“Call me Ishmael. Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.”

Rough sky, rough sea. Bali.

Fish, Beirut.

Yacht, Greece.

Hard lines, Mozambique.

Echo Beach, Bali

Hanging octupus, Greece.

Dog and beach, Thailand.

Turtle Island, Bali

Wave cusp, Victoria Bay, RSA

Tammy and India, Yzerfontein, RSA

Elephant seals, Big Sur, California.

The Bay, the bridge. California.

Yacht at night, Turkey.

Echo Beach brake, Bali. No filter.

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(15 Photos)

One of the pleasure was riding through the famous Wynwood Art District, and I’ve tried to include a few of those shots.

The 72's gold flake peanut tank.

A Fatboy.

The H-D 72. Beautiful bike.

Dennis Tau, looking the part.

The guys from Miami Ink.

Graffiti, Wynwood Art District.

Yep. It's Miami. A Maserati.

Riding past Miami Heat mural.

Beautiful old Airstream caravan.

Victim and prey.

Industrial beauty.

Tank, a Steppenwolf homage.

You know it belongs here.

Beautifully painted peanut tank.

Stars and Stripes recovery vehicle.

In the Harley-Davidson world, where romantic myth meets extreme pragmatism, and where nostalgia and modern ideas of beauty compete for the same tank space, perhaps the most intriguing thing to learn is that the company tried to have the motorcycles’ distinctive “potato-potato” sound registered as a trademark in 1994.

It’s like trying to own ephemera, to codify emotion, to run down a dream. How does the Tom Petty driving song go? “It was a beautiful day, the sun beat down… I was flyin’, yeah, runnin’ down a dream that never would come to me, workin’ on a mystery, goin’ wherever it leads, runnin’ down a dream.” Tom Petty! Good grief.

Next I’ll be humming Born to be Wild. And that, in a not so startling nutshell, is what Harley peddles. The American Dream.

Well, let’s call it an American dream. When forced to trade in beautiful cliché, it pays to be nonspecific. Especially as I’m in Miami, Florida, where the soundtrack is more likely to be Lil Wayne than Steppenwolf. I’m here to experience the launch of the 28 motorcycles in Harley’s 2012 range and also to gain some insight into their marketing message, the Art of ­Custom.

(Read the rest on the Mail & Guardian)

I’ve indulged myself by picking twelve of my favourite photos I’ve taken while travelling, and appending some short explanations of why I like them. I’m not a real photographer, so although I kinda like the composition of some, it’s more about how the subject matter, and the experience of where i was, coincide to make meaning for me. But take a look, and let me know if you like any. The pics’ captions are at the bottom of the shots.

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As part of the US State Dept Foreign Press tour I’ve just been on – one focussed on social media – we visited the News Museum in Washington. Inspiring stuff, surprisingly. We forget how many journalists do great work, and sometimes get killed doing so.

Here are a few pics of the place.

The food in Lebanon is startlingly good. Try the Fattoush, a salad of toasted pita bread, cucumbers, tomatoes, chickweed, and mint, the Baba ghanouj (which you won’t need described), and the Fuul, slow cooked mash of brown beans and red lentils dressed with lemon olive oil and cumin. (Descriptions courtesy wikipedia).

Worth a little mortal fear, any day.

Monument created out old tanks

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Visited Nieu Bethesda in December, to see the Owl House. Crazy, strangely tragic place. Back story for those who might not know it, is that Helen Martins spent from 1945 to 1976 decorating her house with strange statues of cement, and colourful crushed glass. She was joined by Koos Malgas in 1964, and he sculpted most of the statues.

People theorise that this was Helen’s response to parental abuse as a child. According to Wikipedia. “Her lifelong exposure to the fine crushed glass she used to decorate her walls and ceilings caused her eyesight to start failing in 1976. She committed suicide on August 8, 1976 by ingesting caustic soda, aged 78.”

Disturbing place. You should visit, if you’re in SA and interested in outsider art.

I’ve always wanted to go to L. Ron Hubbard’s house in Johannesburg, and I finally got my chance when we went to make a video about Scientology in South Africa.

As a science fiction fan, I was fascinated by the collection of magazines and books from the Golden Age of Sci Fi, the 30s and onwards. Say what you will about L. Ron, he could write some bodice ripping alien stuff with the best of them.

And the house is beautiful, a perfect 50s split level house. Could be in the hills of LA.

As to the religion itself – take a look at the video we made about the house, and including an interview with the head of Scientology in SA.

Watch it HERE on the M&G.

I had the privilege of driving across Pakistan last year. These images include the amazing truck-modifying workshop outside (I think) Islamabad.