Looking for that one-way ticket to Paradise? Try the hidden away island of Mabul, a haven of peace, beauty, and friendliness just off the northerrn coast of Borneo. Unfortunately, as Dave Stamboulis finds out this month, you have to go through hell before you can get to heaven.


We are all hankering for a private Shangri-La, an untouched Eden that lives up to our fantasies. In a world of high-speed Internet, volumes of guidebooks, and an ever-growing middleclass in over-populated countries demanding more comfort and convenience for its leisure time and money, this paradise is becoming ever more elusive. Thus, it was in total amazement that I stumbled upon the village on the emerald isle of Mabul.

I am a generally discontented traveler, having traveled the ends of the earth for the past two decades, in search of fleeting moments, kind strangers, and places of stunning beauty. Travel tends to be ninety percent hardship. Strange food, lumpy beds, alien tongues, and an awful lot of time spent doing absolutely nothing; waiting for transport (usually delayed), for the rain to abate, or for the queue (to buy tickets which are no longer available) to move. Perhaps I should stay home. Yet fed up and kvetching, I still roam, looking for that one moment that makes all the jet lag and grubby washrooms worth enduring.

I was on assignment in Borneo, out to write several pieces on the third largest island in the world, and to get some photos of the famed wildlife and dense jungles. I had stood on top of Mount Kinabalu, at 4090 meters, the highest peak in Southeast Asia. I had spent a week along the banks of the mighty Kinabatangan River, where I had seen wild orangutans, gibbons, proboscis monkeys, pygmy elephants, estuarine crocodiles, a leopard cat, a plethora of snakes, and all eight species of the majestic hornbill. I suppose things had lived up to my expectations. Yet still I grumbled.

My guide to the summit of Kinabalu had left our high camp much too early, leaving us on the top of the peak at 4:30 a.m., with an hour and a half to wait for sunrise, and far too little clothing with which to stay warm. In the Kinabatangan, the wildlife was plentiful, but the truth of the matter is that the animals are being forced to the riverbank because of the dwindling jungle, virtually all replaced by plantations producing palm oil, Borneo’s top export. It is said that the orangutans used to be able to swing from one side of Borneo to the other, through primary forest, but now a good seventy-eighty percent of Sabah (Borneo is composed of the Malaysian states of Sabah and Sarawak, with Indonesian Kalimantan and the Sultanate of Brunei making up the rest of the island) is a monotonous sea of palm oil swamps.

Therefore, I was not in the highest of spirits when a maniacal minibus driver, doing 170 kilometers per hour on a winding road, deposited me in the port town of Semporna, located on Sabah’s southeastern coast. Semporna is the jumping off point for the handful of islands that dot the Celebes and Sulu seas, famed for their crystalline waters and phenomenal diving opportunities. However, my first impression of Semporna was that of a dump at the end of the world. A handful of grotty eateries and shops made up the town’s one and only main street, while a large bazaar was strung out along the seafront. I mistook the malodorous aromas emanating from the market to be that of overripe durians, but soon discovered that the source was something far more unpleasant—the entire Bay of Semporna was actually one mammoth garbage pit!

Most of Semporna is composed of stilt villages, which sit out over the bay and spew their entire contents into the living sewage below. Being just north of the equator doesn’t help matters as the perpetual heat and suffocating humidity help to maintain a fetid equilibrium.

I headed for the Dragon Inn, an attractive resort just out of town, hoping to find some relief. A young boy in a ripped T-shirt approached me, and noticing my dripping frame, bent under my large pack, commented, “my place is so hot, isn’t it?” I didn’t bother to tell him that I thought I was about the closest to Hell that I would probably ever get.

At the Dragon Inn, things looked to be improving. Comfortable rooms with rattan furniture clustered around a series of boardwalks, looking out at distant islands. A Chinese restaurant, supposedly the best in town, was gaily decorated with colored lanterns and paper dragons. The manager informed me that there would be a Chinese New Year’s banquet later that evening. The entire resort sat on stilts above the sea. Not exactly the most comforting thought in light of the recent Asian tsunami, yet I looked forward to a relaxing evening.

I checked in, made my way to my room, unpacked, and set about writing up my notes, while contemplating going for a swim, hoping to wash away the ordeals of the morning. It was then that I discovered that my bathroom adjoined my neighbor’s, and that beneath our toilet blocks were long pipes, not attached to anything on the bottom, and they emptied out right into the water beneath our rooms. As my neighbor flushed his commode, I grabbed my notes and made a hasty departure.

