It was Sheikh Ibrahim’s wise instructions that brought me back here. I did not imagine that for one single moment I’d return. Sometimes life can take an unexpected turn. It is mid-afternoon when I arrive. Wearily, I clamber inside an old taxi outside the airport. I ask the driver to make a stop at the nearest Mosque. He smiles at me through the rear view mirror. He is also a Muslim and glad of the excuse to stop and pray while working.

Praying in the mosque is a breath of fresh air. I find solace in being far from the chaos and distraction of the outside world. I turn my inner thoughts into needy supplications. With eyes closed I implore the Divine to shower His Mercy on all of humanity. I pray for Sheikh Ibrahim, my family, my friends and then for myself. I utter my final ‘amen’ as the driver coughs politely by my side. He is eager to leave and earn his daily bread.

A downpour of heavy rain beats the windscreen with a fierce insistence. ‘Welcome to the rainy season’ says the driver shaking his head. I recite the Orison of the Sea. I can almost picture myself sitting opposite Sheikh Ibrahim as he leads the recitation. At the words ‘subject us to this sea’, I ask Allah to protect me from any harm and to give me strength. ‘Tightly packed buses and cars inch along through the narrow streets. There isn’t a trishaw or bicycle in sight. When I took the Sheikh’s blessed hand that day, I knew that my life would be different.

Situated in the heart of the bustling market is the guest house. An open ended sprawl of vendors and shoppers stretch out as far as the eye can see. There is something strangely familiar about it all. I pay the driver, thank him profusely and ask that he place keep me in his prayers. Deep in thought I stroll into the guest house.

The owner, a short balding man in his fifties, takes me to my room at the top of the stairs. A small single bed dominates the wall by the door. A once beautiful credenza sits under the dusty window, and a single wardrobe stands alone between them. The room is uninviting and cold. I think of leaving but something stops me. I think of Sheikh Ibrahim spending his entire lifetime teaching us how to purify our hearts. I feel saddened by my lack of humility. I thank the owner and tell him that I’ll be back after a stroll and a bite to eat. He is pleased to hear this and accompanies me back downstairs.

From my place on the prayer mat I welcome the dawn of a new day. The sun rises in a clear, cloudless sky of blue. Lost in the beauty and silence of this magical moment, I see the world as a haven of peace, tranquility and reflection. In close harmony with nature life is unhurried, relaxed and calm.

The supremely blue scent nestles into my ardent skin. It invites my soul to never fading joy. Beauteous and sublime, it captures the perfect summer’s day. It’s as though, for just one precious moment, the world itself has called a truce with all of nature and mankind. Nothing but harmonious peace prevails. My adventures in Brunei are all here, captured inside this very scent. Each note is a nostalgic step back in time, the memory of something lost, the discovery of something new. Each note telling its own story, urging us to listen without prejudice.

It’s an almost edible, delicious elixir that blends exotic tropical islands with the sweetness of wild blueberries. A fruity wonder that transports me back to the blue lagoon where a lost memory is found. My senses are revived. All hazy colors of grey are washed aside forming a sea of sapphire through which I swim and cleanse my soul. The caption underneath this shot reads: ‘Felicity’.

Blue is wisdom, intelligence, faith and truth. Qualities attributed to the wise men who told me the name. Uncle Dan tells me that in his tradition the discovery of something this supremely blue will only bring the best of luck and give new life. And Allah knows best.

Uncle Dan knocks on the door, it is time to leave. ‘What do you think, Abdul Ghani? Are you happy with the distillation?’ ‘Happy!’ I reply. ‘Happy is an understatement. This is sheer felicity, Uncle Dan. Let’s get the shipment ready!’

‘Weren’t you scared?’ asks Uncle Dan as he pushes his plate aside. He dabs his mouth with a napkin and searches my face for an answer.

I look down at my now empty plate. His question is one that I hadn’t prepared myself for. I had a long list of icebreakers in mind; top of the list being the forthcoming rice harvest. I consulted myself carefully before answering and found that only the truth resided therein.

‘Being of service to my Sheikh overrode any fear that I may have had.’ Uncle Dan smiles and nods his head. He begins to share his own travel experiences of the Far East. ‘No one ventures through the jungles of Borneo alone. You could have fallen ill, gotten lost or been injured. What made you think you could do it alone?’ I take a sip of the ice cold water in front of me. My mind wanders back to the jungle. ‘Faith,’ I reply. ‘Faith in creation, faith in myself, faith in my Sheikh and most importantly faith in Allah.’ Uncle Dan asks no more questions. He simply calls for Rashimi to clear the table and reaches for the huge set of keys on the bureau. I feel an overwhelming and palpable sense of relief.

