In Refuge Cove 

Between boats 

is moored Mariah

To her port side is Bad Attitude  

With The Lady Adelaide to starboard. 

Bad Attitude is an ugly hulk of a thing,  

paint peeling, squatting in the dark water.  

Ron sits on board watching the footy most nights.  

His favoured drink is port wine, 

in unlabelled glass flagons. 

It stains his beard, where it spills when he falls asleep  

over charts of reefs and places he never goes.  

He dreams of fish and strippers and his long dead mother holding him tight.  

On The Lady Adelaide sleep Ted and Ann. 

The boat as old as their love.  

Elegant polished wood, white sails curled neatly, ropes bound to shiny brass cleats.  

On calm days they take her out in the gulf  

and drink gin on the foredeck  

and remember that time, off Tahiti  

when a movie star in a white glittering catamaran 

came alongside  

and asked them for a light 

  •  what was his name again?   

They dream of smoking under tropical skies  

when youth permitted such grand adventures.  

Mariah bumps gently between the hulls,  

Bad Attitude on one side,  

The Lady Adelaide on the other,  

their contrast making her seem small and neat and lean.  

Pete, a tall man with sad eyes,  

unfolds himself from the cabin each morning.  

To the trained eye,  

his gentle movements tidying and marshalling the ropes, the sails,  

are caresses.  

There is joy in the way he opens the hatch,  

love in the way he stows the gear.  

She is his living thing this modern yacht, his Mariah.  

He falls asleep each evening to the sweet sound of the wind and water  

and dreams of nothing else but ploughing through the green ocean at full sail.  

In this refuge for dreamers,  

the three boats bob together on the black water,  

their captains asleep within. 

Ron slumped over his charts,  

Ted and Ann entwined in their faded satin sheets,  

and Pete softly curled cat-like in his bunk,  

the crisp stars above reflecting diamonds in the water below.  

Listen to the Earth SALA exhibition

Photography by JM Smith

On 2 August 2022, Pete Chambers and I collaborated in a combined SALA Festival event – my photos and his music. The theme was “Listen to the Earth,” taken from the name of Pete’s song, which you can download from Bandcamp here

My landscape photos are all about listening to the earth, to really see what is in front of you, to notice and to appreciate. My spoken word piece I read at the SALA event explains what I mean by listening to the earth.

Below are the photos and narrative from the exhibition. I hope you enjoy them. Some prints are still available for purchase. Please contact me if you would like to buy one. They are professionally printed and mounted on foamcore board so they are ready to frame or they can be hung without a frame. The sizes vary but most are around the A3 size and are $50.

The Fleurieu; our home

Myponga Beach Hills

When you drive over the hills towards Myponga Beach you must wonder where you’re going. There are rolling paddocks, cows and barely any trees. It’s a nondescript road. Until you reach the crest and the great wide vista opens out over the sparkling blue Gulf Saint Vincent. Is this our gulf? Our waters? They look different from this elevation to those beside the city where the coast stretches flat and uninteresting.

Second Valley was too crowded so we headed to Myponga Beach, as we guessed it would be missed by the summer holiday crowds. We were not wrong. A half a dozen groups were on the beach, the water was glassy and clear, a yacht was moored in the bay. As Pete and the kids kayaked and the adults swam, I roamed with my camera. It was one of those days when suddenly there is a shot in everything. Pete finally called me into the water for a snorkel. I’m terrified of deep water, but he held my hand as we snorkelled around the little reef on the northern side of the cove. There was an underwater garden of sea grass and kelp and colourful fish hiding in the rocks. I have no underwater camera gear (and was too occupied looking for sharks in any event) so the underwater garden’s secrets were not captured. Little did the couple in the boat, or the man with the umbrella, in the images above, know what they were floating above.

Salvation Jane Road

If you come from South Australia, you call it Salvation Jane. In the Eastern States it’s Patterson’s Curse. It’s an indication of how desperate our farmers get for rain that anything so poisonous to stock could have the word “salvation” in its name. It’s a weed, a pest, and a very pretty sight in the spring. It killed one of my ponies and I still remember my anger at the bloody stuff after I had poor old Fairy Floss put down. After the vet left, I took a mattock into the paddock and hacked wildly at the Salvation Jane until I was exhausted, all the time swearing at the fools who had introduced it to this fragile land in the first place. Of course, I was the fool as I had let it grow.

Where the sea ghosts walk – Moana Beach

This is Moana Beach at sunset, in winter, at the mouth of Pedler’s Creek. Under the waves lies the wreck of the Nashwauk, which ran aground here on 13th of May 1855, on its way to Port Adelaide from Liverpool, England. It had a hold full of cargo and 300 Irish immigrant girls on board. All passengers and crew were rescued from the foundering ship. The Nashwauk though could not be saved and eventually broke up on the sandbank. The cargo and hold were later sold at auction on the beach. It was said that Captain Archibald McIntyre was so mortified by his clumsy navigation which caused the shipwreck that he exited this world a month later. When I walk here I can’t help but think about those dramatic events and also what the Kaurna people, who lived in the Sandhills just behind, would have thought about the whole schmozzle. I have found bits of old crockery on the beach here. Are they artefacts from the wreck?

Heritage paddock, McLaren Vale

This patch of earth on Johnston Road, McLaren Vale, was earmarked as a development site for more housing. Incensed locals, already grieving the loss of so much prime agricultural and viticultural land subsumed under the city fringe, successfully lobbied the South Australian government to give the proposal the thumbs down. Grain continues to grow here, while the city spreads out like spilt milk along the coast instead.

These images were taken after visits to my mother when she resided in a nursing home in Goolwa. I would visit her every weekend and take my camera with me. Going for a walk in the sunset was my reward for being the dutiful daughter.

