(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.'

(xix) a book with a passport

I began the trip reading a book from a charity shop in Yeadon, England. Angela's Ashes, beautiful depiction of a difficult childhood in Ireland. I then bought 'Land below the wind' which tells of Sandakan, Borneo before the war, through the eyes of an intrepid American resident and her English husband.

Both books consume the reader directly in locality. The sights, smells, laughter and pungent air jumping from the page to embrace the audience.

As I type on my IPad, the irony of what I say is not lost. On trips I always seek to trade books, enjoying the roulette of inheriting another traveller's choice. Except, no one is willing to exchange 'Angela's Ashes' for their kindle / tablet / e-reader. And honestly, I do not wish to trade either.

The book swaps available in hostels were populated solely by German language books. No bookstores exist to buy new.

My joy on finding a dog-eared copy of 'The girl with the Dragon Tattoo' was tangible. The book has been well loved, passing through hands of many languages, and lands of many people. The cover is missing - I like to think she enjoyed one trip so much she stayed behind. A smile came to my lips as I remember seeking the Lembeh Sea Dragon in Mabul's waters.

I finally found my dragon.

*****

Books have history. Scribbled notes important to a reader, highlighted text that hits the heart. Perhaps the name of a hostel, or contact details for a new acquaintance.

My fear is that in ten years, buying actual books will become a collector's niche such as record collecting is today. A chore of love; enjoyed by the few who value authenticity over convenience.

'Angela's Ashes' now has her own passport. A note from the reader. I record where she joined my trip and the point she departed. I document the book I trade her in for. I hope someone of similar sentiment will continue adding location stamps as she travels the world. I note the blog details alongside...who knows, one day I may get a message to tell me where she travels.

(xii) Heritage trail, massages and ***the twitch***

I wake with aching calves. Climbing down Kinabalu is having an effect. I'm walking like I've experimented.

Today I shall mooch. The occasional meander, and certainly a wander, but mainly mooching. I take on the Heritage Trail walk, the 'stairs with 100 steps' is just cruel. Calves on fire, right thigh spasming like an affectation. Massage needed.

I settle in an English tea-room with croquet lawn at the stair top. Tea and scones. I begin to write my next 'Savage' piece. The title is 'inconvenience'. The idea flows, and the words, but the structure isn't right. Concept captured. I'll let it brew awhile and try again. Such a place of beauty I am sat in, the piece has to be colonial. I purchase 'Land below the wind' as inspiration.

*****
I saw a gecko today. She made me smile. They always do.

*****
Just been tag-teamed in a massage parlour. Spit roasted, abused from both ends. An hour of horrendous ecstasy. Chinese candle wax treatment to clear the passages. Leg massage so I can walk in a less special manner.

The grip, the pain in my calves. Never, ever felt anything like it. And then.

You know THAT moment...
Lying there, modesty covered by a towel, deep tissue thigh massage from attractive lady...

...and you get 'the twitch.'

Mind scramble to the Russian female shot-put team, Giant Haystacks, famous England left midfielders. Anything, anything to stop the...

***Twitch***

The more you try not to think about it...

***Twitch***

Long division. Plant pots. Beige.

***Towel lift twitch***

Well thankfully that didn't happen.

(x) A conversation with vertigo

2.15am alarm call. I'm a late riser, others already moving. Shower in icy mountain water. Invigorates, empowers, enlivens. Clearly not every part of me agrees.

Kitted in fetching red / purple reversible balaclava (perfect for the friendly bank robber) and stripy red and white gardening gloves. A head torch to guide the way. 2.8 km to scramble and 1000 metres to climb before sunrise. Welcome breakfast of porridge and eggy bread. Avoided the urge to dip.

Conversation limited as endless steps appear. Sweat from exertion hangs wet inside raincoat, cold against the skin. Mist condensates outside.

Steps are gone, now sheer rock faces me. Steep shards descend toward darkness. I hope I never see where they end.

*****

Hello vertigo, meet altitude sickness. Please, have a party in my head...

'Look down'
'Why'
'Just look down, you'll see'
'What, what will I see'
'Nothing'

'What do you mean, 'nothing?''
'Just...nothing'

'Why are you lying on the rock?'
'It's comfortable.'
'Comfortable rock?!? You looked down didn't you?'
'Maybe...'
'Yes! What did you see?!'
'Nothing. Just nothing.'
'Look again, look again!!'
'FUCK OFF Vertigo'
***hugs rock***

*****

The landscape opens to moonscape. Layered rock climbs toward destination. Harsh wind blows in the darkness. My legs gather momentum, using each group ahead to fuel my rise. I pause. Behind, headlights progress through the night. Left, right, left, right. Martian Miners parading silently for the bewitching hour.

The final rock-face. A steep but simple scramble. Every few feet altitude steals my breath. I collapse above, nestled in against fierce west wind. The cold forming a blanket around me, wrapping it's way into my skin digit by digit.

*****

First light brings clouded sky. Sun visible through shadow.
What a shadow.

Shepherd's warning lights the candy-floss sea. Cloud sedimented in altitudinal layers; some chased across the horizon, others static as the rock itself. Peaks of granite resolute against the weather, peeking out to enjoy the view. Can't blame them.

My mind full of images cameras cannot capture, I descend. Curious to see the route already trodden. Stark beauty in nature's first light.

(viii) It's all about big and deep

I don't want to sound shallow, but it's all about big and deep for me. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the foreplay; the titivating view from above, tantalising shapes and depths to be explored for the first time.

The anticipation, the expectation, framed with a little performance anxiety. It has been a while, more through opportunity than choice. I just hope I remember how the equipment works - would hate to let the others down.

Nothing beats that feeling when you jump straight in and get wet for the first time. I take a moment to familiarise myself before diving a little deeper. Keeping my breathing steady to ensure longevity.

I memorise every image to toy with and savour later. A feeling builds as I sink deeper and deeper. I know my buddy feels it too, it's clear in the way her body relaxes, waves of pleasure overtaking us.

I'm nearing my limit. I try to focus on anything else, control my breathing, relax myself.

I never feel complete unless...

...unless

My vision blurs, but through the murky depths I see the smile I've been waiting for. The beautiful, natural grin that makes my day perfect. I inhale deeply with uncontrolled fulfilment.

No dive is complete without a shark sighting.

(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...