Monitor lizards are native to SE Asia. These carnivorous predators are related to the famous Komodo Dragon. Varanid lizards are cooperative hunters like raptors in JURASSIC PARK. Many urban Thais regard the sighting of a hia or monitor lizard as the harbinger of bad luck, despite of the legend about their warning humans of crocodiles. Down south on the Isthmus of Ka country folks keep the miniature monsters as domestic pets. Crocodiles still wander the remaining mangrove swamps.
According to the Bangkok Post monitor lizards cluster in the city’s secluded water pipes. Up to 200 of the 2-meter long beasts reside in each city district.
”They keep increasing in numbers because these reptiles have few natural enemies, and their food is always plentiful,” a Thai reptile expert said, “Water monitors eat almost anything; fish, eggs, and even rotten meat.”
The ants in my house never eat potato chips.
Monitor lizards will eat junk food, but they really like eggs.
In 1991 I stopped at Malaysia’s Tioman Island. Lonely Planet referred to the South China Sea island as a tropical gem. Jungles blanketed the hills. The sea was an invisible sheet of clear gin. The beach sand gleamed white in the midday sun. The beer was cold and the bungalows cheap. Backpackers overstayed their visits on this paradise. One was a Swedish girl. The 23 year-old was blonde. We slept together four nights in a row.
“This means nothing.” Velda was telling the truth. It was only sex. She was a backpacker. Nothing meant anything to devotees of the sun other than the next highlight on their world tour. Our affair lasted four days and nights.
“I want to sleep alone.” The slim Swede announced after an afternoon. She was exhausted. I didn’t argue. My thirst for beer was greater than one bottle. Velda didn’t even kiss me good-bye. I expected she would leave on the morning ferry. I doubted we would see each other again. She was heading south to Singapore. My next destination was Koh Phi Phi in Thailand. I entered the bar for the bungalows.
“Beer for all my friends.”
I love the movie BARFLY for that line alone.
Before the beers arrive for the three German backpackers, a scream screeched through the trees. The Swedish girl ran into the bar. Her long blonde hair a Medusa snarl. Her voice hit a soprano high on every word.
“There’s a lizard in the bathroom.”
The Malays laughed about a lizard. The island was crawling with lizards and snakes. Insects too. My mother was scared of insects. If one got into the house, she would cry, “There’s a monster in the bathroom.”
I figured that Velda was just as hysterical as my mother and grabbed a broom.
“I’ll get rid of the lizard.”
“He more bigger than Gecko.” The terror had stripped away her high school English.
“I’ll take care of it. Show me.” I was familiar with the path to her bungalow. The A-frame stood in a palm grove perched next to a tidal inlet. Mangrove trees sank their roots into the brackish swamp water. A good breeding place for lizards. The sun was setting to the buzz of mosquitoes and the 40-watt light bulb over her open door fluttered like a firefly on its last legs. The Swedish stood on the porch.
“Be careful.”
“My middle name.”
The next was fool-hardy.
I peered inside the room. The bathroom door was shut. No noise. The gecko had probably escaped through the ceiling. I tiptoed to the bathroom, broom in one hand. I yanked on the bathroom door expecting to find only a toilet. I was wrong. A monitor lizard bared slimy teeth with a hiss. It was almost my size. The broom dropped to the floor, as I slammed the door shut.
“That is a big lizard. You want to sleep at my place?”
“You have lizards?”
“Small ones.”
“I sleep with you.”
Velda stayed another week. I thanked the Lizard God for those extra days and nights. Sex was good. I had seen Jim Morrison with the Doors at the Boston Tea Party in 1968. I didn’t tell the Swedish girl. Velda didn’t realize that I was in my late-30s. She was only 20. Skin smooth as river-polished stone. After her departure south, I spotted the monitor lizard lazing in the sun. I bought a dozen eggs and fed them one by one.
It was the least I could do for a cousin of Jim Morrison.
Anything else would have been bad luck.
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