Path in Scott Conservation Park

This is Scott Conservation Park, a small park near Currency Creek. I had never heard of it until recently when I went for a walk there with a friend. It’s hidden away in the back blocks of the Fleurieu, tucked between cleared paddocks, a little oasis of native vegetation, full of orchids and correas and other gem-like flowers, as well as thick stands of yucca and South Australian blue gums lousy with Koalas. [This photo is larger than the others at 375 mm x 575 mm and framed. It’s $150.]

Crown Days

The Umbrella

From 2015 to 2019 I was a lawyer at the Crown Solicitor’s Office. I was lucky enough to work in the Native Title team and to attend two trials on country, when the Federal Court took evidence from the claimants in situ, on the claim area. The first shot, above,  was taken when the convoy of court staff, lawyers, claimants, and anthropologists pulled over on the road to Parachilna, with one of the observers shielding herself from the harsh sun of the outback with an umbrella. The two shots, below, are Oodnadatta, where each evening I was there I explored this unique outback town. The light in the desert, especially at either end of the day, is something magical.

Desert Junkyard

I was in Oodnadatta for work, staying at the legendary Transcontinental Hotel. Each evening I explored this unique outback town. The light in the desert, especially at either end of the day, is something magical.

Oodnadatta Ruin



In contrast is this iPhone shot taken from the lunch room of 45 Pirie St, at the Crown Solicitor’s Office. The bleakness of the architecture and the figure cornered in a little triangle of sunlight below completely summed up how I felt that day. How I hated being cooped up in an office in the city.

Snowy Mountains January 2000

Lake Jindabyne, Summer

I was invited to join a friend in Jindabyne on his days off between fighting fires in the Snowy Mountains National Park. It was January 2020 and large swathes of Australia were on fire. The Snowies had just seen a huge inferno rip through the park and my friend, a professional firefighter, and his team had been called down to assist. It had started raining, dampening the fire, and causing the teams to stand downed giving them spare time.

Not one to refuse an adventure, I jumped in my ute and drove the 1600 km from Adelaide to Jindabyne. At Tumut I took the Snowy Mountains Highway, noting the sign which said, “road open.” What I didn’t know was it should have read “Road only just open.” I climbed the mountain range as night fell. There were no cars at all. Thick smoke settled in the valleys, cutting out any hope of mobile phone coverage and slowing my progress. I drove past ember bright forests, some logs on the roadside still alight. Occasionally a truck passed me in the opposite direction. I drove in the middle of the road to avoid the hundreds of displaced animals looking for food or drinking runoff. I joked later that I played wombat dodge-ems, but there in that isolated dark wilderness, I was afraid. After two hours I arrived at Adaminaby, a hamlet with a couple of lights on. My phone worked and I called my friend, who checked the online fire maps to reassure me that there were no fires going in my direction. It wasn’t too much further to Jindabyne. He told me I was probably the first car through after the road was opened.

Smokey Snowy Mountains

This blue photo was taken from Mount Kosciuszko looking across the mountains when smoke was still heavy in the air, taken the following day during the Thredbo Blues Festival. The festival ticket gave me access to the chair lift to the top of the mountain. Some of the best blues musicians in Australia played at that festival while fires were still burning.

Lake Jindabyne track, early morning, summer

Beneath Lake Jindabyne is the old town, flooded when the dam was finished in the 1960s as part of the Snowy Mountains Hydroelectric Scheme. My Uncle Gordon Slater was one of the thousands of immigrant workers who came to Australia to work on this scheme in the fifties. He was escaping the horrors of his youth during the war in England, when his sister, father and grandfather were lost in the most awful series of tragedies. Uncle Gordon loved Australia and eventually settled in SA after marrying a farmer’s daughter, my Aunty Dawn. He took his bride home to Draycott-in-the-Clay to meet his mother Alice and his remaining sister, my mother, Beryl, and convinced them to move with him to a better place, a land of light and promise, where the winters were mild and memories of the war so much further away.

The Monaro

I drove to Cooma across the Monaro plateau, with rain clouds gathering, providing spectacular evening light. Poplars line the road in this shot but on the horizon are stands of dead Ribbon Gums, giant skeletal scarecrows among the outcrops of granite boulders scattered across the plain. The cause of the dieback? You guessed it: climate change

After the Inferno

On the way back to Adelaide, I drove the way I came, but in daylight. The devastation was shocking. Forests destroyed, as if a bomb had been dropped. Mountain huts a tangled wreck of iron, and road signs melted where they stood. To further convince me of the reality of climate change, I saw countless semis carting hay in convoys, many of them displaying banners to show the hay was donated for farms suffering from drought by Farm Aid. Then, as I crossed the Hay Plains, I drove for hours through a wild and disgusting dust storm.


Like a Painting – Fisherman on the Tonle Sap Lake

These shots were taken during my 340 km cycling adventure in Cambodia in 2018, which included exploring a floating village on the great Tonle Sap Lake, a remarkable place where I was simultaneously appalled by the poverty and amazed at its beauty.

Fishing boat in a floating village, Tonle Sap Lake

Those who lived in the village on the river lived in crowded conditions in wooden houses built on stilts above the rise and fall of the river. The main industry in the village other than fishing is the production of fish sauce, a process that involves fermentation and a terrible smell. Life expectancy here is extremely low with diseases such as malaria, dengue fever and dysentery endemic. I jumped on a converted fishing boat and followed the river into the lake where shapes were silhouetted on the horizon against the setting sun. As the boat got closer, I could see that these were floating houses gathered into a little village in the middle of the lake. There was a splash. A dog had leapt off the front porch of one of these houses and into the water – he was playing fetch with his master.

Tonle Sap River village

Life on these houseboats seemed better than life in the terrestrial village (pictured above), away from foetid muddy water and fish fermenting stench. As one of the largest freshwater lakes in the world, Tonle Sap is designated a biosphere reserve by UNESCO. Its unique biodiversity is under threat from deforestation, dam development upstream in China and climate change.

