A diver's dream
Bandar Seri Begawa - Brunei's capital city
A scuba diver explores around Sipadan Island
Longtail boat trip in Brunei
In a corner of Malaysian Borneo, PETER MCGUIREtracks down the Bajau Laut - a seafaring people who live and die on their boats
Borneo: orangutans and rainforests jump to mind. But this ancient island, shared with relative harmony by Malaysia, Indonesia, and the tiny but vastly wealthy kingdom of Brunei, is also home to the best scuba diving in the world.
Despite being just a few miles from Sipadan, arguably the world’s best dive site, I had no intention of learning to breathe under 18m of water. I’d come to Semporna in this corner of Malaysian Borneo for a temporary respite from rainforest trekking and leeches. More importantly, I had come to track down the Bajau Laut, seafaring gypsies who are born, live and die on their boats, setting foot on land only when it is absolutely necessary.
The Semporna archipelago is dotted with clear coral seas and the simple stilt houses of the Bajau Laut stretching several miles from the coast. I decided to spend a few days on Singamata, a floating coral hotel on stilts, some distance out to sea. I would swim. I would stretch my legs. I would relax and reinvigorate.
I quickly discovered that it was incredibly quiet, with very few guests and very little to do; too much beach time quickly led to me to signing up for my basic Padi diving qualification.
I regretted it immediately. From start to finish, learning to dive amounted to a constant battle against the fear that I may panic under the water and make a stupid and possibly fatal error.
I ploughed through. On day two, after a few hours’ practice, the Bajau Laut floated towards us with a serene calm on a peaceful sea. Their houseboat was low and long with a large, covered cabin. A mother and father washed dishes while their nimble, happy children jumped into the water and swam with an ease and grace that would embarrass a fish. According to some local lore, the Bajau-laut are, increasingly, born with webbed feet. The sea is who they are.
Their boat drifted slowly, its diesel engine turned off on account of the gentle breeze that guided them closer to us. One of the children stuck their nose out of the sea, much as a seal or porpoise might, and promptly disappeared under the water again. I waited for him to emerge. I kept waiting. Eventually, I asked if we should be worried. My dive instructor smiled wryly and said nothing. On the houseboat, the boy’s mother hummed a tune and continued with her chores.
Several minutes later, the boy emerged grinning, barely seeming to catch a breath. He was at home under the water; diving without air was as natural to him as walking is to me. I resolved to toughen up, but the rest of the day was still an endurance of mask flooding, emergency ascents, and my only source of oxygen being ripped from my body.
My course ended with an unexpectedly difficult exam. I just about passed, patted myself on the back for my great achievement, and immediately resolved never to dive again.
The next day, I went in search of more Bajau Laut. As romantic as their lifestyle appears, they are the victims of major prejudice. Stateless and subject to imposed policies of forced settlement, their unique seaborne way of life is under constant threat. They flee persecution in the Philippines and many end on the shores of this impossibly idyllic paradise in Semporna.