Flip flop freedom

My feet are scarred with the joys of flip flop freedom. For three weeks I have allowed my soles to breathe as they carried me from Brunei to Pulau Mabul where I sit nursing a thick grainy coffee in a rickety cafe.

'Hello Mister. Mister, mister, HELLOOOO!'

A hollowed bough glides past me on the water, slaloming through the wooden stilts which support the local village (kampung). The Captain, a boy of four, his only crew a wee bairn of a brother. I wave. Their smiles, infectious as office yawns, spread quickly to my own face.

'Sipadan. Sipadan. Captain take me to Sipadan!' I shout.

The boy shakes his smiling face. 'Mabul. Mabul is my home, not Sipadan.'

He paddles onward in paradise.

Whispers of Sipadan's underwater beauty grew as I travelled nearby Philippine islands two years ago. That holiday she remained a secret, a promise, an ambition. Yesterday she became reality;

A thousand barracuda circle above our heads, parading in a tornado of beauty. In every direction are sharks; white-tip, black-tip, leopard sharks. I invent scuba-karate as I signal each sighting to my dive buddies. Turtles in abundance, fish and reef of every variety; on any other dive they are the star, here simply a wonderful backdrop; a technicolor of dance, rhythm and emotion.

A slight headache brings me back to Mabul, back to my coffee. I purse my lips and sieve the dregs as I gulp another mouthful. Last night I sat on this very bench. Travellers, locals, guitars, 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.

Mabul is the surprise that stole my heart, quite incomparable to dirty, cramped Semporna the other popular gateway to Sipadan. The island offers both musty traveller bunks or luxury tourist chalets. Beautiful sunsets, beaches, diving beyond compare; but if you visit, spend time in the local kampung too. For within it's shanty town fabric is the very happiness of travel.

Contagious laughter drifts towards me. Boys chase a pair of balled socks across a makeshift football pitch. A kite flutters in the sky, crafted from driftwood and waste fabric. A young girl sets a tin can in the dirt and retreat 10 yards. Her friends hop on one foot, each throwing their spare flip flop in turn. Closest to the can wins.

I will be sad to replace flip flops with rigid work boots in a week's time; but when I throw my flip flops into the spare room, I shall hop on one leg and think of Mabul.