Monk’s Holiday

After we had completed our bike ride I ventured to the coast where I caught a ferry to the island of Koh Rong Samloen. On the boat I chatted to two Buddhist monks who were escaping the heat of Phenom Penh. The boat stopped in a cove so we could swim. The two young men took off their outer robes and leapt into the water. I put aside my fear of deep water and followed suit, everyone laughing joyfully. They later dried their swimming robes by tying them to the back of the ferry where they fluttered colourfully like flags. This shot of one of the monks, captures him hunting for seashells on the island’s empty white beach.

Cambodian sunset


Australian drought

These three shots were taken during the last big drought on a drive home from Sydney in 2019. In Dundedoo I found these three shedding contractors having end of the day drinks in the pub. They had knocked off work early as jobs were thin. Farmers have no money spare to pay for sheds when they’re paying for feed.

“Jeez, she’s dry!”, Dundedoo Hotel, NSW
“What’s Your poison?” – Mendooran Hotel, Western NSW

In Mendooran, all the talk was about the drought in the front bar of the pub. One bright spark said to me “It’s so dry that when I milked the cow, all I got was powdered milk!”


Ranger’s perfect day on glass

Soon after Pete and I met, he took me out for a sail on his beloved Ranger. Pete obviously had the charm machine on full throttle, as within half an hour he’d moored and despite the cool weather invited me to skinny dip. It didn’t go quite as he planned. Pete didn’t know about my fear of deep water, and after jumping in himself, his head emerged from a deep dive to see me hanging in a semi foetal position, naked, off the back of the boat, my feet curled with cramp around the metal ladder steps and my white arse skimming the water as Ranger pivoted gracefully on her anchor line. I was screaming out “Pete, my feet! My feet!”

“Just jump in” he yelled.

“I can’t! My feet, My feet!” I screamed. He prised my feet off the ladder and I smashed into his arms, pushing him under the water, almost drowning him.

Unfurled in the Gulf

The “Unfurled” image was taken shortly after Pete heaved me up back on to Ranger, when I was sitting, now calm and clad, with a hot cuppa in one hand and my camera reassuringly in the other.

Sea, Sky, Forest and Shadow

In this slideshow are some more of my favourite images. This earth is a wonderful place.


The funny thing about knowing Anthony was going to die was that it concentrated the joy in our lives into intensely sweet lollies of experience, where happiness reared its lovely head despite itself. I took this shot of a spider’s web on the fence of the dog yard late in March that year. Anth was reading in his sickbed, and I was sitting on the doorstep, leaning against the frame, watching the sun get lower in the sky with the shadow of the hill slowly advancing towards the house. It was perfectly quiet. I realised, with some surprise, that I was happy. Then I noticed the web illuminated in the evening light, contrasted against the shadow of the hill behind. I grabbed my camera, wanting to record this most perfect metaphor. The spider’s web was intricate and complicated and beautiful, highlighted by the setting sun, about to be overcome by the steadily approaching shadow. But it was only because of that approaching darkness that I could properly see the web. Life was like the web; light was unable to be seen without darkness, happiness could not be truly appreciated without sadness and pain. The Ying and the Yang, good and evil, light and dark; here it was in the spider web.

An absent prescence

Absent presence: The discernible influence of a particular individual on some social or textual practice even when they are not present (especially when they are no longer alive), e.g. in film, when one discerns the absent presence of Hitchcock in the style of a contemporary thriller – Oxford Reference

I know you’re here

You’re the breath in the trees

The warmth in the sun

You’re the pink in the sky

When day is done

You’re the laugh in the breeze

The sigh of the night

When the clouds hide the moon

And the stars are so bright

You’re the green in the grass

the earth under my shoes

My foundation for building

A life without you.

You’re gone but you’re here,

I’m alone but with you

it’s strangely familiar,

but shockingly new.

I know you’re here


Cambodian Pilgrimage: How a charity bike ride fundraiser helped lay my love to rest


“I fucking love Asia,” Anth said, drawing back deeply on a cigarette. We had just arrived in Bali and Anth had already lit up. He had the lighter and packet in hand as the airport doors slid open, ready to satisfy his addiction the minute we stepped into the tropical heat. He surveyed the chaos of taxi pick ups with drivers jostling for a spot as they waved passenger name cards, the frangipani girls handing out flower necklaces, the racket of motorbikes on the airport road. He sighed with relief, put the ciggie in his mouth, lit it, put his head back and said again to the heavens “I fucking love Asia.”

Anth had lived and worked in Malaysia and loved the ex pat life. He loved the din of market places, the exotic food, the anything goes attitude of drivers on the road, the lack of rules and regulations. He loved the monkeys stealing food from his balcony. He loved being able to afford everything; expensive drinks, as many cigarettes as he could smoke, having servants to clean up and make life easy. At work, his staff treated him with deference, and as an executive he was given special treatment. He loved feeling like a king. He told me all of this when he reminisced. It was the highlight of his career, perhaps of his life.

Now, five years on from that Bali trip, I was back in Asia but he was gone. Before I left home, I had gone to the spot at home where we had scattered his ashes. I took my mother’s antique locket, a bulky silver Victorian artefact too heavy to wear, and scraped some of his fragments into it and put it in an inner pocket of my backpack. I was going to deliver them to Angkor Wat, and give some of him back to the Asia he loved, and the Buddhism he admired.

The Cambodia trip was a bike trek charity fundraiser for brain cancer research. Anth had died from a brain tumour and I was on a mission to preserve his legacy. Somehow, doing this, I thought, would make sense of everything. Of loving him, and losing him. And I needed to put the terrible memories behind me. The flashbacks of his decline, of ambulance trips, of nights in the hospital, the surgery, at his bedside, and the most terrible, at the hospice as he lay dying. The terrible memories I couldn’t wait to drench out with new, overwhelming ones from this adventure in Cambodia that I was about to take.

