Recess In The Rain

Following the volunteer trail in Bali 

“Miss miss. wee gaw aut pleee. Football. Raining. pleee mis” came the precious plea's from Mila, an inqusitive but audacious balinese girl as the classroom comes to an abrupt standstill.

It is early Feburary in Petak, and the rainy season has bestowed its magic, splattering the countryside in a variety of colour, embelishing the rice fields and leaving a pastel of life, light and ripeness in its wake. Being from Ireland, I never would have expected to feel such a positive stir about the coming of rain!

Its Bali, and it's alive. No hotels, no beaches, no stall vendors, no massage parlours, no motorbike engines, no familiar english accents, no tourists. All that remains here in Petak among the outside noises, smiling kids and colour, is

the constant voice in my head screaming “Why are you here?”

Out of the classroom we go, fifteen smiling kids aged 6 to 17 welling with excitement about showing their teacher where they spend all their free time. The rice fields, tucked away behind the bustle of the village and the watching eyes of the adults. Out through the courtyard past the older ladies skinning bamboo, picking petals and waving incense sticks to make the daily offerings which adorn every doorway. One woman in particular gives me a wink as she does most days, a wink of approval I assume. With Balinese being such a unique language, gestures ease my daily interactions.

With two six year old hands pulling me either side, and kids on all sides of me like miniature bodyguards, we proceed up the main road under the coconut trees, the rain refreshing sweat-drenched skin. The aroma of incense has finally reached my nose, a smell that I am becoming very familiar with.

It must be harvest time, because as we pass in front of the houses, there are enormous tarps laid out covered in freshly picked rice. Mila explains to me that this process is an important one in which they leave the rice out for days so it can dry, before it is packed and sent away. The mums, dads, babies and dogs are outside waving and shouting us on, some are washing themselves and their babies in the duct. Not an umbrella in sight! The dogs lazily saunter along side us, their bones protruding from their skin.

When we reach the rice field the rain has stopped, but the fields are glazed with fresh rain water and ready for some muddy football. The boys strip down to thier shorts and jump straight into action attempting to impress the girls with their Beckham poses. The girls politely sit themselves on the edge of the field blushing, pretending not to notice and making pretty designs from the reeds and flowers just like the older ladies back in the courtyard or sometimes practising their Pendet dancing. The workers in the other rice fields, weighed down with rice plants on their backs, look on for a moment at all the commotion, and with a little roll of the eyes and a smile, they get back to slicing the dripping rice leaves. The kids are busy and happy so I have a moment of quiet reflection. A moment to observe them outside of the classroom in their world . Kids really are the same the world over and that is reassuring.

As I gather up my troupe unwillingly to go back into the classroom, Mila turns back with a mischievous grin and says “I hope come rain tomorrow. We show you to take coconuts from tree”, and it is with that all my questions and doubts are answered. Volunteering in a place like this has taught me so much more than I ever could have taught the kids back in the classroom waiting for me. With a huge smile and a little skip, I head back toward the school, kicking the puddles and humming as I go.

Lonely Corners

In search of a lonely corner in Australia's Outback

With a deep burnt red luscious sand tingling my exhausted toes and a dreamy expanse of open green water, I am perched on the edge of a cliff in Australia's desolate outback Nullarbor region on the south coast.  The incessant bizz buzz of brave flies encapsulate my face, and are trying with great vigour to dampen my moment of splendid isolation. Peaceful and lonely moments are rare these days, and I am slowly learning to share my little space on this planet with mosquitoes, sand flies, locusts, cockroaches and all such pesky insects that inhibit the southern tropics.

The Nullarbor is a desolate expanse of land crossing the breadth of the Australian continent, and it is a land mass of absolute nothingness, complete nothingness for thousands of kilometers. There are no houses, towns or cities, nothing worth stopping for, and no sign of civilisation which we know it. If you  happened to wake up here some day in some unfortunate situation, you would be quite right to assume that the world had finally ended and this was all that was left, or that you were abducted by aliens and they took you to some distant planet. There is even an area in the outback called the moon plains, because it so closely resembles the surface of the moon.

It is this nothingness however that makes this place so unique, and it's this complete desolation that attracted me in the first place. If you are seeking culture, cafe's, art and sensual stimulation, then the Nullarbor and the interior of Australia is not for you. For me, the charm and the beauty of this place lies in its isolation and lonlienss.

