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The Tiger Club

My dulled machete hacked its way through the seemingly endless undergrowth. Soaking with the perspiration of jungle fever, I lunged into a clearing. What I next saw amazed me.

In the embers of daylight stood a large edifice constructed from the very jungle itself; upraised on stout poles, awaiting the inevitable tropic rains. Neon!? How could there be neon 100 kilometers from the nearest outpost? To my further astonishment, I saw a Bentley and Mercedes parked alongside native jalopies; even a type of rickshaw! The neon read: “The Tiger Club”.

Gathering myself somewhat, I hoisted myself up the causeway, encountering a large imposing gentleman in a turban, an ornate scimitar thrust in his purple sash. Perhaps taking pity, he silently escorted me through the pounded brass doors and over to a captain’s station. Disheveled and disoriented as I was, I there presented my letters of credit to the captain, who then ushered me into a large and unexpectedly opulent room.

Was that Lord Percy Bridwell of the foreign service, cozying up to the film actress, Carla DuVet? Also dotted about tables and booths: international jet-setters, a Nobel laureate anthropologist, star athletes, various unmistakable underworld unsavories. How would they know to come here? Or rather, how did they GET here? I felt a tug at my sleeve.

A boy was beckoning me into a wing of the building with a bundle under his arm. I arrived at a dressing room and immediately indulged in a much needed bath and shave. Hanging nearby was a linen suit near enough my size and gauze shoes that fit amazing well. Now presentable, I re-entered the club, the captain coaxing me to a table overlooking the dance floor. A tall beverage of deep aqua-blue appeared in front of me, served with a wink by a coquette in an alluring native sarong. Suddenly a gong rang out. The velvet curtains parted, and the show began.