I had harassed everyone I knew, and some I didn’t, for money towards the cause. It seemed the more I raised, the less pointless his death might become. But even $10,000 later, it seemed just as pointless. And if his death was pointless, so viciously random, what then of this existence of all of ours? It seemed equally pointless and I cursed the universe for giving me this insight. I looked at others going about their day-to-day business and an voice inside me would lament “Poor bastards, they don’t know. It is all temporal. An illusion. It will all be taken away. Maybe tomorrow. Life is short. And then you die.” So, in an effort to drown out this voice, I joined Team Flinders (Flinders Medical Centre in Adelaide was where Anth received treatment). I trained and fundraised, trying like mad to make my realisation of the futility of existence subside.

Team Flinders

Arriving in Siem Reap, I stepped into another world. Here people didn’t seem to care if they lived or died. There were no road rules. Tuk Tuks and motorbikes swerved between cars and buses. If one side of the road was blocked, they simply drove on the other, into oncoming traffic. Masses of phone and electrical cables hung like spaghetti drying between leaning electrical poles in a crazy mess. Foul smells rose from open sewers. In the countryside, as we rode our bikes, we passed poverty bound villages with no running water; water was stored in large earthen jars under houses, and no toilets I could see. There were cows and dogs roaming at large, occasionally getting in the way of passing motorbikes which shifted them with the beep beep of their horns. I saw truck loads of workers packed like cattle in trucks going to and from work in the fields or in factories. Fishermen, knee deep in muddy ponds, systematically pounded the mud with fish cages, looking for catch. When the sun shone clouds of dust rose from the roads and when it rained, mud was everywhere. Everything was dirty.


I had met Anth on an internet dating site. On his profile, under “religion” he had put “Buddhist”. Early on in our relationship I challenged him about this. “You’re not Buddhist!” I said, “You’re Catholic. You’re Italian!” “Yeah, well, I’m a Buddhist Catholic!” he retorted. Anth had the biggest collection of self-help and metaphysical books I had ever seen. He loved reading about all things spiritual, including reincarnation. He had tarot cards printed with the Arch-Angel Michael (his favourite – he named his car after him), affirmation wall hangings and Buddha statuettes. He burned incense. Both times we went to Bali Anth insisted on receiving blessings at the Hindu temple at Uluwatu. I thought it was all a bit of a fad and whenever he talked about it I inwardly rolled my eyes. He called it his “hoobly-goobly”.

Anth receiving a blessing at Uluwatu temple in Bali

However, when he was sick I came to understand the depth of this hoobly goobly. Early on in his illness he devoured books with titles such as “The Book of Awakening”, “The Power of Intention”, “Anatomy of the Spirit”, “Quantum Healing” and “Faith”. He listened to the Dalai Lama, Gregorian chants and recitations of poetry of literary masters. This learning gave him strength to accept the finality of his illness and to prepare for his journey elsewhere with great dignity.

As his illness progressed I realised that his connection to Buddhism was far deeper than I had first assumed. In the hospital, when asked if he would like some religious guidance, he said “I don’t want to talk to any pedo priest. Just put on the Dalai Lama.” He would listen to the Dalai Lama chanting over and over again, and insisted he could not sleep without it. “I feel like it is healing me. I see a white light when I listen to it,” he said. The ancient sounds soothed him. It was as if they spoke to his soul.

I didn’t scatter the ashes at Angkor Wat. With the crowds of tourists, and the immensity of the place, it was too much of a public space. But riding through the forest to the Bayon, the Khmer king’s temple, I knew this was the spot. There seemed to be a Buddha face on every wall, in every direction. I knew Anth would approve. I asked Yann, our guide, to take me to a place inside where I could scatter his ashes.

One of the Buddha faces at the Bayon temple

He showed me the way up the steep staircase to the central tower. We took our shoes off at the entrance and the huge ancient flagstones were cool underfoot. An old woman in white robes sat at the doorway. In the centre of the dark space was an alter with incense and offerings of flowers and money and two opened cans of Angkor beer complete with straws. Behind was a large seated stone Buddha, wrapped in orange cloth. We sat cross-legged on the mat on the floor before the alter and I put some riel into the money box. I took the silver locket out of my backpack. To my horror I realised it had opened slightly in transit and at least half of the ashes had tipped out into the backpack’s front pocket. I took what remained in the locket and emptied it into the incense burner at the foot of the Buddha. Yann said to me, “You should repeat this prayer. Then the soul will go up.” He pointed up above our heads to the small opening at the very top of the conical roof through which you could just see the sky.


I repeated the words after Yann, and then sat with my eyes closed, my hands in the prayer position. I could hear tourists behind me, coming and going, the odd shutter clicking. I thought of how many other people had sat here, before me, for almost a thousand years, making this prayer for their dead. I thought of the Khmer kings, and the great ceremonies and pageants this temple had seen. And now there was a little bit of Anth, the Buddhist catholic, resting in this inner sanctum as well.

But then I thought of the fragments of Anth in my backpack’s front pocket, along with my lip balm and some spare cash. I could hear Anth saying “Oh for fuck’s sake Jill! Fesse di mamada!” He would always resort to dialect when he really wanted to swear. “I’m coming with you. Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily,” I heard him say. “Yes I know. You fucking love Asia,” I whispered back to him.

I left the inner sanctum smiling, hugging my backpack.

So Anth came with me on the six day bike ride over 336 kilometres of Cambodia’s back roads. Together, we rode in the heat, the humidity and then the rain. We visited tumble down temples with great figs growing through the ruins. I realised I was on a pilgrimage. Most days we rode 60 km. One day it was 80km. Sweat poured from me over the rocky roads, some so bumpy my hands lost feeling with gripping for many kilometres. The bitumen was worse, with the reflected heat baking us from both directions. My back ached from an old injury. But there was no way I wasn’t going to complete the challenge. I was doing this for Anth. And he was with me, in the backpack.