An endless, smouldering horizon is stretched straight out in front of me like an blurred steamy mirage. The road in front never seems to end, and it never seems to turn left or right, just a straight chunk of tarmac carved right through the centre of a sparse red desert as far as the eye can see. The flat, stretched landscape on either side accentuates this terrifying feeling of nothingness. Now and then, there are signs of life through the mirage. Camels are often roaming the sandy plains in the distance, Kanagroos and wallabies bouncing alongside the road, dead snake sins litter the road side. 

Given that I originally come from a tiny island in Europe that can be crossed by car in 4 hours, and where civilisation is never more than an hour away, it was an astounding experience to drive through the middle of nowhere. Deafening silence dominates apart from the hum of stinking heat steaming up from the ground in waves and the occasional rattle of the engine. It is with total fear that we encounter such places because we are not accustomed to such quiet isolation. Horror movies such as Wolkcreek were never far from my mind throughout the whole trip. Anything is possible out here, and whatever does happen, will not be witnessed by another living soul. Its no wonder that  it makes for such an alluring backdrop for horror films. 

Civilisation manages to punctuate the desolate outback in random and unexpected places. You can experience either of two things, friendliness served with a cold beer and a smile, or the strangely eccentric. On my trip, I was lucky enough to experience both of these things in one small place called Barrow Creek. To describe it as a town wouldn't be fair to the traditional definition of a town....

As the dusty road in front of us was starting to get gobbled up by the falling sun on the horizon, Barrow Creek came into view. Perfect timing because you don't want to be driving at night in the outback. There was an old creeking petrol station with a small bar attached, and that was all that we could see popping up from the sparse flat desert. Like in most 'towns' in the outback, the essentials are ever present, Petrol (to get you the hell out of there), and a drinking establishment or watering hole. What else could you want in the middle of nowhere?

With very little petrol left in the tank (not having extra supplies stored in the car was a lesson well learnt on this trip), and not very much money in the piggy bank, we rolled into Barrow Creek in hope of a spot to park the van and sleep for the night. We ended up getting a lot more than we had anticipated. or even dreamed of..

The tense and intimidating moment when you carefully open the door of a very local bar and anticipate the reception is a priceless one. Everyone has been to a local bar in a small town before, and knows the feeling of walking into one of these such bars. If you consider that the next closest town or even the next closest house or person to Barrow Creek is at least 1,000 KMs away tends to heighten this expectation. 

In this instance though, we were confronted with a very familiar sound. That sound was the diddely-do, fiddely di melodies of Irish trad music. Of course we had the usual stunned faces, everyone stopping what they were doing and rooted to the spot reaction too, but at least the sounds of home eased the situation somewhat. 

The walls of the little cosy bar was covered from top to bottom in ID cards (sounds like a perfect horror movie?), money and hand written comments all of which gave the place a warm and homely feel. As we later found out from the landlady, who was originally from Ireland, they were having a special St. Patricks day in July to celebrate her son's birthday. What she didn't tell us though was that she was going to use us in her grand scheme of lies to the rest of the town (total population 10)! She managed to convince the punters(all 4 of them) at the bar that she had us especially flown in from Ireland to Barrow Creek as entertainment for this special occasion. She was completely astounded that we happened to walk in the door on this particular night of all nights and that 'real' Irish people from Ireland still exist in the world out there. People who live in such isolated places have to be somewhat psychologically affected, when from one week to the next they see don't see any other person. In fact the Greyhound bus which only pulls into the petrol station once a week is the cause of some excitement amongst the locals, especially the men. They seem to know the ETA with precision and almost count it down with grand anticipation. The prospect of  new blood arriving caused quite a stir the night we were there. When no one disembarked from the coach (being 2am), the excitement quickly died down.

The night ended up being one of those unique and memorable experiences that satisfied my desire to get to the heart of real Australia, local Australia. Mission accomplished!!!!We got served free beer for the evening in exchange for a playing a few Irish tunes on the guitar, and we got a peculiar insight into the psyche of the kind of people who decide to live in such lonely corners of the world. 

FRASER ISLAND adventure with the Dingoes

According to Wikipedia, camping out involves: The participants, known as campers, leave urban areas, their home region, or civilization and enjoy nature while spending one or several nights, usually at a campsite, which may have cabins. Camping may involve the use of a tent.