The islands of Sipadan, Mabul, and Kapulu sit not far off the coast of Semporna. In contrast to the effluvium that pervades the mainland, these isles are some of the most exotic gems that remain on the planet. Mostly famed for their marine life, the islands of the Tun Sakaran Marine Park are noted as being in the top three dive spots, if not the number one location in the world.

Now I am not a diver. I climb mountains, bicycle, kayak, and have spent much of my life taking part in water sports and living in close proximity to the sea. Yet for some strange reason, I have little interest in donning a wetsuit and spending hours breathing out of a tube and staring out of a foggy mask at fish that have no interest in me whatsoever. I am far more content to lie on a beach and go for the occasional snorkel whenever it gets too hot. Yet I still wanted to see the famed islands.

Sipadan was out of the question. The island was open for diving, but closed to staying overnight, due to poor environmental practices by the handful of resorts on the island, as the Malaysian government attempted to restore it to its pristine state. Additionally, Sipadan had been the site of a hostage-taking attack by the Al-Qaeda linked Abu Sayaf rebel group five years ago, and was a bit too close to the troubled southern Philippines for comfort.

Kapulu and some of the other smaller islands were quite far out, and the local dive companies were charging an arm and a leg for transport, not to mention that there weren’t really any accommodation options on the islands. That left Mabul. There was one problem though. Mabul had five resorts on it, all of which charged a minimum of $200 per night, and the fact that a dive package might be thrown in along with my stay did nothing to get my enthusiasm up. That was when I met Zaidi.

Zaidi is the local cop on Mabul, sent over from Semporna, along with forty “undercover” friends to make sure that another incident like the one that occurred on Sipadan never happens again. He told me about the biggest crime to hit Mabul in the past century, that of a camera being stolen (and later returned), during a night of heavy drinking by tourists and locals. Zaidi informed me that the guy who did it was “still asleep.”

To combat boredom and meet more foreign guests, Zaidi had set up a homestay in the small stilt village that sat on Mabul’s shore, inhabited by the Sulu, an ethnic group that originated in the Philippines, but left for more peaceful climes during the reign of Ferdinand Marcos. At 60 ringgit ($15) per night for full board, it was the only way I was ever going to get to Mabul, and so I jumped on a dive boat heading out to the islands the following morning.

My speedboat, commandeered by a driver who looked suspiciously alike the minivan operator I’d had several days before, was packed with 6 foreigners: 2 Swiss, 2 British, a Dutchman, and an American, all heading out to take a PADI dive course. The boat was crammed with scuba tanks, wetsuits, masks, fins, and my small bag containing a camera, swimsuit, and change of clothing.

It didn’t take long to arrive on Mabul, a tiny isle ringed by coral reefs and some of the most crystalline turquoise water I’d ever seen. Rick, the divemaster, pointed out a path just off the beach heading through the jungle, and told me to follow it for ten minutes to the other side of the island. The other passengers aboard the boat gave me strange looks as I disembarked, and they continued on to Sipadan.

I made my way through the jungle, emerging soon enough into a collection of ramshackle huts, far more akin to a shantytown than a resort. Dark men in shorts worked on dilapidated boats, women stood by flaming woks, and scores of children swarmed along the piers leading into each home, fishing, teasing one another, and playing with various homemade toys.

I asked a woman where the homestay was, and she pointed to a rickety set of planks leading to a small dwelling built over the sea. I gingerly made my way over the wooden slats, and was soon being greeted by Ben, a handsome young man with very white teeth and a soft voice, son of the couple managing the lodging. Ben showed me a small room with an ancient boxspring mattress, a squeaky fan, and not much else, and returned to strumming his guitar.

As there was no power working, the room was dreadfully hot, and the spartan surroundings had me thinking that perhaps I’d made a big mistake, so I dropped my belongings and made a short walk through the stilt village.

The village had a rather gritty feel to it, hot, haphazard, and strung out along the shoreline. I’d been in hundreds of similar villages throughout the world, and I expected the kids to soon harass me like flies, asking for sweets, pens, or money, and for the adults to stare as if I’d just landed from the....

....moon. Yet, none of this happened.

Instead, people smiled, not shyly either. I asked a father and son if I could take a photo. They smiled. I asked a group of kids if I could take a photo. They all grinned. Two older women doing needlepoint on a nearby porch saw us and called over to me to come take a photo of them. They laughed and teased each other, and urged me to take more than one shot. Soon, the entire village was inviting me into their homes to take pictures and talk. Not one person ever asked for anything and more than one person bid me welcome and thanked me for coming to stay with them.

