(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.'

(xv) jungle wildlife

The Rain Forest. It's aptly named.

I see little wildlife as I head towards Uncle Tan's campsite. Lone passenger on motor boat, torrential rain pounding into my face. I arrive at camp feeling like the new Castaway in an ill-thought Mancunian version of the show. Only wetter.

Accommodation comprises wooden open fronted huts, no doors, 3 double mattresses separated by mosquito nets. I am unsure where the hat is to throw my keys into. Irrelevant, as tonight my only nighttime companion is a rat. Indigenous creature - tick.

Night walking tour.
I don wellies and join other tourists for a jungle walk. Feet squelch in ponded mud. The air hangs heavy with humidity. Torchlight my only guide.

A kingfisher perches on thin branch, 5 feet from the mud. Camouflaged by beauty, no predator could stoop to kill such rainbow delight. Blind by night, her only defence her frail perch; alerting the kingfisher if predator creeps close. Perhaps blinded by her own daytime reflection, stationed always at water's edge, staring dutifully at her own resplendence.

I tear my eyes from kingfisher techicolour, and readjust to murky khaki of jungle delight. A turtle swims by, spiders linger on rocks, deadly caterpillars lurk on tree trunk, beady frog's eyes shine out from moist leaves.

Night Boat
Crocodile eyes glow with orange menace in reedy recesses. Brighter than cat's eyes, but too transfixing for road application. Hallucinogenic, hypnotising - each driver would be drawn towards central reservation. Towards death.

Monitor lizard lazes in evening light, hugging tree branch close; river viewpoint. Limbs relaxed into body, snakelike, latent power. Hybrid of land and water; all the skill but little venom of close relatives.

Early Morning Boat
'MORNING. GOOD MORNING.' Teo, our guide, holds less subtlety that countryside cockerel welcoming imminent sunrise.

I wake, resident of a new water village. Stilted houses keep risen river levels at bay. Wooden walkways perch above campsite lake. As I head for coffee, a turtle swims past my raised path.

The reward for early rise is Kinabatangan's river glistening beneath misted vista. Tree lines fading in the distance like accomplished oil painting. Soft morning light glittering with the mystique of nature. Sapling trees overtaken by river's rapacious waistline, banks widening by the hour. The thin strip of indigenous forest shrinks still further, squeezed by both expanded water and irrepressible palm oil plantation.

Macaque monkeys squabble over breakfast provisions. Later they fight for tree branches, barney over playmates and scrap for dominance. A fun, lively life. The shriek and howl a constant presence through daylight hours. If I were a monkey I would love to be...

The Proboscis Monkey. Rounded belly from tasty but poisonous leaf, Emperor's nose, steady manner. Relaxed, calm, pensive. If I were a monkey I would probably be...

Last night's monitor lizard, still prostate on nighttime perch, slinks into waters beneath as we approach.

Fishing Trip

3 Western Tourists. Ampong our guide. Dilla his 13 year old nephew. School break, beautiful smile and replete demeanour - so pleased to be allowed to holiday with the grown-ups.

Worms scavenged from bankside, hooks baited and lines cast into murky river.

And wwwaaaaiiiittt.

Still waiting.

Still waiting

Line pulls.
Excitement.
Slllooowwllly reel in.

Flirtation.
A little more.

Teasing.
A little more.

I caught.
I caught....
Yeah, I caught Dave's line.

Strictly that's a 13 stone catch.
He wins. He caught 15.

Maybe I'll have a beer.

We count our haul.
One.
We count again.
It doesn't take long.

I feel the scornful gaze and graceful ease of eagle above. The Fish Eagle, white bellied, surveys the waters. Waiting it's moment. I'm certain he feeds better than I.
I still had a lovely day. Dilla's aptitude with the reel ensured a good barbecue too.

I stayed 3 nights and four days. Many night tours, and morning rises. The only certainty the endless cycle of weather. I learned eventually to need only 2 sets of clothes. A wet set. A dry one. Just don't confuse them. Nothing dries in the rainforest, least of all the bar.