Journal | saltwaterpilgrim

How Solo Travel Changed me Permanently

Solo travel is a very peculiar thing. It’s like the adventure doesn’t even lie in the activities that you engage in. It’s breakfast with strangers, or the time you went into a weird association club with a Portuguese Angolan guy and had to sign for secrecy while you watched 10 DJ’s that had never met make music in a room at the bottom of a spiral stairway while all you could think about was the blisters on your feet from walking the lumpy, narrow streets of Lisbon. But the re

Painless

It's funny how easily we forget pain. Mothers always say it, so do people with tattoos. At the time it hurts so much, but then the torture is over and soon after we find ouselves doing it again. Having another child. Getting more ink on our skin. It's the same with people who leave. I remember thinking, when I touched down 10 months ago to the day, in Perth, broken from seven of the best months of my life in Africa, how on earth do people do this? How do they go through the h

Byron

I’m sitting in the shack in Broken Head again. The walls have been painted a crisp white and different rope formations hang on the walls. It’s warm. My back is burnt. My friends have gone back to Sydney in Connie the van. Again I didn’t go with them. We drove up Thursday in the hail. Not just any hail but the kind of hail that left us aquaplaning across the highway, white sheets in our eyes, pulling into the Maccas carpark in a random town and waiting in the congestion fueled

Time Warp

I found myself in Byron again on the weekend. I went for three days and stayed for a week. My feet lagged slightly behind my body, heavy with the build up of dirt and water on my badly designed shoes, eyes peeled in the darkness, a twitch of panic in my stomach, searching for the back of a head I had just lost sight of in the 40 000 thick crowd carrying me. Splendour in the Grass was ridiculous. In the end I didn’t even care about the grindy echoes of Tame Impala or too much

Street Sounds

I bet it’s the sounds of the city that drive people crazy. Not the hours spent in traffic or constant trudge, robotic, staring at screens, to and from grey jobs. Honestly, lying in bed in the morning, blocking the sunlight, forlorn at the thought of leaving my warm bed – overly excited birds squawking in a desperate preparation for a chaotic day of flying, cars braking over and over, the bin truck heaving and gasping to and from the curb and the faint ocean sounds fighting t

You even Byron bro?

Two hours into a ten hour drive to Sydney we decided to head an extra day up the coast to the famous tropical hipster land of Byron Bay. Byron is this intoxicating blend of bearded, long-haired people publicly announcing their alternativeness, driving vans full of unusual shaped singlefin boards, German backpackers and dudes that moved here back in the day to live in a commune and escape the mainstream condemnation of their spirit. Now lingering in the hinterland of Bangalow

Curve Ball

The pictures on my skin remind me of certain things. Certain times. Some drawn on. Some imagined. Certain people. They remind me to do away with my own suffering, to be the broad shoulders that share the burden of others. And to know my own pain. To feel the fever of a past life. To know the place of a curve ball. And allow myself to wallow in the dark cavities of my own mind. Of abstract sadness. To mourn the loss of someone already gone. Disorientating. Maybe this is why I

Inner Paradise

Today I felt like I had brain junk I wanted to get out. Addicted to the page. But I don’t really have a whole lot to say. In earnest. No travel story. No fodder for thought. But, after a decision to embark on a spontaneous afternoon road trip, I think I learnt something of great importance. The weather outside reached hyperthermic levels, the wind doing great things for jacket sales in town and my stubborn refusal to don pants in attempt to drag summer out for as long as poss

Tofo Chicks let loose in Indo

I touched down in Bali at one in the morning. A small guy, probably called Made, flagged me down and drove me into the wet streets of Denpasar and eventually a dark complex somewhere vaguely near Dreamlands. I was greeted in the driveway by Renet, Plettenberg bay native and stewardess of international waters and Melanie, Spanish surfer babe and longtime resident of Tofo, Mozambique. I didn’t really want to be in Indo. To be frank. There were a gazzilion other destinations wit

Laters Indo

I finished my two weeks in Indonesia in a fish market sitting at a crooked wooden table. A table covered in a vast selection of seafood – oceanic delicacies that would break the bank back home. The husky sounds of a tanned South African guy’s voice fades in and out of the conversations, the other Saffas at the table tapping and singing intermittently. I had that overwhelming sense of belonging again. Familiar, remnant of the time I spent in Mozambique. I didn’t care if I miss