The Fraser island camping experience has given a whole new dimension to this nice definition. Yes, we left our urban area to “enjoy” nature, and yes it did involve a tent (however diabolical) but this tent was not Dingo proof. We gave a whole new meaning to the pastime of camping! You could say an irish stamp was firmly put on this aussie pastime!

Leaving Sydney, the safe urban blanket that we have called home for the last 6 months, it was necessary to have something in between, a preparation if you will before heading to the wilds of Fraser Island. That in between place was called Hervey bay, and is the gateway for the Island, and this is where we flew into for a few nights.

Generosity and sincerity from strangers is not something which has played a major role in all my travelling life so far. Maybe it’s the deeply entrenched cynicism of the modern age, or our generation’s scepticism of strangers, that caused us to almost keel over in shock at a certain act of kindness.

When a local man in a local bar very willingly and courageously offered us the keys to his empty beachfront apartment in Hervey bay, of course our first and most natural reaction was WIERDO! PSYCHO! Norman Bates and all things similar flashed through the mind….

The part of my brain that registers the serial killer thoughts, kidnappings, and all things of a sinister nature was for once shouted down by my trusting, relaxed and carpe diem side. Maybe it’s something in the aussie air, that made us take this kind man up on his offer and spend the following two nights in a luxury apartment overlooking the sea as opposed to a bed-bug-ridden hostel. When asked why he was being so generous and trusting to two leprchaunish Irish people, he simply responded “I am paying it forward.” (If you have not seen the film, then this comment will not make much sense).

In re-telling this story back on solid soil to city dwellers, the reaction was much the same as we initially had, suspicious and untrusting: “I’ve got two words for you………………………………………………………………..Hidden camera’s!!!!”

Standing in the foyer of the hostel glaring at all the photographs and newspaper cuttings of previous expeditions to Fraser by young travellers, it became clear that disaster was imminent, and it was only a matter of time before we too crashed or overturned our jeep and ended up dead, or even worse eaten by dingoes! The preparation briefing (which was compulsory) later that evening did nothing to ease some of the worries. In fact scare mongering seemed to be the order of the day with the sullen instructor setting out the rules of our self drive. We were being bullied and badgered into being sensible and careful with the use of bloody images and videos. It then started to sink in: we were going to get into a 4x4 pink jeep with three other strangers (whom we had yet to meet), driving off road and spending some days and nights together in the wilderness amongst wild dogs, bull sharks, snakes and various other venomous creatures which Australia is home to. Fraser Island in particular boasts the largest colonies of Dingo in the country and is also the breeding ground for bull sharks. And all of this with absolutely no means of contact to the outside! To most likeminded city dwellers, this would describe their biggest nightmare. I, on the other hand, once the initial panic subsided, only felt a rush of adrenalin and excitement for the unknown. What I couldn’t quite figure out though was if the other girls with me (girls from my home who are dear to me and who I know incredibly well) were feeling the same excitement, or if the stunned look on their faces was more panic?

At the end of the briefing, in a room full to the brim with expectations, we were most worried about who would be accompanying us on our self drive? Scanning the room, the options did not prove promising with a group of rather young, raucous and tanned American college kids occupying most of the room. Luckily the cheerful instructor decided it would be great idea to group us with three (similarly raucous but not so tanned) boys from Dublin. In a sense, I think he was aiming for a paddy wagon, a pink paddy wagon. PHEW! At least we all spoke the same language and had the same humour, although in retrospect even that is debatable.

We were also secretly delighted to have some males in the jeep with us, and that’s certainly not to suggest that we are feeble and incapable females, but the security of some extra muscle on a deserted island was somewhat reassuring. Well, lets be honest, sometimes it’s just nice to be a helpless and an incapable female in need of protection, and in the end we definitely played that role when we needed to! They pitched tents, cooked food on the fire, scared the dingoes away and comforted us with ghost stories when we were scared!

