(vi) Repurposed water villages

That first tickle of sunshine on a Winter's skin.

It just teases happiness to the surface.


*****

Kampung Ayer. 'Water Village' cast in the river ways of Brunei bay. Actually 28 villages. The wooden Venice. A shantytown on stilts.

The very fabric of Kampung is repurposed. Each wooden panel speaks of different intention. A life changed. Adapted. Cycled anew. Shabby, not chic; yet beautiful, rising from a sewage bed of fair stagnant water.

The perfect place for ticky-it.
You're it.
Try to catch me.
You will see,
planks that bend and walkways
lead to watery ends.
A hasty foot
brings 10 foot drop.
See me, see me now,
but catch me not shalt thou.

I play hide and seek. I lose myself aplenty.

A wooden stilted Mosque, a school even a fire station. Satellite dishes abound, each juxtaposed less appropriately than the last. Every village holds identities that both define and integrate. Except one. A Sultan's gift. A government project. Kampung Boliak smacks of 1973. Council regeneration. Each property identical. Designed. Intended. Soulless. As I turned square corners of terraced sameness, my only surprise was to find no pebble dash.

*****
Just had a can of Yeo's Grass Jelly drink.

The lawn freshness was quite appealing.

The jellied globules less so.

*****

Turns out the fire station doesn't count. Part built on stilts, part on land.

Can't risk the water fairies getting wet now can we...

*****

(v) Aerobics Brunesians and proboscis monkeys

In every city exists a path. A road above. A road beyond. This city's path is steep and littered with aerobic Brunesians. Two elderly gents pass wearing towels in tribute to Rocky. My mind fights with images of a Miyagi / Stallone hybrid. Perhaps a comeback is on the cards.

The morning light makes photography compelling. Probosci monkeying around above me. Camera lens moist with humidity. Wiped, I try again. Moist once more. Oh well, the image blur adds authenticity.

Sanded path and crisp red leaves scatter and cackle underfoot. Dense humid forestry hums with fragrance reminiscent of inner city cannabis farms. The whistle and howl, chant and call of insects surrounds me. Sounds unknown yet hardly anonymous. I focus and fade from each in turn, recognising both it's beauty and irritant as individual call. Harmony in union.

A new call from the city. One of worship, one of prayer. It links seamlessly with nature's song. I think of nowhere better to find peace.

(iv) purple buses and food markets

I land in Brunei with relief I'm not the girls in the row behind. 16 hours done, hour's respite before boarding for Melbourne. Ouch. Headed home. 2 months travelling round Europe, met on flight back. Love travel.

I asked Halifax for small notes. I hold 2 x 100 Brunei dollar notes (~£50 ea). Thanks Halifax. Need to break a note. Where to become unpopular? Kiosk, ice coffee. $1 please...hmmm I'll take a hundred...

First test. Walk past Tourist taxi's, western style buses, hollers and posturing. Local bus. It's purple. Awesome. 'Where do you go?' 'Wherever you want. $1.'

Comfortable, local, cheap, helpful. Purple. We could learn from Asian transport. A previous trip involved 'transport top trumps' over evening meals. Listing 30 variants of TukTuk, cyclo, rickshaw we had used. Fun game. Fun travel.

Free tour of Bandar Seri Begawan (BSB). Locals dropped on doorsteps. Nothing too much trouble. No hurry. Concerns slip from my shoulders and fall by the side of the road. 

Hotel for 2 nights. Practical necessity. Only one hostel in BSB and no way to book. So tired I wanted a secure bed. Pleasant enough, small pool. Hint of abandoned 1970 luxury. Beautiful view of AC units. It's midday. Check emails. No message from home. phew. Just rest my eyes then see the city.

*****

The city is beautiful and abandoned at night. Alcohol free state. No drunken westerners pollute the evening. 24 hour coffee shops. Locals meet and eat. Small food market on city outskirts. The sights, the sounds, the smells. The scrawny cat and kitten litter skulk around the bins. Waft of raw sewage. Then, garlic, lemongrass, chilli, ginger. Fresh fish stacked on ice. Snapper of all colours, crab, mussels. Heaven.

First stall. Western price. Need a day's sun to cover apparent greenness. No thanks. Mr, mr, local price, local price. Would have to lose a digit to get close. Third stall works. Beautiful fresh fish, necessary decent English to prevent nut allergy disaster - not on day one. Small snapper. Local variant on seaweed, white rice. garlic, lemongrass, chilli, ginger. Beautiful. Only Western face in the market. Left to it, best start planning my trip...

