The One That Flew From His Mother’s Nest

Planning and my life have never gone hand in hand. Brought into this world mistakenly nine years after my parents last did the deed, a potentially faulty baby was born a pleasant surprise and things have worked out nicely since. That said, instead of diving into the endless pit of career opportunities a degree in journalism offers here in Ireland, I decided to avoid the stress of ‘real life’ and head to Australia a little over two years ago.

The timing of my decision coincided with the British and Irish Lions tour and with friends heading over for rugby mania it was only natural to join the sea of red and ease into my new environment. My plan? Follow the lads until they went home and hopefully stumble across some potential mates along the way.  My insurance policy? My darling sister married and living in Brisbane. The tour is a hazy memory at this stage. O’Driscoll was dropped. Gatland is the devil and I think we won. It was a whirlwind and to unwind after a liver damaging few weeks with ‘LIONS’ still echoing in our ears, we headed to Indonesia. Definitely a financially irresponsible decision on my part as it was a long way to go for a massage.

There wasn’t much to love about our first stop in Bali. Kuta was a pothole of a city. A feeding ground for the Australian mining population, it was a sleazy cesspit of corruption. Don’t get me wrong, the roulette players amongst you might find it delightful. Did he just spike my drink or was that sugar? Does this girl I’m dancing with have a penis or just really big hands? Is this taxi taking a short cut to my hostel or am I going to be raped in a lane by a nunchuck swinging midget in a cape?  Hitting nothing but double zeros, we cashed in our chips and headed to the Gili Islands in search of solace.

The people there were most welcoming, the island was free from motor vehicles and the food barely gave you the shits. If it wasn’t for the deeply depressed chap wailing over the intercoms in the middle of the night it was paradise. Ah yes, Ramadan. How could we forget the ninth month of the Islamic calendar observed by Muslims globally as a month of fasting to commemorate the first revelation of the Quran to Mohammad? Sure what better time of year for a gang of Irish pissheads to arrive? Luckily for us, the island’s natives were about as Muslim as we were Catholic. It was easy to get around the midnight noise curfew with silent discos and it seemed even easier to get around fasting by eating.

In fact, everything was accessible. The night before we were due to leave for the forests of Ubud, a couple of us discovered another stimulant in large supply and despite being warned against such activity, our willpower had been compromised. I woke the next morning contorted in a cold ball of suffering regretting the night before, and was in no state to take our early morning voyage to visit the monkeys. Like a selfless soldier on the front line I implored my troops to leave me behind as eventually our paths would separate anyway. Without needing much convincing, they were gone.  For three days I fended for myself. Each morning I’d allow the workers at my lodgings to secretly smoke up in my room while I scaled their banana trees foraging for the ingredients for homemade banana pancakes.

Miraculously I had recovered from my hangover in record time and powered through my first night alone. The last stop on the island’s pub crawl was a fair trek but the beach fire alone there was worth the hike. En route I bumped into two dishevelled souls unknowingly walking away from the party. Between insults we found some common ground and a few shots later we had known each other our whole lives.  We partied together for a couple of nights and coincidentally they were from Brisbane.  It’s incredible the people you meet when you’re forced to put yourself out there. Admittedly for every great person I met there were the few social recluses that I’d immediately regret introducing myself to, but sure who gets along with everybody?  These fellas were spot on though. A good knowledge of sport complimented by a good taste in music and they could throw some banter over a few beers to boot. What more could you want? Well maybe for them to hang around a bit longer because before you knew it, they were on a boat out of my life. One minute you’re necking whiskeys revelling in bromance at sunrise, the next you’re walking home haggard and shoeless pleading for directions to a hotel you can’t remember.

I got back to my sister in Brisbane in one piece physically but my mind was in a thousand places. Suddenly things were real. I had very little money, no real friends in Brisbane and no obvious job prospects. I had no intention of going straight into a fruit picking job on some desolate farm and I was beginning to question whether I would last any length of time in Australia at all. Thankfully my sister’s husband invited me to an AFL game in the Gabba to watch his beloved Brisbane Lions and it was a much needed escape from pondering life. The stadium was rocking as the Western Bulldogs had come to town. 40,000 seater stadium packed to capacity. Beer in each hand. This was more like it.  I hadn’t taken my seat 5 minutes before I was tipped on the shoulder. ‘In the wrong seat no doubt’, I thought to myself. Not even close. As fate would have it, it was one of the Brisbane boys from Gili Trawangan one row back. I don’t know if he was as surprised as I was but inside I was bursting with excitement while obviously trying to play it as cool as possible. Suddenly things were looking up.