Small airports are rather more interesting than large faceless ones. There are fewer hurdles between the gates and the runway is a mere strip of gray in a field fenced by zinc roofs and swaying palms. Arrive too early and the terminal is a ghost town draped in coastal mist. A metallic din fills the air, which can be traced to grids of waterlogged grass that flank the building. Hoping perhaps for a final fling before the sun bears down on their skinny dips, Bornean frogs sing from puddles that pockmark an unmanicured lawn. They share these holes with African snails that risk a morning crush with ill-advised ventures beyond the green.
Bugs too heavy with dew for lift-off are sitting ducks in the shrubbery. Signs of flashing interest in the fauna of Sandakan's airport are met with bemusement by the security team, who also tolerate a quick survey of glossy swiftlets that have colonised the darker corners of the check-in terminal. Inedible nests of plant fibre bound by avian spit line the underside of low ceilings. The sickle-winged occupants twitter and threaten their neighbours with weak pecks, paying little heed to the stares of passing bipeds. Their guano litters the floor and demands a daily dose of strong solvents. But like their larger kin that throng the eaves of five-foot ways, these unsanctioned flyers appear to enjoy the tolerance of a town that is still learning to thrive by saving space for nature than by sacrificing it.
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