I follow Uncle Dan into a huge room that instinctively reminds me of Sayyad. It has me craving a cup of hot spiced chai! Uncle Dan walks the length of the room before stopping at an impressive bookcase. I cannot help thinking that he is going to test my knowledge on a random subject. He places his hand on the bookshelf and pushes hard. The bookshelf revolves quickly and quietly paving the way to a secret and well disguised room.

We stand together shoulder to shoulder in front of the closed vault. Uncle Dan handles the many keys and rotates the dials in different directions. A loud clicking sound echoes throughout the room. The door opens with a deliberate creak. We stand back.

An overwhelming calm washes over me. A sweetness of blackcurrants and tart berries fills the air. Sheikh Ibrahim reads the inscription on the bottle. He smiles as the blue waters of the lagoon carry the secret to Imam Zafran. The wind blows gently. Leaves flutter in the island breeze. The rivers wind in different directions. An echoing cacophony of sounds slowly evolves into a sacred and perfect rhythm. Imam Zafran rotates between our worlds. He raises his hands to the sky. In each hand is a blue lotus. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed. Together they walk the waters of the blue lagoon. They recite the name.

………………..‘Blue Brunei’………………..

I reach for my rucksack, unwrap the package and place the missing link in the vault. The most perfect fit! No words can express our joy. The world passes by in a split second as Uncle Dan offers me a cup of well earned chai.

We reach the distillery well after midnight. Deep breaths of cool night air fill our lungs as we clamber out the truck. I follow Rashimi along the path that leads to the wrought iron gates. A delightful breeze of cinnamon and cloves wafts over us. The air smells good enough to eat. Wind chimes tinkle softly announcing our arrival. I can hear my heartbeat like a drum.

Rashimi confirms our arrival over the intercom. The gates open slowly to the sound of barking dogs and rattling chains. I grab my prayer beads from my pocket and quicken my pace towards the building ahead.

Once inside I begin to relax. I feel quite at home here. The room has a peaceful and warm ambiance. The walls are decorated with some impressive weapons. Some made from wood and others made from steel. A young man enters the room carrying a large tray of green tea. He serves the fragrant tea promptly passing me a small porcelain cup.

The young man turns out to be another of Uncle Dan’s students. Rashimi tells me that he left his family in Okinawa to study here. When his parents died as the result of a car crash, Uncle Dan took him under his wing. He has been here ever since. I also learn that Uncle Dan will not accept money from his students. Instead they help him in the distillery and look after his affairs. Rashimi, now in his thirties, has been with Uncle Dan for over twenty years. I look forward to meeting him even more now.

Rashimi pulls over at the side of the road. He reaches for a rag on the dashboard and wipes the sweat from his face. ‘Time for rest,’ he says as he clambers out of the truck. From the back of his truck he produces a straw mat. He spreads it out on the dusty floor before returning to the truck for some food. He insists that I sit and eat. I oblige willingly and thank him. I am grateful for the invitation. I just want to reach the distillery before it gets too late.

‘Early to the tamu,’ says Rashimi with a cheeky grin as he delves inside the large bag. ‘That’s good,’ I reply. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’  Rashimi looks puzzled. Perhaps the expression is unfamiliar to him. The humidity is stifling. I take the bottle of water from my rucksack, wash my face and take a drink. I offer Rashimi the bottle but he is busy preparing our food. ‘Drink later,’ he says. ‘Early worm.’  And laughs…

Rashimi presents me with a squirm of plump, creamy-coloured, worms. He is watching my face with childlike enthusiasm. I do not want to burst his bubble. I smile, nodding and raising my eyebrows. He is still grinning from cheek to cheek. He lifts a worm, rips off the head, throws it aside and pops the juicy delicacy into his mouth. It is now or never. And so here is my cue to join in.

The stifling humidity prompts an afternoon siesta. I climb back into the truck leaving Rashimi fast asleep under the shade of a nearby tree. Trees are a blessing in disguise. I contemplate all that they provide for birds, animals and human beings. I clutch my rucksack and think of the aloes wood. I pray we will reach the distillery soon.