Muscles however are of no concern to dingoes (those wild Aussie dogs who were once accused of eating a baby). While many people at home have since commented disappointingly that dingoes are nothing more than large foxes, I can honestly say that up close and personal they are undeniably unlike foxes. Foxes would not purposely and viciously collapse your tent in the middle of the night, and they certainly would not eat a human being. Dingoes steal and pillage everything in sight including clothes which I found out the hard way. You cannot leave clothes drying in the natural breeze on this island! I’ve no doubt that my ultra-trendy H&M ra-ra skirt is now lining some dingoes den and providing warmth and comfort for lots of dingo babies. If dingoes could talk, I am sure they would be saying something along the lines of: “look at all these dumb two-legged lobster skinned people littering our beaches, drinking our water, digging our sand and stealing our jobs. Why do they insist on travelling in packs? If only we could get one of them alone, now that would be some meal lads! Big juicy bums squatting over holes in the sand are just asking to be devoured!”

From beginning to end, the three day trip was dominated with a constant and irrational fear of the dingo. So much so that the word dingo was banned (along with the ‘C’ word), and we had to refer to them simply as the ‘D’ things. We were walking around saying CINGOES, and DUNTS.

There is always this innate and deep fear for things that we cannot see (as is the recipe for every terrible horror movie), and not being able to see the dingoes at night while we were tucked up in our sung tents, only intensified this fear. The sniffing noises preceded by the soft padding on the sand were enough for the girls to work up an insanely irrational image in our minds.  This reached its climax on the final night at camp. With bellies full of homemade campfire food, and our minds stimulated with cheap Aussie beer, everyone fell into their tents. Panic however set in quickly after when I realised that I still had a bar of chocolate in my jeans pocket in the tent (bearing in mind that we were warned on several occasions to keep ALL food locked in the van so as not to attract the ‘D’s) . It goes without saying that the last night on the island was a very restless one and despite the large quantities of alcohol consumed, I counted the minutes until the sun rose.

Fraser Island with all its dangers and traps was a rare and unique experience which pushed me to my limits at times, but kept me begging for more. Three days certainly was not enough to explore its wonders, and had I the opportunity to return once again with the same group of people (in fact the boys have since followed us back to Sydney and are living with us. Who ever said travelling friendships never last?), I would jump at it.

180 cans of beer consumed in the 3 days, no shower for three days, loss of all inhibitions and dignity, sand lodged in cracks unimaginable, reaching new heights of fear and inebriation. But.....................venturing into the wilderness with five other clueless, good- humoured paddies……Priceless!!!!

There are some things that money cannot buy, but for everything else, there’s Fraser Island.

SURFING for beginners and White-skinned Irish chancers

Being a brand new arrival to the warm shores of Australia, along with all the other immigrants/travellers, surfing has captured my attention. Here are some tips that might be helpful for those who are not born into the beautiful sport and might find the whole surfing thing a bit daunting:

                        

1) Always always always wear sun cream (even with a wet suit), and especially so if you are Irish or of the fair skin disposition. The phrase “burnt to a cinder” cannot be overstated here. Learning lessons the hard way seems to be a reoccuring feature of my several surfing outings.

2) Never get an Aussie instructor initially. This is important for several reasons:

Their attitude toward dangerous sea creatures is just too relaxed and calm. They surf at dawn and duck, which is also chark feeding time. They will steal your factor 50 sun cream, even though they don't really need it for their bronzed golden brown skin.

They mistakenly assume that you have an adequate background knowledge of the sport and all the dangers, and throw you right in the deep end. Ireland is an island right? so we should be well equipped to deal with the monterous waves.
They seem to get endless amusement from the mere sight of all us silly tourists/ foreigners trying to hold on to the board for dear life. This certainly does't help confidence!

Instead, find yourself a cool relaxed surfer dude with a profound knowledge of this country but without the passport. We picked up one from Longford (a.k.a Frank the tank) and he proved to be extremely understanding, if a bit frustrated with us at times.

3)Always throw your board away from you as a large wave approaches, again a lesson learnt the hard way. Don’t forget however that it is still attached to your ankle with a string, so it WIll come back to you!

4)Always arch your back while lying on the board as a wave approaches, with your fingers gripped and eyes focused straight ahead.

5)Check for rip curls before venturing into the water. If you don’t know what they are look for the other professional surfers in the water, and go to the OPPOSITE end of the beach.

6)Wet suits are an absolutely essential item for several vital reasons:

Unless you want your bikini bottoms/ shorts floating back to sea without you, and your down under regions exposed to the whole beach of bronzed beauties, you will get a wet suit.. This rules also extends to your top half (for girls only). To avoid those grotesque farmer tan lines, again a full-body wet suit is advisable.

