It has been 4 years and 20 countries so far. From diamond sands to gorilla jungles, savanah plains to mountain glaciers, from antarctic penguins to arctic reindeer, from orderly Japan to chaotic Africa, from arid Australia to Bold Bavaria. What next?

Purple laces at PwC
Hamiriku strawberries
Happy hanami

Kawi safari
Istanbull prayers
Not sunny Australia

Zimbabwes lost art
Sky high, giant Sossusvlei
Jungle family

Motorrad mountains
Aurora borealis
Bold Bavaria

A Cat!?

A glimpse of our true selves

A glimpse of our true selves

The sunlight shines through the mist and leaves

streams of light sparkle and glint across my beaded visor.

The road bends gently, undulating in three dimensions

designed for ultimate riding pleasure.


The mist clears over the river Saar,

a mysterious, reflective surface is revealed.

In waiting for the clouds to lift,

we wait to catch a glimpse of our true selves.


The clouds have lifted, the tourists descended,

A muddy brown river remains.

Passing from one heavenly cloud bank through a torturous, winding path

To another heavenly cloud bank.

A glimpse of our true selves.

A poem from Bua Geow

I’m sitting on the balcony of a restaurant in Chiang Khong, under a full moon, listening to Thai songs sang softly with acoustic guitar and harmonica. I look out across the ripling Mekhong river to Laos, and feel the cooling evening breeze. I feel at peace tonight, and truly appreciate this scene and setting.

It may have something to do with the monk and the drunk whose ride I paid for today when we were stranded. Maybe it has to do with the certainty that has been revealed regarding my future. Further still, I think it is due to my reading of Bua Grows diary, and thankfully, being reminded again to appreciate the little things in life.

A review will be published soon, but in the mean-time, here is a beautiful poem from the heart of a “bright-eyed innocent slip of a country girl… debased, enslaved”* and freed by her own courage.


Oh! The joy that you feel

Is to me as a tune

As a toy to a child

As a song to the moon.

Whilst the grief that you meet

Is to me as a pain

I would fain bear for you,

though I die of that grief.

So then live to the full,

While your youth is yet pure:

In the year of your death

You may pray and forgive.

But not now is the time

To sleep in the spring

Or to bow to the Gods

Or to kneel – but to sing.

But to sing to the sky

And to shout O’er the sea

And to bring to the world

The thrill that we feel to will and to be.

Author: Bua Geow


* In the word of John C Shaw, author and translator of “The diary of Bua Geow, Girl of Chiang Mai”

Enjoying the feel of things

I’m enjoying the feel of things at the moment. I’m not sure if its extra sensitiveness in my hands, or particular focus on the here and now. Maybe its the awareness of an impending departure. I’m not sure, I’m just enjoying the feel of things at the moment.

Enjoying the feel of things

The rough yet soft touch of freshly washed, low-thread count cotton sheets pulled tight every morning
The tiny, rapid percussion of air on my ear drums as the rain beats the roof
The goose-bump inducing caress of a fan propelled breeze over my belly

The contrast between the worn-out smoothness and the grain in the hewn boat boards on my bare feet
The unexpected splash of fine sea spray from the bow on my face and hands,
The heaviness of dew droplets clinging to my eyebrows and eyelashes, the sea trying to close my eyes

The soothing, swaying displacement of fluid in my ears and brain from the swing of the hammock
The inconsistent, gentle buffeting of the storm breeze, tugging at clothes as if demanding attention
The warm play of light through clouds and trees on insistent, relaxed, thankful, closed eyelids

The thick, creamyness of the air in my nostrils in the afternoon
The aroma of impending rain, the fresh bite of cleanliness shortly after and eventually the breathy sigh of the land as it accepts the water into its body

The smooth and deep feel of freshly washed, high-thread count cotton sheets pulled loose at night
The trusting heaviness of a head on my chest
The tickle of tussled hair in my nose