Oh, for the love of colour

living, loving, photography, travel


My last blog post was Freshly Pressed – something I’m exceedingly happy about and grateful for.


Through comments and the like, it brought to my attention several interesting things;

1. People love colour.

2. People like my photos.


This led me to think;

3. I should probably post more photos, in rainbow form!


Here’s a swath of colour, a voluptuous rainbow – a selection of sweet delight from South American trundling.


as always, peace and enjoy.




la la la, colour la la.











Sublime Designs

living, loving, photography, travel


In the world and around.


Bread cafe, Bogota, Colombia.

Salento, Colombia

Bogota, Colombia.

Roof, in Chile. A Literary and Arts centre

Cartagena, Colombia

Cosy little cottage in Salento, Colombia

Designed to be beautiful; Potosi, Bolivia


The Universality of being Human

living, loving, noteworthy, photography, travel



Stumbling over photos I’ve taken in the last few years, the following two speak volumes when placed next to each other.

People told me I’d be robbed in the highlands of Southeast Asia, and kidnapped by the crooks crawling all over South America.

I don’t undermine concerns about safety – luck, commonsense and confidence must all come to the table when in unknown places.

But the widespread ignorance (and that’s not written with malice) held of the people in foreign lands seems, for the most part, entirely shaped by inexcusable one-line prejudices that blanket and smother all the richness of diverse peoples. I’m looking at you, sensational news products punctuated by hour-long pieces perverting all reason.

People told me all Colombians were drug dealers.
That in Vietnam, they kidnap the tourists for trafficking.
They said the French were all rude and presumptuous.
And most Chileans rob people to feed the gang wars.

There’s a chasm existing – help stifle its growth by thinking of Others as humans, with heart.



Simple splendour – ladies in Saigon



Refined and admirable – ladies in Bolivia




with peace





Lima´s limitless laughs

living, loving, photography, rhymes and rhythm, travel

Crazed hoards flock to cabins where horoscopes hold hope – home to kin of a people superstitously stocked. And see sugar, oh, the sugar.

Powdered ice, sauces smother, in hands of heavy women wanting takeaway wantons. Near the Big Red of Chinatown, buy Chaufa at Chifas then later feel cheated and crack up at jacked up costs – for you´re just a gringo.

But nightfall is different.

It´s lively, there´s laughter from little young chicos. They´re lining the streets wanting sweets (getting bought them) whilst locals are lining their pockets (and then some). There´s a definite instance of spoilt young children in Lima; where money´s made, parents will spend. And it flies in your face – sharp relief to the grief on the street in the cities more steeped in misfortune. Yet these children are spritely; they speak with you nightly and nought can null confidence innately possessed. Two young sisters approached in the Plaza, persistent the older had perfect white skin ¨just like mine¨. The distinction she drew between her and her sister was strange yet expected – here White is Divine.

If you walk around early you miss the absurdly late markets meandering all down the path – with plastic pigs barking, bird whistles for larking – while mascots for merchandise stores make you laugh. There are grown men in clown suits, getting beeped by the horn toots of limitless taxis who tax up your time. Very happy to charge but their knowledge ain´t large of the streets that comprise their own city and trade. Then your patience it quakes as they jump on the brakes and their head starts to shake, blaming ¨traffic today¨.

Yet for hassles surrounding, you founded your love on the trials and value of travel, compounded. Cloud clears from all sky, for tranquility´s eye keeps a close watch on what is obscured (but is nigh).

And you know that back home you´ll be missing the grown men in clown suits; instead, only clowns in their day suits. And the holes in the pavement you frequently trip on; replaced with monotonous concrete in-line. And the thrill of the street food that might give you gastro; you´ll find only over-priced Maccas and Fries. Yes, you can start complaining of danger and lamely avoid going out after dark around 9. And you might start to hate all the hours you spend here in transit on buses to get to That Place. And you might even tell me you´re tired of paying much more for things based on your skin and your race.