7)When chilling on the beach before or after surfing, never leave your board lying in the sand with the little fins on the back sticking in the sand. This important information was volunteered to us kindly by two passing Aussie surfers on Manly beach while they stopped to “borrow” some sun cream.

8)Despite rumours that providing your own transport to get to your surfing location is the best option, we discovered otherwise.

With one of our group having spent $ 1,000 on a car (more like a pimped shopping trolley), it seemed the likely choice to get us from the city to the beach.It got us there in one piece and in flying form, however our return trip was quite a different experience.

Our “experienced” driver drove the car head first into a pole, dismantling the whole front bumper and annihilating the front light. This however, should never deter an enthusiastic surfer and a dedicated traveller.....

Our experienced surfer (among other things) Frank, strapped up the sick car using a large rope to hold the bumper in place and so we continued on our way.

Regardless of the suspicious and judgemental looks thrown our way in North Sydney’s business district, we chugged on home like hillbillies, or pikies might be more appropriate. In a situation like this, all you need is a sense of humour (of which we had buckets), some classic ghetto music such as Snoop dog’s “Gin and juice”, or Limp Bizkit’s “Rollin” and a big smile, while the smartly dressed people's heads turned all the way home.

To avoid all this take the ferry or the bus, as all are surf board friendly

9) Finally, and most importantly, enjoy the experience, throw caution to the wind, forget that there could be a number of vicious creatures below just waiting to take a chomp at you, forget how idiotic you look to the outside world. Remember you are not at home, and here anything goes...

If all else fails, just pretend you are drowning (and hence not a terrible surfer) to get elegantly rescued by one of the many sexy and friendly beach lifeguards. Or, if you are as lucky as Frank, you will end up on Bondi rescue for all the folks at home to see

Nightlife in Sydney (on a shoestring)

Much like in Ireland and the UK, the social scene in Australia revolves around alcohol. The drinking culture here almost mirrors that of home in that we all recognise there is a serious problem with alcohol, and in particular binge drinking, and the general chaos that results from it. The one crucial difference however is that the Aussies are attempting to tackle the problem head-on with serious solutions. Are they trying to raise the drinking age, like a certain government (who shall not be named) is at the moment? OR, are they attempting to close down all off licences at the early time of 10pm? No, in fact they put the responsibility on the owners of the venues with harsh fines imposed on any place found allowing under 18 year olds to enter. Similarly they only sell alcohol in BOTTLE SHOPS, which is quite a fancy word for off-licence.

So, taking all this on board, the fact that alcohol is more difficult to get your hands on, and that getting into places can be sometimes a serious battle, how is it that there is any kind of social life at all here in Sydney? Here are a few tips for maximising your enjoyment on nights out, and how to do it with without burning too much of a hole in your pocket in this expensive city:

When it comes to the finer elements in life like high calibre vino, the Aussies have their own unique way of doing things. If you haven’t visited Australia yet, I shall allow you to continue living with the idealistic notion that Australia makes some of the finest wine, world renowned, and indeed you would be right, to a point.

Something which these clever Aussies have managed to keep a secret from us in the northern hemisphere is GOON. If you haven’t already guessed, Goon is a beverage of the alcoholic kind. It can also be used loosely as a verb as well as a noun. To “be on the goon” is a common expression used by those wishing to morally escape whatever unsavoury deeds they were engaging in the previous night. In a nutshell, it is “fake” wine (made from fish among other things) in a cardboard box, and retails at a pricey $15 (7 Euro) for 5 litres, and available in all good bottle shops. It must be said that Goon is quite possibly the finest invention for backpackers and those trying to save a penny or two, since Dutch Gold became an acceptable feature of D4 life.

When you first take a sip of this wonderful “wine” you will feel as if you are quite literally drinking from a toilet bowl. For first timers, it can only be endured with a pinched nose and the head held back. However, the more time spent here, and the more countless nights of having a hole burned in your pocket, the advantages, and in fact the taste of Goon begins to reveal itself. After many months, I can now drink Goon without the pinched nose, and in fact with a twist of lemon, I can endure it quite happily ,and thus not having to spend my life savings on a good night out in Sydney.

