life's adventures This is the story of my wanderings through Asia

Jandals are the trusty footwear owned by many, and underrated for their common status. In many countries they are exploited, over used during the hot parts of the year, and in all kinds of terrain, by all sorts of people, never with a word of thanks.

The names they get called range from flip flops, a very blunt and uninspiring name if you ask me, to thongs, which denotes a similarity to female underwear that I personally see as insulting to the poor old jandal. New Zealanders have the inspired sense to name these unique friends of the feet a name that describes the class of clothing, a sandal, open footwear, but relating them to the original users of this fashion, the Japanese. So here we have it that the majority of Kiwis worldwide love jandals. Here is a nation of people that appreciate the common rubbery pair of everyday footwear.

My own pair, usually last a few years, only coming outside when its warm and in those times, they are seen walking everywhere with me. It happened on the Mekong that tragedy struck, as I was launching pack, bags and self into a longboat common in that area of south eats Asia, I sunk to dangerous levels of brown water, my clothes dragging and foot swallowed by sand, I was heaved into the boat with the delayed help of the boats captain, only to have lost one of my faithful friends to the watery riverbank.

As all things have a time to die, the burial for my jandal was quick and painless, and I was to find a comfy pair of replacements the following day. These so called jandals were my companions for only a short time, as they squished down to rubber wafers, the strap biting into the soles of my feet, they began to hate my feet, causing them pain in each step. What did I do to these jandals? Soon enough during a transit from Cambodia to Thailand, they decide its time to start spitting out the anchor of the strap, my toes unable to hold them together, they would rebut against any sudden move my feet took, and fling themselves from my feet, only to bring themselves closer to a grave. They were left far under a bunk in Bangkok, a mark of how well they’d served me. Those fake and cheap jandals were neither worth sorrow nor tears.

So the next pair waits, I know they’re somewhere out there, just begging to accompany my feet and me on the adventures I have in store. The beaches I’ll take them to, the hills we will climb together. Until then my feet will endure a whole new level of sadness. This evening, in hopes of coming across the perfect pair, my feet had the irrational idea that they would set off naked into Chiang Mai Sunday night Markets, and Lantern festival, trying on various inadequate posers for jandals, on offer were similar forms of cheap, fake leather, strappy sandals. No, my feet knew what they needed.

A stranger stopped in his tracks as I passed said, ‘you again, I’ve seen you all over tonight. No shoes right?’ I smiled and replied “right, no jandals”, then sadly continued on, glancing down at my dirt and scum blackened toes. After a thorough scrub all the way up to the calves, I realize just how much my dear tootsies rely on those wonderful wedges of rubber to save the skin of my soles and to repel the dust and grime from my ankles.

So here I sit, wondering when the day will come when my feet will find their match, in a solid trustworthy pair of jandals.