The insistent ringing of the telephone brings me to an abrupt state of consciousness. I was just enjoying a peaceful afternoon with Sheikh Ibrahim on the Ain Sefra River. A small crystal bottle bobs up and down at the water’s surface. There is some writing on the bottle but I cannot read it. I turn to Sheikh Ibrahim to ask if he can decipher the inscription. His lips move but I cannot hear what he’s saying. The persistent ringing has taken me far from my dream. I answer the phone with a sigh of discontentment.

I replace the receiver and perform the noon prayer. It is almost time to check out. I reach for the beautiful set of prayer beads given to me by Imam Zafran. They feel at home in my hand. I sit quietly for a few minutes letting the wood move slowly between my thumb and finger. I thank Allah Most High for all that he has given me and I get ready to leave the room.

When I reach the reception desk I find that my bill has already been paid. I question the receptionist. He shrugs his shoulders as he walks over to the ringing phone. ‘Iban man,’ he says. ‘Iban man give money and go.’

Question after question run through my head. This is from Allah. Only He knows the answers. I can only assume that Nasir has been here and that Imam Zafran has something to do with it. May Allah the Almighty reward their kindness. May Allah keep us always under His Mercy. I look around the foyer. Rashimi is waiting by the doors. It is time to go.

The Front Office Manager offers me a room on the fourteenth floor. ‘Breathtaking views’ he says reassuringly. He smiles and hands me the key. It is the kind of smile that is reserved for crazed foreigners; the kind that hang out in rainforests with the local crocs and wildlife. The concierge looks relieved to find I have no luggage. I have been travelling without luggage ever since the accident in Burma. I take the elevator to my floor. It is six o’clock in the morning. The room is a comfortable haven for the weak and tired. I order some breakfast. I can’t remember when I ate a morsel last let alone a meal. My mind is tired and weary. A lethal recipe to procrastinate. I decide to shower and pray. I cannot switch off just yet.

Breakfast is an array of culinary delights. Perhaps my shoddy appearance prompted some extra TLC. I savour each mouthful, sip my orange juice and pick up the phone. It really is time to check-in.

The phone rings forever in long overseas tones. I am about to hang up and try again when I hear a click. ‘Maryam’ I shout ‘Can you hear me?’ and thus we commence an hour long conversation. My dear family are all well. There is so much news to share. I listen patiently and talk to each of my children. I listen to their stories and updates. Zainab reads a poem. Junaid tells me that he has been studying the Far East. Maryam finally takes the phone from them. I am mentally and physically exhausted. I am barely able to give salam before I pass out on the bed.

The slopes are slippery and precarious. Traversing them is more challenging than I’d imagined. I now wonder how my father felt during his retreats on the Atlas mountains. I can hear the stream up ahead as the heavy rainfall hits the water. Exhausted from the climb I wade warily upstream in knee deep water. I am met by some fallen trees, logs and huge boulders. A monitor lizard leaps across the logs and into the stream with a splash. The lizard has spotted its prey; a large snake hunting right behind me. There are dozens of fireflies hovering around yet again. They are a welcome presence here. The rain is unrelenting and I can hear the heavy roar of thunder. I stay still and raise my hands to the sky and say, Glory is to Him Whom thunder and angels glorify due to fear of Him. There is no time to waste. I climb the boulders, tread the fallen trees and wade through a kinder stream. I can see the forest floor up ahead. The stream flows into a serious of rock pools. Almost home and dry – soon I hope!

The forest floor is home to many a moving creature. I quicken my pace constantly scanning the trees for an opening. My enthusiasm is wading considerably as another loud cry of thunder bellows in the near distance. Something crunches under my feet. I shine my torch on the floor below. A creeping cast of huge red crabs are making their way through the trees. It hadn’t occurred to me that the entrance might be concealed. I follow the scuttling carpet of crabs down on my hands and knees. They disperse immediately. Their fate lies in consecutive random splashes. We have reached yet more water. Through the rain I can just make out the noise of a waterfall. I follow my instinct and head towards the noise of flowing water. Suddenly I stop dead in my tracks. The familiar smell of sweet, fragrant fruits permeates the air. I am sitting with Imam Zafran in his humble home on the blue lagoon. I am walking the nameless streets of Burma. I am praising the Prophet Muhammad, may Allah bless him and grant him peace in a room blessed with the presence of Arifeen. I am telling my story to great men who already know who I am. By the light of Mustapha I am ready to unearth that which is deemed Secret.

I am now at a small set of falls. I tread them with great care. The stones and rocks are small and not at all secure. At every few hundred yards of water I come across a small fall. The source of the Secret is almost within my reach.