But I love all those travels – they´re part of the journey, and of much greater interest to me than your woes. Give me time, maps and courage for adventures to flourish and an acid-free notebook to record how it goes.



Hazy, lazy Lima

Hazy, lazy Lima

Pondering Peruvian culture

living, loving, noteworthy, travel

There are several things I´ve had the pleasure of experiencing in the last few days, and of the myriad there are several I´d rather have gone without. Still, every shit sandwich seems to instigate some sort of welcome side effect – at least that´s what I tell myself to appease the ¨arghhhhh!¿!!¨in the situation.


I´ve been travelling for 11 weeks now, and have loved the differing flavours and tastes of Chile, Argentina, Bolivia and Peru (aside from recurring bouts of food poisoning). What is my favourite? you ask. I have a love for the fruit markets in Sucre, and the gathered warmth of travellers in Wasi Masi hostel – a perfect place to nestle and learn Spanish for a few weeks. The laid back edginess of Argentina skips hand in hand with its rosy red wines – find a garden, eat some meat, relax. Stay up late. And Chile kindled the initial fire for South America – the streets of Valparaiso an artistic labyrinth of anarchic expression. Now here, in Lima, I´ve developed an addiction to all things ¨Menú¨ – the ingenious inexpensive option at almost every eatery, offering up to 3 courses and a drink for a measly few dollars (get your soup on GIRRL).


I´ve seen a fair bit of Lima that most other travellers should hope to never encounter. Hour-long queues in government buildings and wandering around business sectors looking for a Scotiabank to pay inexplicable fees (sometimes a frustrating 8 Sol) for administrative costs, preludes navigating your way back to the initial 17 storey building to offer your receipt in order to proceed with procedures and procedural procurings. Passport matters are an easy day processing (love you @AustralianEmbassy) whereas re-entry stamps into Peru  include this tedious search for the correct queue, filling out forms, trying to race before the 1pm closure of its Federal window operators.


In these moments I can´t help but feel the strain of this stolen passport debacle (thank you, anonymous Peruvian) but take solace in the same stories repeated from previous travellers to the Cuzco area, who experienced this too. Oh, Machu Picchu. Home to some beautiful ruins, and ruined morals.


And it´s days like this, when I storm out the internet cafe with a mission to find a particular building or snippet of information to further my USA visa tribulation, I have little tolerance for the endless smooching sounds and whistles on the street. I guarantee you by now, I´m a dirty backpacker with day-to-day practical clothing and yet, I seem to attract attention like I´m a hooker walking down the street at night. Every 3rd or 4th man can be expected to ¨woooo¨ at the tall Gringa woman walking down the street, and after a while, my friends, it gets pretty fucking old. To be fair, Peruvians, in all their candid glory, are fairly harmless in this manner.


And that´s my vent for today. Much love and peace






Helen and Mighty Machu Picchu






Here be musings

living, noteworthy, rhymes and rhythm, travel


Thoughts lying on a couch, in Argentina. My diary records me.


Spy those legs that weave around the table,

teaching me, as I forget

your name, it’s your name, and I forget it.

With new turns I do remember

Reading always means existing

long forgotten, never learned

But learning is recording, that is all

that is all.


My learning is a constant

and submits to massive failures

yet same constant is my freedom

it’s my burden and I’ll keep it

For the beauty on its table

under darkness, in the stable

left for loneliness the token

Fine-tuned journey, wisened teacher.

And the preacher near the doorway

tells me I have not yet spoken;

but I’m screaming

and I’m deeming him to be deceitful,


Then the silence in the slumber

of my waking world assaults me,

for there’s truth in what the preacher

prays to tell me for his part.

I have not yet known the netting

that protects me from my neighbours,

a perversely porous bubble

brewing trouble in my heart.

So I thank the man and take my toil

tangled in tomorrow,

to enjoy the jousting justified

by jaded faded means.

Meander in the mires but

remember mighty focus;

that we travel tasting all

the tainted tethers of latrines.





Iguacu the Mighty