Indonesia

That weighted scent of incense as you step of the plane, Hot and heavy on your skin. Voices either side, ‘taxi’ ‘taxi’ Unmistakeable. Addictive. Welcome to Bali. I’m flying on Saturday. I got flights so cheap that I couldn’t say no. I’ll be meeting some friends from Africa that I cannot wait to see. They’re already there, frothing out, going to parties on the cliffs of Uluwatu. It took only three months for my feet to get so itchy I had to get back into the chaos of third wor

An Extraordinary Life

I was going to write about the community of dogs in Tofo, Mozambique. The way that they are so like, and so part of, the community of people. Many of them look the same, like somewhere along the line they are all related. Could be their environment and how they spend hours running in groups on the beach. The one that happened to be a little shorter than the rest labouring behind. Regular debate about who the fastest dog in Tofo is. Most of them owned because they were found.

Home, is it really where the heart is?

Its been a week since I left Mozambique. The tiny lady that couldn’t even reach the overhead luggage compartment next to me stared as I cried fat tears of heartbreak on the plane to Abu Dhabi. There had been a minute of panic when I didn’t have the money for my flight home which eventually led to having to book a 38 hour trip via the middle east and Thailand before hitting Perth. I didn’t even notice. All I could think of was when I would be back. Back in the motherland, back

Six lessons from Africa

It’s my Last day in Africa today. Pent up in a fancy hotel in Johannesburg – one of those places with excellent service from friendly men in waste coats and those fancy trolleys they wheel everything for you on. Awkward music in the elevators and an overpriced 24-hour room service menu. Quite the contrast the the entirety of the last six-and-a-half months. Looking through photos from my life in the motherland, that sickly happy-sad feeling of nostalgia creeps up. Oh, so happy

Hakuna Matapa - means no worries when you've got matapa

I left Mozambique with tears in my eyes. Sand in my hair that I didn’t want to wash out because I was not ready to let go. No more tropical gangsters. No more matapa – the local food that will send you wild No more tipo tinto – the local rum that may or may not be ethanol and you can buy for 60 mets (2USD) per bottle No more palm trees No more beach dogs No more fish so fresh its practically still moving when you buy it No more late night parties in tiny stores in the market

Darkness

My house is on a hill facing the sunset. The place is made almost entirely of grass. The deck, with its thatched roof, catches the evening rays and the whole thing is set alight as the sun disappears beyond the palm trees. It’s secluded. Other than the tiny man who waters my lawn each morning, I feel almost entirely alone up there. I like the quiet. Sometimes it is lonesome. But mostly it is peaceful. It takes about 20 minutes to walk to the village, past houses, lodges and t

Machine Man

In order to find yourself, you must first be lost I met a man with sadness in his eyes His heart made stony from the relentlessness of loss. His smooth skin an amour for the soft anguish he hid within His gleaming smile and deep toned laugh a mask for what his face really said. He glowed. My body ached for his Yet, everything he said had been said before To someone else Someone he liked more Or less. Souls lost to the cogs of a machine Production of soft toys Taking in the pi

Mozambique

The streets are pale and dusty in Praia do Tofo, Mozambique. The frequent calls of “hola Amiga” are easily heard over the gentle hum of chickens scratching for morsels and soft toned Portuguese chit chat. Life is slow. People walk slow. Even the hawkers with their bracelets, cashews and strange wooden artifacts meander rather than hurry to you. Haggling for a price is slow moving, frequented by laughter and done with the lack of urgency that only living in paradise can create

Alive

It’s funny how the idea of a career, a bank balance, a nice car or whatever it is we believe we want, is tied so blatantly to the false concept that we will live forever. And if we don’t, we’ll get to try again. Just think however, who do you know on round two? Like, ” I fucked up last time so I’m living again, having another go.” No one. We’ve all watched our grandma die. Seen lives taken too young every day around us: Robin Williams Jay Adams Yet, we continue to stare at th

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Tasmania

How Solo Travel Changed me Permanently

Painless

Byron

Time Warp

Street Sounds

You even Byron bro?

Curve Ball

Inner Paradise

Tofo Chicks let loose in Indo

Laters Indo

Indonesia

An Extraordinary Life

Home, is it really where the heart is?

Six lessons from Africa

Hakuna Matapa - means no worries when you've got matapa

Darkness

Machine Man

Mozambique

Alive

Saltwater Pilgrim

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