As I rode my bike the irony did not escape me. Here we were, riding in a third world country, raising money to battle a rich person’s disease. A disease the West can afford to treat, with expensive surgery, medicines and radiotherapy. In Cambodia, 70 per cent of people do not even have access to fresh drinking water. Their worries are far more immediate than dying from cancer. In fact, I wondered, looking at the loose electrical cabling, the crazy traffic, the 8 year olds riding motorcycles without helmets, the rancid ponds next to ramshackle wooden shacks, did Cambodians worry about anything?

Here there seemed to be less regard for the sanctity of life but more regard for the eternal. Spirituality is everywhere. Almost every house had a little shrine, like a mini pagoda, on a pole in the yard. Recorded chanting would blare out from speakers in village pagodas across the fields, so loud that when we passed on our bikes we would have to put a hand over the ear closest to the noise to preserve our eardrums. Sometimes it would mark a wedding, with marquees set up on the street with flowing pink curtains dragging in the dust of the village. Buddhist monks were a frequent sight. Yann told me boys and young men often join the monastery for a few years as a normal rite of passage. I rode past a beautiful monastery and paused for a moment to take a photo. There was a young monk who was cutting grass with a scythe. He asked me “why you put phone in your pants?” “No pockets” I said. He laughed, and so did I. “You speak good English”, I said. “Where you go?” he replied. “I don’t know” I said. And we both laughed again.

boy monks
The young monks cutting grass

The action of riding a bike over a long distance is so automatic, so repetitive, it becomes a meditation. You do not even realise you are riding, or that you are thinking. As you pass through places, thoughts and memories float past your mind’s eye, like boats on a river.

The events of Anth’s illness, death and its aftermath went through my head as I rode. I saw myself walking away from the first hospital, where he underwent the brain biopsy and waiting for the terrible news in the Catholic cathedral, sitting in a pew alone, silently weeping, uncomforted by the vaulted ceiling or stone angels. I thought of our tears, together at home on the bed, embracing when he said “I thought we would have more time together.” I thought of the terror in his eyes as he lay convulsing on the couch, the first of the grand mal seizures we knew were a sign that time was running out. I remembered his courage making the decision to go ahead with the brain surgery, knowing it could kill him but hoping for more time, and my relief and joy when that time was granted and he came out of the operation still Anth. I thought of the laughs we had making fun of the doctors and nurses and the unsuspecting occupational therapist who was too sincere for his own good. I thought of the beautiful times we had at home with our family and friends and especially our two weddings, the first in ICU before the big op, when we didn’t know if he’d make it through the next 24 hours. And I thought of the last days at the hospice as he battled for breath, still listening to the chants of his Dalai Lama.

I thought of these things as I pushed those pedals through the Cambodian countryside, in a kind of trance.


As I passed through each village, children ran to the roadside shouting out “Hello!” or “Bye Bye!” Their happy cries would wake me from the past and make me laugh. Older kids would put up their hands for a passing high five, the younger ones jumping up and down excitedly with cheeky grins, waving madly as we went by. At school dismissals large groups of kids in school uniforms would crowd the roadside, shouting and laughing at us. Sometimes, the kids with bikes rode with us a short distance, in a mini race, grinning all the way.


And slowly, like morning mist over the Mekong, the burden of my memories lifted in the sunshine.

On the last day we rode to the Wat Banan temple outside Battambang. This temple is perched on a steep hill, with a 300 step climb to the top. At the foot of the stairs a group of children met us with fans. “Hello. My name is Rina,” one beautiful girl in a striped t-shirt said. I guessed she was about 10 years old. “I will be your guide.” She started to fan me enthusiastically. I guessed I would have to pay her something at the end of the visit. I was with two fellow riders from Team Flinders and each had a child latched on to them, fanning away. “This special place,” Rina said. “Come. I show you.”


As I made my way up the staircase, Rina climbed with me step by step, fanning me all the time. With her one word commentary she pointed out the features of the place like Champei (frangipani), her friend Compei and the fact that when I paused half way up, we had exactly 156 more steps to go.

At the top, through a narrow portal surrounded by the top branches of the hillside’s trees, was the temple compound. A beautiful stillness filled the air. There was something rich and peaceful in the quietness of the place. On this hilltop, with Rina and her friends, we seemed very close to heaven. I knew this was the place to scatter what remained of Anth’s ashes in the backpack. First I again went to the inner sanctum, which this time was much smaller and less imposing. A friendly lady kept guard over the small white Buddha here. She took my riel and blessed me by tying a strand of red wool around my wrist. She got me to repeat a prayer in Khmer, which was more complicated than the one Yann taught me, and which she gave up trying to get me to replicate. “What did that mean?” I asked Rina. “It was for good luck,” she said.


My riding companions had already started their descent down the stairs. “Come,” Rina said. “I will show you the mountain.” Other than the friendly holy woman, it was just me, Rina and her little friends in the temple now. The building was partly in ruins, with great blocks of stone strewn across the hilltop. I followed Rina, hopping from block to block across the back of the temple to a spot where the trees parted and a beautiful view of rice paddies and palm trees opened out before us. I opened the front pocket of my backpack and brushed out the remaining ashes. The breeze caught them and they were carried away out over the Cambodian countryside.

The children looked at me, uncomprehending.  “Here, time for a photo,” I said. They understood that and crowded around my camera with its impressive looking lens as I pulled it out of my bag. “Me, me,” one of the boys said. So I gave him the camera and he took photos of me and the other kids standing, smiling at the spot where I laid my dear Anth, the Buddhist catholic, to rest, on the wind.

kids2When I got back on my bike at the bottom of the stairs for the final leg of our journey, something had settled in my heart. I feel it still. It is hard to explain. It is as if the heat had gone from my pain. There is a smoothness there now. Anth’s loss is still part of me but instead of jagged and sharp now it is like one of the ancient carvings on temple rocks, deep, meaningful and somehow beautiful.