If beer is your chosen poison, there is some adjusting to do in size! Pints as we know them in the rest of the world are not really done here. Down under, a pint of beer is switched for a SCHOONER of beer. It is like a mini pint, in other words what the ladies at home would order if they didn’t want to be seen drinking a pint. On reflection, the Schooner is a very clever invention, and something the Aussies definitely got right. Imagine drinking a whole pint on a really hot day, with the sweat pouring down your face. Now, imagine how warm the beer gets by the time you reach the half way mark. We all know there is nothing worse than warm beer on a sweltering day!!

Armed with the most superb Goon or schooners inside your body, the next battle you meet is attempting to enter a venue, and if anything can ruin your night more in Sydney, it is the bouncers/doormen.

While bouncers are naturally meant to exude that menacing and firm attitude the world over, there is a particular breed here. It is more like the all blacks rugby team lined up at the door blocking your entry. There is no messing, or even joking with these massive tattooed Maori men. If you are lucky enough and succeed in getting past these men, and passing the “too drunk” test, you then have to be careful that you don’t get dragged out half way through the night by the scruff of the neck for “loitering” or “looking suspicious”. In fact even dancing in a strange way can get you thrown in the gutter outside. Many nights out here ended prematurely because members of our party (usually the Irish boys) were picked out of the crowd and deposited swiftly on the street outside, with not so much as an explanation.

The bouncers are so fascist here, we have developed a little game to make our encounters with them more pleasant. “Who can make the bouncer smile?” with a free drink for the first person to succeed. Lets just say its like trying to get blood from a stone.

Despite all the numerous ploys and tactics the government and the authorities alike have adopted to prevent us from drinking and enjoying ourselves, we have proved time and time again the power of the Irish stereotype. So much so that it has been enforced and imprinted on this fine country:Yes! We enjoy a drink or two! And, Yes! We (I use the term “we” broadly) sometimes get involved in brawls and bust-ups! The good ‘ol fighting Irish are in flying form down under in 2009, and its not just a myth from the past. After all the hard toil put in by the previous generations of Irish immigrants to ensure that the world welcomed and loved the Irish, we have now managed to destroy this image in a matter of years, and give the Aussies a fresh way of looking at the Irish, that is “inbred drunkards.” Living in the terraces has done nothing whatsoever to defuse this harsh stereotype!

While all the above is mostly applied to the wider social scene in the city centre, there are also the local pubs and hang outs to be considered. Considering the fact that most Aussie's live in the suburbs, the local pubs are where some of the most random nights have taken place, and if you are brave enough to venture out of the cities and into the smaller towns in the country, knowledge of the local pub environment is vital.

All local pubs share many common features, so by describing my own local is sufficient to give an impression across the board.

“The Vic” around the corner, is like any British pub, straight out of a dubious soap. If you imagine the bar from coronation street, then this will paint an accurate mental image. The musty flowery carpet is disguised with the  steel garden chairs acting as indoor furniture. The bright tacky lights disrtact attention from the smell reverberating off the interesting punters. All the walls are lined with cheap poker machines to hide the dirty paint. On Thursday and Fridays evenings, the bar girl serves drinks to all the punters in her underwear. This is an attempt at drawing a bigger crowd (and it certainly draws in the Irish boys from our place). However, this temptress bar girl is never dressed in expensive and sexy lingerie, just your average bra and knickers. I have to say, this is probably one of the most unique and original things I have ever experienced, and I am fronting a campaign to bring this to Irish pubs, in hope of boosting publicans sales.

Similarly the real locals who frequent this pub are a unique breed, and even more entertaining than any British soap. Even more entertaining than Fair City, and that’s saying a lot!! These type of characters is something which the Irish pub scene is also dearly lacking.

It must be said though, after the last number of months frequenting this local hangout, the sheer disgust has worn off, and in its place is a vertain kind of charm. The smell and bright lights don't bother me anymore, and the interesting punters have proven to provide endless hours of entertainment for us. To describe it as a charming little gem hidden in the south western suburbs of Sydney might be a slight exaggeration, however its appeal for the small irish ghetto living here is more noticaeble everyday.  

On a positive note, beers in the Vic are relatively cheap, $3 (1.50 Euro). Every coin has two sides, and when you can have a night out minus the arrogant bouncers, and come home with the change of a $20, then I know which side of the coin I prefer!