Brunei
I have one night in Brunei. It is a small country, one of the three that share the island of Borneo, and wealthy beyond reckoning thanks to the gas and oil fields that lie offshore.
All Royal Brunei flights transit here, including the ones to London and Hong Kong. Most of the flight from Melbourne is heading to the UK. The passengers are a strange mix of backpackers and older British tourists. D____ two seats along was visiting his daughter. The lady chatting near the bulkhead mostly goes on cruises [‘but never on the smaller lines’]. Her companion says he has flown this route once or twice a year for nearly 30 years. A lot of miles.
At the airport I am met by a small man with Damon Lawrence written on a sign. It is a two minute drive to the hotel. The room is large and foyer empty, though a decorated limousine sits outside waiting for a wedding party.
‘Which way is to town?’
The clerk gives directions. Outside the air is warm and humid and the wide streets are quiet and well lit.
‘Times Square’ he says.
This name sounds out of place for a country whose road signs are written in English and Arabic. The Arabic, or Jawi, is an old form of the language, revived as the country re-embraces its faith. It feels false to read what is essentially a dialect of Bahasa Melayu in the script of the Middle East. A different form of colonialism to that offered by the English language and Roman.
Times Square. I walk for a while, thinking the centre of town and its harbour should be further away than 15 minutes on foot. I stop. Look up. Times Square is massive, brightly lit. Sealed and mostly windowless. A mall.
I have one night in Brunei. It is a small country, one of the three that share the island of Borneo, and wealthy beyond reckoning thanks to the gas and oil fields that lie offshore.
All Royal Brunei flights transit here, including the ones to London and Hong Kong. Most of the flight from Melbourne is heading to the UK. The passengers are a strange mix of backpackers and older British tourists. D____ two seats along was visiting his daughter. The lady chatting near the bulkhead mostly goes on cruises [‘but never on the smaller lines’]. Her companion says he has flown this route once or twice a year for nearly 30 years. A lot of miles.
At the airport I am met by a small man with Damon Lawrence written on a sign. It is a two minute drive to the hotel. The room is large and foyer empty, though a decorated limousine sits outside waiting for a wedding party.
‘Which way is to town?’
The clerk gives directions. Outside the air is warm and humid and the wide streets are quiet and well lit.
‘Times Square’ he says.
This name sounds out of place for a country whose road signs are written in English and Arabic. The Arabic, or Jawi, is an old form of the language, revived as the country re-embraces its faith. It feels false to read what is essentially a dialect of Bahasa Melayu in the script of the Middle East. A different form of colonialism to that offered by the English language and Roman.
Times Square. I walk for a while, thinking the centre of town and its harbour should be further away than 15 minutes on foot. I stop. Look up. Times Square is massive, brightly lit. Sealed and mostly windowless. A mall.
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