Koh Rong is a island covered in jungle with white sands and green seas off the coast of Cambodia. I was on a boat headed there, part of 4 days R and R after the ride. I was sitting right at the front of the rickety wooden “Sunny Boat”, talking to two Buddhist monks who were on holidays from Phnom Penh. The breeze was cool and the air was sweet. We had all been swimming off the boat while it moored in the lee of an islet and the monks’ robes were wet. They had changed into dry robes and tied the wet ones to the railings of the deck and the orange cloth fluttered in the wind. I went to find my smartphone in the front pocket of my backpack to take a photo. It came out covered in gritty grey dust. I realised that there were still more of Anth’s ashes hiding in a recess of the bag. I smiled. Of course. The pilgrimage had not finished at Wat Banan. The universe was telling me that this spot in the Gulf of Thailand, in the company of Buddhist monks, was the final resting place. I took everything out of my backpack and piled it on the chair next to me. I opened every zip on the damned thing and leaned overboard holding it upside down and jiggled it upside down. The last fragments of ash fluttered out of the bag into the smooth green sea.


The Team Flinders Cycle to Cure Cancer Cambodian Bike Challenge raised more than $56,000 for cancer research. You can still donate at


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Deities and Dogs; A Bali photo essay

This paradise is a curious place. I rocket from distaste to delight in the space of a 5 minute walk. Bali has the world’s most luxurious resorts, with rubbish piled next door. When you speak to the Balinese about their temples and their community, there is great respect and love in their eyes. Yet next door to the beloved temple are piles of dumped masonry and plastic rubbish scattering as far as the eye can see. Footpaths are covered drains which let out foul stenches as you walk along browsing at boutiques in Seminyak’s Jalan Legian or Ubud’s Monkey Forest Road. To take your eyes off your feet is to risk a broken ankle. As I walked, I saw a man unblocking a drain, neck deep in raw sewage, outside a shop selling swathes of traditional Batik in radiant colours.


Along the urban coastal strip of Kuta, Legian and Seminyak, motorbikes are everywhere. It’s a common sight to see families of three or four riding pillion, with baby strapped to mum with a sarong. Drivers overtake on narrow lanes, motorbikes ride against the traffic flow, cars park on blind corners. And the traffic is unrelenting – so many motorbikes and scooters – with the constant pitch of motors and horns throughout the night, unregulated by police who sit in booths advertising Coca Cola, or running taxi ranks outside tourist spots.

There are dogs everywhere. They roam the streets or sleep in doorways. In the rural areas chickens scratch the dust at the roadsides. Cattle are tethered in bare fields, or held by old men with sticks.

Traffic stops for chickens, goats, dogs, and celebrations. Suddenly a group of Balinese, in traditional dress, the men in white shirts, black and white sarongs, the women carrying offerings on their heads, will round a corner, bringing the traffic to a halt until the short pageant enters the temple.


The road from Denpassar to Ubud is lined with woodcarvers and stone masons. We took the drive at night; the buddahs and demons in the artisans’ yards seemed to move in the flickering shadows of roadside fires where their creators burnt the debris of the day.

Our taxi turned off the main highway (a narrow two lane road which traverses the mountain ridge) to a dusty village, Payogan, on the outskirts of Ubud in the mountains. Chickens scattered in the headlights of the car as we pulled through high gates where security guards checked the car for hidden bombs with mirrors on sticks. This was a different world; our resort was a palace of pavilions with polished marble, lush botanic gardens surrounding pools overlooking a mountain valley lined with tall palms swaying in the breeze.

Our holiday had begun.

Rice paddies of Payogan

Our resort palace

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The old man and his cows next door

New Caledonia Gallery

Check out my New Caledonia photos, available via Shutterstock at

There are 47 different shots on Shutterstock. The shots in the slideshow below do not appear on Shutterstock  but are available directly from me.

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Lost in Paradise

Île des Pins

“You cannot come to La Nouvelle Caledonie without seeing Île des Pins,” Isabelle said. So we took a dual propeller plane for a short flight to the 15 km long Isle of Pines, an oasis of green in the blue of the pacific 100 km from Noumea. Lush vegetation covers the place, with massive banyan trees, coconut groves and banana palms but dominated by the pine trees Araucaria columnaris from which the island takes its name. Only 1500 people live here, mainly Melanesians who belong to one of 5 tribes living in small villages of traditional huts and wooden shacks. It is unspoilt, isolated, a place of natural abundance, a garden of Eden.

The fishing fleet of Kanumera Bay.

We stayed at one of two resorts on the island at Kanumera Bay. Its fine white sand is like flour, its water still, clear and impossibly blue. You need only go waste deep to snorkel among corals teeming with fish. Here we saw inquisitive purple fish that would swim up to us to look at us eye to eye, long thin transparent trumpet fish, and schools of what looked like sardines churning the surface of the water. I paddleboarded across the bay and green sea turtles swam leisurely below me in the deep green water. My son spent ages on the beach learning how to open coconuts and later we watched the sun set behind the pine trees as fishermen put their nets out into the stillness of the bay.

Kanumura Bay.

