(xx) winds of change.

A Westerly wind blows to take me home. 5 airports, 4 planes, one taxi, one coach and a bus. Reality sinking in with each transfer. Island life left behind. Friendships reduced to social networks and fading memories.

The happiness of children playing in Mabul's shantytown plays in my mind. Young girls set a tin can on the floor and retreat 10 yards. They each throw a flip flop. Closest to the can wins. Young boys craft boats from polystyrene, footballs from rolled socks, kites from driftwood and waste fabric. Who needs more when you have imagination, friendship and sunshine.

The flip flops have grown comfortable. White patches scar their imprint on my feet. Soon, thick socks and heavy workboots will hide them. Flip flops discarded to the junk room.

But maybe not. For on my return the room shall become my writing space. My place to dream, to hope, to imagine. A land where driftwood flies high and flip flops are key to every game.

*****

The trip began with Whitesnake echoing in my ears. Each line holding meaning, resonance. As I board the plane, a different line plays in my heart;

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

I've been to Brunei, to Borneo, to Sipadan. Most importantly I've been to places of friendships, dreams and happiness. Once home, the Westerly wind must continue to blow. Change at work. Change in my social life. In every aspect, writing has a part to play.

Many people on this trip have traded successful yet unfulfilled existences at home for simpler lives of sunshine, enjoyment, and community. The essence of travelling is meeting others. I have met more likeminded Yorkshire folk on this trip than I ever would during a wet February back in Leeds.

My favourite evening was spent in the local shanty town, far away from tourist luxury. Rickety benches and tables. Travellers, locals, guitar, rum. A chef cooking for the selfless reward of pleasing others. Singing songs we thought we knew the words to. Loudly. Learning local songs. Badly.

Ex-pats and Malays readily sharing meals, drinks, stories. Trading hopes, dreams, ideas.

I met an English couple who married in Rome then drove to Asia. I was jealous. I am jealous. Mongolia sounds fun.

A Yorkshire lawyer with the guts to leave her successful law career to work in fields that motivate and enthuse her. A recognition that happiness is all that matters.

A Belgian architect who came to Sipadan for a fun dive in July. He stayed for August. In September, he went home and studied to be a Dive Master. He now dives Sipadan 12 times a week. I like his office.

A message from a friend back home reminds me life is often tragically short. My thoughts are with her. My thoughts are also with my Grandad who has spent the last month in hospital. He's 88; that's a damn fine innings and I hope he has loved every minute of those years.

I return to a sentiment I wrote on my way out here;

'Don't spend a lifetime plotting yearly escapes. Spend your holidays planning a life you seek no escape from.'

(vii) Brunei reflections

My thoughts on leaving Brunei. A Sultan state, alcohol free. Death penalty for drug importation. Iced coffees drunk in cafes in the early hours. Gentle patter of conversation. Unsurprisingly a lack of Aussie, Brit and Irish travellers drinking their body weight of chilled cappuccino.

Brunesians are the friendliest people. Warm greetings offered on the street. Not once did I feel uncertain or concerned. The greatest reflection is driving. Fuel is, unsurprisingly, cheap. But Brunei suffers little of the showmanship of Dubai. Some expensive cars purr the streets, but drivers are courteous, mooching gently to destination and genteelly giving way to others. Many a car stopped and offered spare seats to those awaiting buses. Uncertain if they were acquainted to their new passengers.

Brunei's alcohol and drug laws may seem draconian, but their streets lack beggars, their stores go without shop lifters and their streets are places of contentment.

Time to board the boat to Kota Kinabalu. Hope there're some Aussies to have a beer with.

(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...

(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...