(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.