Les Pokens is the name New Caledonians have for Australians. Isabelle says it’s not pejorative, but I’m not so sure. They arrive in hoards by cruise ship and flood the towns and beaches. Many are sunburnt a bright pink. Some are drunk. They stand out from the sporty and elegant French Caledonians like sore thumbs. When I reserved our beach lounges at the resort, the beach attendant, said “Oui, oui, they are for you, not for the Australians” with a disparaging tone, nodding towards the line of people walking down the previously deserted beach. “But we are Australian.” I said. “Yes, but you are not them” he said. A Cruise Ship had arrived. 5000 people on board, almost 5 times the entire population of the island. Soon the bay was full of snorkelers and paddleboarders and groups sunbathing on the beach. A market had sprung up on the other side of the bay, near the dock where the cruise ship tenders were arriving. I took a kayak and canoed over there, beached it on a small strip of sand under a palm tree and went to look around. There were queues of boardshort wearing Aussies snaking back from Melanesian BBQ stalls, large local women selling coconut cake and tea and coffee, cheap souvenirs, t-shirts and sarongs. Melanesian music played from boom boxes. On the way back across the bay, I kayaked behind the bay’s sacred rock away from the crowded shallows. On the far side of the rock was a group of Melanesian kids jumping off the rock overhang into the water. I paddled nearer and was quickly surrounded by laughing children in the water, trying to climb into my kayak. I had to say no sternly as they threatened to tip me into the water with my camera gear, but they swam away, smiles all over their faces.

Relaxing on Kanumera Bay near the sacred rock.

The contrast the next day was stark. With the cruise ship gone there was nobody there. My daughter and I walked along the beach, now stormy but still impossibly blue. Coconuts bobbed in the water where they had blown off trees during the night. Nobody at the dock, just a few dogs roaming. One of them accompanied us as we walked, until we found the general store a few kilometres down the road. We passed tethered cows and a few locals burning rubbish in their gardens, most raising their hand in greeting with a Bonjour.

Our new friend came with us on our walk.

We hired bikes and rode to the old prison, where nature’s dominance is very much on display. There the crumbling ruins are overgrown with lianas and long grass, almost overtaken by the jungle. (The ruins are all that is left of the French penal colony, housing the Communards, deported political prisoners from the failed 1871 Paris Commune.) Then, we rode to Vao with its old church and mission buildings, and to the shores of Baie St Maurice where a monument to the Saint and his followers, the original 1848 missionaries, is surrounded by Kanak totems. (Given the earliest missionaries were cannibalized by the locals I’m not sure if the totems are there as symbols of threat or protection). Back at Kanumera Bay, I found a spot at the resort’s seafront bar and with my new friend, the stray dog from the morning at my feet, watched yet another breathtaking sunset.


The weather was perfect for the highlight of our trip – the excursion by traditional pirogue through Upi Bay to the famous natural swimming pool. A mini bus dropped us by a tidal flat where we waded to clamber aboard the little sail boat. As we glided through the glass-like waters our guide, Bernard, spoke quietly to me in French. It had taken him 3 months to make this boat. He explained how he carved out the interior of the wooden hull, and how he now makes his living by taking tourists on these trips, and by fishing. About 200 people live in his tribe, at Vao, next to the beach where he keeps his boat. The tribe still carries on the traditional ways. He has never been to Noumea and French is his second language. His mother tongue is his tribal language. The other boatmen on the water are all from his tribe. They are his cousins and his friends. In high season, in August to October, there are not enough pirogues for all of the tourists wanting trips. As we spoke we passed many green sea turtles in the sheltered bay. After an hour or so we arrived at another tidal flat. Bernard indicated this was where we got off, and with vague directions to go straight ahead, left us alone on a deserted beach on the edge of a rain forest.

Bernard at the helm of his boat.

After a 45 minute walk along a jungle path (avoiding the tree roots growing across the track and the large hermit crabs) we emerged into a beautiful coconut grove which in turn gave way to another waterway which we waded across. We followed the waterway to the breathtaking natural swimming pool, a rock formation allowing the high tide in, but sheltering the pool from the ocean waves. The pool is fringed by Arucaria pines and the water is the most intense blue. It is full of fish and snorkelling here is like swimming in an aquarium.

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The natural swimming pool.

We stayed at the natural swimming pool until the tide started rising quickly and the beach began to disappear. Remembering our instructions we followed a dry inlet, the River of Sand, to Oro Bay, where we turned to follow the beach to the swanky Meridien Resort, where we were to meet our ride back to Kanumera Bay. Problem was the tide. It had risen so quickly that the beach ran out and we were forced to head inland, where we quickly became lost in the jungle. By some deserted huts, we came across an old Melanesian man whipper-snipping the undergrowth. I tried to get his attention but he studiously ignored me. We were forced to continue unaided. We followed a few tracks the wrong way until a narrow overgrown path became a vehicle track and this became a narrow dirt road which led us to the back of the Meriden. My kids argued the whole way about carrying the bag of snorkelling gear complaining about me getting them lost, that they hadn’t signed up for “Survivor”. But later, back at the resort, my daughter said “That was a great day”.

Lost in paradise. Tide is coming in as we look for the way back along Oro Bay.

Noumea seemed like a metropolis after the undeveloped, wild and empty Île des Pins. Flying back in the dual propeller plane and seeing the white buildings sprawling along the coast through the hills it now felt like a city rather than the provincial town we saw when we first arrived. In those two weeks, I had spoken French solidly, drunk French wine, eaten French bread, cheese and pastries every day, swam at some of the most beautiful places in the pacific and spent time with dear friends. That’s my idea of a holiday. Better than France. La Nouvelle Calédonie, je t’aime.

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My son spotting turtles on the bow of Bernard’s handmade fishing boat on the waters of Upi Bay.

New Caledonia; C’est le paradis


New Caledonia has been on my to do list ever since my friend Isabelle re-located there from northern France 11 years ago. I can see why Isabelle loves it here in the South Pacific. It is a tropical version of home. There are traditional French patisseries, cafes and brasseries, and even the topography of the old town of Noumea is something like the towns of Northern France where I first met Isabelle. There’s a Cathedral on the hill surveying the city and in the streets below are boutiques and little shops typical of a French regional town. Then stepping down the hill along the coconut lined Place des Cocotiers to the port, cruise ships dominate the skyline reminiscent of the Channel ferries and container ships of France’s northern ports.