(iii) Terminal airports

The airport terminal is just that in the early hours. Little interest. No distraction. I settle in a worn leather chair and write my fortnightly task. Numbers this time; the number 14. Unusual for a writer's group. The thoughts have been ruminating for a few days. The piece writes itself. Will have to post it on my normal blog.* May pass it to the group to chew over in my absence. Sentimental. My work usually is. 

I realise the real number this time is 42. 42 days between writer's meets. It seems a long time. Almost as long as I've been waiting for this flight. Best get an expresso...

*****

My head rolls with desperate sleep. Tired now, very tired. The motion of the plane promotes lethargy. Catharsis. Rewind the film again. Missed a bit. Some light entertainment about a writer. Hopeless romantic. Hopeless. That reminds me, few words to add to a poem. ***head roll***. Missed a bit. Rewind.

*****

Plane food. Plain food. Strangely rewarding. Like a hot picnic, lots to arrange and open. I wear most of it, consequence of eating with elbows held firm to the rib cage. Procession of thimble drinks. Some hot, some cold. As always a carton of water. The rip-open lid requires just enough force that it washes away the crumbs on my clothes. Clean again.

A snack. Salted nuts. Excellent. The cabin will recycle peanut stench for the next 8 hours. Good job I'm not allergic. Now, on with the poem. ***head rolls***

*****

*Link to 'Fourteen'. My offering for the forthcoming Leeds Savage writing meet. These meetings are held in the Packhorse Inn, Leeds on Wednesday nights from 7.15. Meetings are held every fortnight - (or every 14 days for relevance to this offering)

http://scribbledriveller.blogspot.com/2013/01/fourteen.html

Please feel free to read and offer feedback on my other works as 'scribbledrivel'. 
Feedback always necessary and welcome!

(ii) Whitesnake...

iPod shuffle...

Songs trip by as I slip into sleep and back, head rocking with numerous gear changes. Jack Johnson, Razorlight, Whitesnake.

There's always a song. Funeral, Wedding, Car trip, Holiday. Always a song, but not normally this soon...

'I don't know where I'm going...but I sure know where I've been'

I've travelled plenty. So fortunate. Every year I escape. From what? I always return. Why? No firm plans. Sipadan though, at some point. See where the wind takes me. No point planning when...

'Here I go again on my own'

It does seem strange. It used to excite me. Freedom. From what? I'm still here - no space in the junk room to leave me behind. I'm out of the boots, but not quite into the flip flops yet.

'Like a drifter I was born to walk alone'

Is anyone? Pack animal. My team proves that, we used to hunt together. Stronger that way. Will take that mentality with me when the wind blows. Not this mindset. This one can be forgotten. My memories will be of the pack.

'And I've made up my mind, I ain't wasting no more time'

A twitter quote struck home this week. 'Don't spend a lifetime plotting  yearly escapes. Spend your holidays planning a life you seek no escape from.' I paraphrase. We all do. The sentiment remains.

'Here I go again on my own'

(i) Flip flop freedom

Such relief to discard work boots for a few weeks of flip flop freedom. One, rigid and restrained. Practical. Necessary. Occasionally smart. The other carefree, well travelled, allowing air to the bones and breathing space to the sole.

The boots left in the junk room where flip flops hibernate through winter months. Poor boots, they deserve a holiday too.

The trip starts in fine fettle. A few beers with good friends before boarding the coach. Sleep beers to heavy the eyelids. Surprisingly nice coach for England. Seats to myself to wrap my oversized frame into. Crash pad booked for a night or two in Brunei. No other plans, see what the weeks throw at me. Reading's a must, and writing too. Must write.

I settle in my seat and turn a few pages. Angela's Ashes. A first novel - autobiographical. They all are. Busy week at work. Glad to be away. Love my team, but can't help feel I've overstayed my welcome. Time for fields new, a fresh start. I turn the same page three times. I feel a westerly wind blowing on my return. A challenge, a renewal. Page 5 still. I rest my book and wait for the cogs to slow down. Hope Grandad's ok. It's been a tough week for the folks too. Hate that aspect of going away. Part of me hopes everything has changed on my return. But not Grandad. No change there please. Brain overload. Borrowed iPod time. No idea what music's on it. Shuffle will do...