it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I told her, waving off an offer to try some of the betel nut myself.

The sticking point, it seemed, was that in a traditional wedding on Yap the bride would be topless, as the woman is in the photo accompanying this story, which also features, you may have noticed, the stone money. That the photo is an authentic depiction of traditional life on Yap can be assumed from the fact that it is a closeup of an official Yap postage stamp. The bride-to-be, however, wanted no part of tradition.

I was disappointed that I would miss the wedding, especially after, as we deplaned, the old woman pointed out her daughter to me, a lovely-looking girl waving to us from the other side of a chain-link fence at the edge of the tarmac. The experience did help define for me, however, when you can say you have visited a country.

You have been to a country when you were there long enough to come back with a story.

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