Something flies past me and grabs my attention. A huge bat indeed! I lose my balance and drop my torch. I retrieve it from the water’s murky grip only to find the batteries have set themselves free. I wonder if the Ancient Romans ever encountered such problems. I am glad my torch isn’t an emblem of enlightenment and hope. This would definitely be the journey’s end.

I am well and truly in the middle of nowhere. It would appear the last of the falls is just up ahead. Another bat flies past my head. Human echolocation would be most useful right now. In the far distance I can see a very small light. I quicken my pace almost running towards it. The water below is a mere trickle now and I am soon treading forest floor again. At last, there is light. Bats are swirling around the man made lamp as they devour mosquitoes and other flying insects. On the beaten track below are a series of bent twigs and neatly folded leaves. I have seen these signs before. I engage in some ‘goodly breathing’ and compose myself. I inhale the sweet woody fragrance. I believe I have finally reached the cave.

By his feet lie a six foot keleput (blowpipe) and a rattan bag. He sits between two rocks wrapped in an animal hide. I open my rucksack at once and hand him the package from Imam Zafran. He holds it to his chest for a moment before placing it in the rattan bag. He nods his head and reaches for my hands. We sit like this for a few moments as he closes his eyes. My hands feel painstakingly warm. I look at the Penan Headsman again, he is deep in meditation. Just as I think I can take it no more he raises his hands above mine. To my sheer delight the Secret now lies in my hands.

We travel in silence under a vast and almost dark, unsettling sky. Lofty treetops form an immense canopy of protection as we propel down the river. Nasir, my Iban companion senses a change in the weather. He holds his hand out to gage if the rain has begun. He gestures towards the long houses on the forest covered slopes. I am tempted to accept his kind offer but politely refrain. Time is of the essence.

Hundreds of fireflies hover around the boat anticipating the downpour that is about to begin. The beam of Nasir’s torch reveals a pair of bright eyes in the water. It is not the only pair present here. We scan the water from left to right as we make our way to the mangrove river bank.

The rain beats down on the canopy above. I bid farewell to Nasir. He insists that he stay with me and warns me of the dangers ahead. I give him the small package that Imam Zafran has entrusted me with. He shakes my hand and says what I believe to be a prayer. He turns and leaves.

I open my rucksack, take out my torch and secure my rucksack firmly back in place. I stand under the trees and remind myself of why I am here. As always I place my reliance with Him who has placed me here. I reflect on a saying of the Prophet Muhammad, may Allah bless him and grant him peace. He renounced the world saying that he is like a rider who stops under the shade of the tree for a short time and, after taking rest, resumes his journey again, leaving the tree behind.

I follow in his noble footsteps and leave the trees behind and embark on yet another journey. I pray the Secret will manifest itself before very long.

I stride the boardwalk by the lagoon and remind myself that everything is from Allah. I must be satisfied with the station wherein God has placed me. I reflect on Sheikh Ebrahim’s wise words on tawakul or putting all one’s trust in Allah. I walk with these thoughts until I reach the Golden Gate.

I arrive to find Imam Zafran standing by the door to the surau, welcoming all who enter. He is a man of great wisdom, honour and intellectual integrity. He is held in high esteem by all who are fortunate enough to know him. He gestures towards the auspicious straw mats that cover a large area of the room and the men sit down slowly and quietly in what appears to be seiza style. I observe their etiquettes with interest and kneel onto the mat using similar mannerisms.

A silent hush fills the room as Imam Zafran sends blessings on the Prophet Muhammad, Allah bless him and give him peace. His voice resonates off the walls and the ceiling filling every corner of the room. A plate is placed on some smouldering coals and some fragrant aloeswood is placed on the plate. The wood gives off a nostalgic fragrance that transports me to the foothills of Assam. I recall the brother in the zawiya who had swiped my wrist with the Oud that had once been in the hands of a Malaysian Prince. I cast my eyes toward Sheikh Zafran, who nods his head with the reassurance I’ve become accustomed to.

‘O Allah, perfume his noble grave with the fragrant scent of blessings and peace…’

The congregation raise their hands in unison and a chorus of ‘Amins’ permeates the air engulfing those surrounding us. I find myself walking through the colourful markets of Burma with Zainab’s necklace wrapped around my wrist. It is early morning and I walk past endless shops with my ‘lucky money’ tucked away in my back pack…

Another silent hush fills the room and Imam Zafran asks me to begin the story of my journey.