I had read, in that vague way one does when preparing to attempt to sell a visit to an island that you have no knowledge about , that Wetar is famous for two things: malaria and crocodiles.

This does not evoke the sort of tourism slogan that gets printed on glossy brochures. “Come to Wetar! Play with the crocodiles, Stay for the fever, .” But still, it had a certain tropical charm and judging from google maps there were two quaint villages on the shoreline that we would pass right around lunch time which now made it a highlight of our proposed itinerary.

Sure enough, a few months later we found ourselves approaching Wetar island. The shoreline featured two quaint villages, which from a safe distance look wonderfully idyllic, all coconut fronds and sandy beaches. Of course, this is how all deathtraps appear when viewed from the deck of a boat.

Malaria, we decided, was not our concern since we had no intention of going ashore at night. Crocodiles, we had on good authority, can be found in mangroves, which was useful information, since mangroves are conveniently identifiable by their habit of looking exactly like mangroves and we couldn't see any from the boat.

So while the guests plopped into tenders and made their way to shore, Simon, the chef - not the mermaid molester (explained in another story), and I decided we would swim to shore from the boat as we needed the exercise and had missed the tenders.

The villagers had noticed us leaping in to the water and no doubt suitably impressed with two Australians doing their best Australian Crawl towards the beach, came down to the shore and cheered us on.

Or that's what it sounded like.

We stopped, to catch breath (turns out we really did need the exercise) and couldn't work out the hubbub ashore. I looked down and saw an anchor deep below us with a cut rope hanging off it.

Surely this is what the villagers were hoping for - two brave Australians to swim down and bring the anchor to shore for them to reunite with their boats. So down we dived, grabbed the anchor and soon worked out that the anchor was doing what it does best and we didn't have the breath to get it to the surface.

We resurfaced and more villagers had joined the small group and the yelling became louder. Clearly we were on the right track. If we could retrieve this anchor we would be like gods to these people.

Down we went again, but this time I went first and would swim hard as I could, hand the rope to Simon who would then swim it up further while I went to the surface for air and then dive back to help him.

Sadly middle age and comically small flippers meant this would never work so we abandoned the anchor and swam to shore exhausted.

Because my Indonesian vocabulary is roughly limited to “thank you,” and “where is the toilet?” I naturally assumed they were delighted to see us. Simon, who had the irritating advantage of speaking Indonesian fluently, however, explained that the villagers were not so much impressed with our arrival as astonished that we were still alive.

As it happens, the village is built next to a mangrove swamp. This swamp, was inconveniently hidden from the boat by the picturesque village on the shore but was connected to the ocean by a channel that we had missed on google maps.

The villagers cheerfully informed us that crocodiles swam up and down the shoreline during the day prowling for fish and the occasional dumb Australia as a rare treat. It turned out just the month before three children had been eaten, presumably as a kind of light hors d’oeuvre.

Now, in a sane world, you might expect the villagers to relocate the village or, at the very least, reduce the crocodile population by one or two. But no. The crocodiles, it turns out, are considered sacred. This raised the rather unsettling question of whether the children’s untimely demise was a natural tragedy or some sort of community-approved offering.

Simon, with his customary poise, reassured the villagers by explaining that we were Australian, and therefore genetically predisposed to wrestling crocodiles before breakfast. At least, that’s what I assume he said. I distinctly heard the words for “swimming” and “Australia,” and then rather lost the thread. For all I know, he may have been telling them we were professional idiots.

Handy Tip: Should you ever find yourself being pursued by a crocodile, you are advised to run in a zigzag pattern, as they apparently cannot turn quickly. This sounds like excellent advice unless you are in the water, in which case the suggested strategy is to dive down because crocodiles only attack from above. Neither option, I feel, is particularly comforting. In either case, you merely ensure that when you die, you do so exhausted.

Personally, I recommend exploring crocodile country only with someone who cannot swim or cannot run fast. It won’t save your life, but it will definitely improve your odds.