After a lunch of barbecued tuna, I walked around the island, small enough to be perambulated in less than an hour. It took me three hours with all the requests for photos, invitations to drink mango shakes, and offers to join in guitar sessions that seemed to be happening every ten minutes or so.

A five-minute walk on either side of the fishing village brought me to the resorts. Beautifully crafted sea bungalows, built either on stilts over the translucent bay, or else in lush garden settings. The fanciest resorts had jetties that stretched almost a kilometer out to sea, and I wandered down one and jumped into the shimmering and serene water.

Within minutes, a giant turtle swam just in front of me, seemingly oblivious to my presence. Just several meters from the jetty, the reef dropped off, and on its edge swam the largest collection of batfish, parrotfish, stonefish, grouper, angelfish, and assortment of multi-colored marine life I’d ever seen. I became a bit worried when I saw a fin approaching from the distance, but it turned out to be a pair of dolphins flipping playfully through the waves.

I stayed on the jetty all afternoon, used the resort’s fancy beach chairs, and even went for a swim in their pool. Strangely, nobody said a word about my not being a guest there, other than a staff member pointing out his personal recommendation for the best spot on the jetty for snorkeling, and warning me that a dive boat might arrive shortly and stir up the water.

Returning to the village, I met up with Zaidi, who promised to come by with a bottle of whiskey after dinner. Ben was still strumming his guitar on the porch, and I joined him to watch the sunset. In between songs, he answered a few of my questions.

The stilt village on Mabul was established in 1982, mostly by Sulu who had been living on the island of Labuan and wanted something more quiet and closer to home. As the Sulu are not Malaysian citizens, they are not allowed to run businesses such as hotels or restaurants for tourists (my room fee went to Zaidi, a local, who gave the family a wage as staff). Thus, this restriction keeps the Sulu from becoming enterprising in regards to the tourists on Mabul, and so they stick to fishing, tending to their boats, and taking care of their families. Nice, in that they don’t get caught up in developing world tourism and its profits and greed. Bad, in that everyone was just so darn nice they deserved to make good living. Then again, that is just a western notion. The Sulu have abundant fish, a safe and cohesive community, and appear incredibly content.

Even one step farther removed than the Sulu are the Bajau Lau, a local aboriginal people, who live on the sea. They inhabit the waters between the Philippines and Borneo, and have a large presence just off of Mabul. They live on ramshackle boats, spend all their time fishing, and can be heard at night singing at the top of their lungs, having exuberant parties aboard their boats.

Ben and Zaidi informed me that the Bajau Lau have absolutely no money, land, nor even an identity card. Yet they can sail freely because everyone knows who they are and respects that. If they need money for boat-related expenses or medicine, they come in to sell fish. Otherwise, they keep to themselves. Zaidi joked with me that the Bajau Lau only come to land for two reasons. One, to sell fish, and the other, to make love, as their boats do not offer the greatest privacy. He said that he often discovers them in the bushes on his rounds!

When I asked Zaidi why nobody in the resorts bothered me since I was not staying there, he replied that everyone is treated as a guest on Mabul. The numbers of visitors is not high, and especially since the Abu Sayaf incident, the Malaysian government and tourism authority have instructed everyone on the islands to take great care of tourists.

Ben threw another set of tuna steaks on the grill, and as the pantheon of stars began to light up the night sky, I sat back and thought of how the tourists at the resorts probably never came anywhere near this side of the island. The stilt villages might seem a bit daunting, especially if one was coming face to face with poverty in the developing world for the first time. And yet here was a place where everyone had plenty to eat, all the time in the world, and big and relaxed smiles on their faces.

Zaidi offered me another glass of whiskey, and furtively asked me if I could possibly bring him any “special” magazines on my next visit to Mabul, as he had a tough time finding those here. I told him that he was the first person on the island to ask me for anything, and he laughed.

A week later, I returned to Semporna. On the boat, which was returning from Sipadan, the dive group was finishing up its course. Several of the divers asked me if I’d seen anything on Mabul. We passed a couple of Bajau Lau kids, cruising along in their tiny dugout canoe with a dirty sail, looking almost like a toy boat. The children looked up, waved, and smiled, white teeth gleaming on dark faces. I told the divers that I’d seen the most magical spot on earth.