A French naval vessel and pleasure craft in Noumea’s harbour.

But unlike Northern France, New Caledonia has 345 days of sunshine a year. Even in “winter” (July) temperatures are between 22C and 25C with the ocean a very swimmable 23C. This means in their spare time Caledonians enjoy the great outdoors year round. Fit, sporty looking types jog along the esplanade or cycle in packs in the early morning. They bike ride in the mountains, windsurf, and sail to deserted islands for camping trips. Isabelle’s family is no exception. Her husband Sylvain is a triathlete and mountain bike champion, their eldest son a surf-lifesaver and their youngest is following in his father’s footsteps. They are all trim and tanned and very good-looking.

View of Baie Sainte Marie from Ouen Toro.

To welcome us on our first day Isabelle and Sylvain took us on a short tour finishing at Ouen Toro, the former Australian WWII lookout over Anse Vata Beach and the Baie de Sainte Marie beyond. As we gazed at jet skies snaking white streaks through the bluest of blue water Isabelle said to me “People ask me when I am coming back to France, I say to them “Jamais, Jamais, JAMAIS”! (Never, Never, NEVER!) France cannot offer me the life I have here!” In New Caledonia Isabelle has blossomed. She left behind her life as a primary school teacher in a wet and dreary town and now runs Escale Meublée, a letting agency for short term fully-furnished rental accommodation in Noumea. And it was thanks to Isabelle, our holiday accommodation was in a chic 6th floor apartment over looking the pleasure craft bobbing in Port Plaisance.

Our apartment building overlooking Port Plaisance.

While it’s not France, New Caledonia is very French. As a French overseas collectivity, the tricolor is flying and while you will hear English and Melanesian languages in the street, French is very much the principal language. Noumea is home to a French naval base and naval vessels regularly patrol the lagoon. We were there for Bastille Day, which was celebrated with enthusiasm. I had half expected to see pro-independence protests at this display of French sovereignty, particularly given the independence referendum planned for 2018. But instead Melanesian and French Caledonians enjoyed the festivities together.

Merguez sausages for sale at the Bastille Day party in Place Des Cocotiers, Noumea.

In Noumea there is an obvious divide between rich and poor. There are more Porsche cars per head of population here than anywhere else in the world. Expensive yachts crowd the town’s marinas and slick hilltop villas look out over the palm-lined waterfront. This is not Bali; there is a sense of organisation with good roads and public transport, you can drink the tap water and there are no sanitation issues. But parts of Noumea are dirty and graffiti tags are everywhere. We saw many vehicles driving with broken windscreens, and there are ramshackle houses and dilapidated apartment buildings. We hired e-bikes from Noumea Fun Ride at the cruise ship terminal. Noumea is hilly and the e-bikes made it easy to explore the rich and the poor areas, all the way from the Latin quarter, the length of the harbour to the tourist strip of Baie des Citrons and Anse Vata Beach.

Retirees play petanque at Anse Vata Beach.

From Anse Vata water taxis ply backwards and forwards to Duck Island, with its underwater snorkel trail. At Anse Vata there are shops and cafes and the high-end hotels. Baie des Citrons is sheltered and calm with two swimming platforms from which you can swim and snorkel. (It was here I saw my first sea-snake. While highly venomous I was told they are apparently harmless as their jaws are not wide enough to deliver a bite.) At Baie des Citrons we hired Segways for a roll along the esplanade, and spent several evenings enjoying a beer and the live music of FROG (Fred et les Ogres) at La Barca café.

I shot this from La Barca Cafe, Baie des Citrons.

Thanks to Isabelle our stay in Noumea went off the tourist map to her favourite places of her adopted home. We took a picnic to Kuendo Beach, a short drive from central Noumea on the Nouville peninsula. The tranquil waters of Kuendo are sheltered by high dry hills where we took a potholed dirt track to Fort Tereka to where canons have held vigil since 1877 over the magnificent vista of the Noumea lagoon and the Coral Sea beyond.

Picnic at Kuendo Beach

Then Isabelle drove us to a secret swimming spot on the Dumbea River in the hills behind Noumea. There the water is as clear as glass and freshwater fish swam around me as I trod water watching our boys leap into the river from overhanging trees. Rainforest covered the mountain towering above the river. Isabelle sat on the bank and dozed. It was paradise.

“Saute, Saute” Jumping in the Dumbea River.

The following day we headed to le Grand Sud and le Parc provincial de la Rivière Bleue. It was a cool day, the only day too cool for swimming, so we took the park guide bus to see the Kaori trees, forest giants said to be more than 1000 years old. This wild and remote country reminded me of parts of Australia with its red soil and thick forest. In the dark of the rainforest, just past the largest Kaori dwarfing all else we saw the Cagou picking its way along the forest floor. This is New Caledonia’s emblem, a large and unfrightened flightless bird, now threatened with extinction.

The red sands of le Grand Sud.

On another day, following Isabelle’s insistence, we took a day drip to Amedee Island on the Mary D. The 45 minute trip from Port Moselle was calm enough for a coffee and croissant breakfast. This tiny islet, dominated by its 1865 lighthouse, marks one of the few entrances to the lagoon through the coral reef. Green sea turtles underneath the jetty enticed us into the water and we snorkeled with them and scores of fish of all colours, large and small. At the top of the lighthouse, you can see for miles back to the main Island La Grande Terre and the little islets, sandbars and coral shoals which make the reef the second largest in the world.

From the top of the Amedee lighthouse you can see for miles.

“You cannot come to La Nouvelle Caledonie without seeing Île des Pins,” Isabelle said. So we took her advice. You can read about this adventure in my next blog post here.