ciaransgapyear

No Regrets

2011-05-21T04:53:00.000-07:00

Right now in my home town of Galway, there is a lovely video doing the rounds in which 50 people are approached by a camera crew on the street and asked what is their biggest regret in life.
It's quite poignant, too. One lad about my age regrets all his heavy drinking in the past while an older man regrets that he didn't marry his childhood sweetheart, who emigrated to Canada ... although he did manage to catch up with her, and finally marry her, after a gap of 50 years.
The sheer human warmth of these ordinary people on the narrow streets of the city shines through the video and it's striking to see how many of them are taken aback by the question.
Before I left Ireland, in January of last year, my biggest fear was that I would always regret not taking the chance to take a career break, get away, and travel the world.
I fretted and proctrastinated for months before deciding that, yes, I would leave the 'safe harbour' of Galway behind for a year. I worried about the house, the money, the career path, silly things that don't count.
My elderly parents were fearful, but otherwise nearly everyone I knew realised that it was a good thing for me. I had let the tragedies I experienced in my early 20s curtail my sense of adventure and it had taken an awful long time to regain it, to go out and explore.
I had fears about being too old to become a divemaster, about the cost of the year on the road, about the crime problems or my limited grasp of Spanish ahead of my trip to Central America.
And, guess what, all of my fears were unfounded.
I've read quite a few Buddhist books over the last few years and the one message I've taken from them is the importance of living in the here and now.
There is no point in dwelling on the tragedies or mistakes of the past, or worrying about the future. Life is for living in the here and now, right now, here today.
If people in my life left us too young, well that's way back in the past now and other people experience tragedies every day.
I'm just back in Galway after two weeks of glorious sunshine in the Basque Country and Switzerland, my first holiday since my gap year. It is pissing rain outside and I feel like going back into hibernation mode, as I remember how much the West of Ireland climate can drive me crazy at times.
It's easy to forget that the weather was actually glorious all through March and April.
And I have my health, a loving family, and good friends, and so what if it is grey and depressing outside?
That video got me thinking . . . there really is no point in having any regrets in life.
If any one of us wants to change, the power is within us.
I never really planned for what it would be like to come home to the same house and job, because I had spent so much time and energy planning my gap year.
But when we are old and immobile, if we make it that far, none of us are going to regret that we didn't watch more TV or spend more time in the office, working overtime.
It's a cliche, but life is for living and it's all about the people we engage with on the way through it. It should be an adventure, whether lived in Salthill or Sydney.
On a day like today, some of us can have a tendency to withdraw from the world as the rain lashes down outside.
But the rain will pass and the people we love and care about are only a phone call or a short drive away.
So that's the biggest lesson I learned in 2010. No regrets. Because there is no point in regretting anything.
Most of the people in the video regretted things they HADN'T done. And that says it all, really, when we should focus on the present and get out and ejoy life!

Over and out

2011-02-10T14:52:00.000-08:00

The TD, who spoke less than five times through the whole duration of the last Irish parliament (or Dail), arrived at my parents' street this week to check out the locals' need for a new footpath.
Someone nearly died on a dangerous stretch of roadway, where I and my friends used to walk to school. So the politician turned up and offered to make a few calls.
Yes, my country is bankrupt, bailed out by the IMF because our bankers and politicians were so greedy or so stupid, and one of the guys who represents us in the national parliament wants to fix a bit of a road.
And that will 'buy' him votes? That's what it's all about?
Another local politician, who has no mandate from the people of my city, was co-opted into a position of privilege last year. And he, and others like him, use tax-payers' money to send out letters because there is an election on this month. Because they can.
The elderly parents, who gave 85 years between them to the service of the State, have had their pensions torn to shreds by the same Government and State. Because we need to pay off the bankers and the foreign bond-holders who have nothing to do with elderly West of Ireland people who bought their house 30-odd years ago.
The work-mate, younger than me, newly married and starting off in life, is down 800 euros a month and wondering if he can pay the mortgage any more. His other half worries that she may not hold onto her job.
The former work-mate, waiting anxiously every night for some good news over the phone, has found out within the last week that the health service she's laid her hopes on doesn't consider her, or anyone in her predicament, a priority. She has understandable rage, as everyone in the country waiting for a transplant has this week.
The old school-mate, who astounded Scottish medics when he battled bravely against a killer disease, was left waiting seven and a half hours in casualty after crashing his bicycle on one of our city's notorious pot-holed roads.
We have a health service that doesn't work and it cost me 275 euros to get an X-ray taken last week. And I'm one of the lucky ones who has private health cover.
Up in Mayo, farmers and fishermen in a small rural area have been terrorised by a multinational oil company who bought our off-shore gas rights for the lowest possible price. Only Cameroon sells off its assets for less than the Banana Republic.
And it was one of our wonderful West of Ireland politicians who sold off those rights when he was a Minister in the 1990s. He probably was distracted, he had a few footpaths to fix at the time.
I nearly cried last night as I watched 'The Pipe', a wonderful documentary about the savage treatment of the poor people of Rossport, Co. Mayo. To see the people of this rural community being arrested and humiliated for defending their land or their lobster pots made my blood boil.
The image of the little trawler up against the massive ship, escorted into the bay by our wonderful police service, will linger for a long time.
Arah, sure, it's good to be home.
I spent the last quarter of last year volunteering in Nicaragua and, the way things are going, foreign volunteers will be coming to help out my basket case of a country in a few years.
We had a chance and our greedy leaders blew it, along with their banker and developer buddies.
My gap year is over and it was wonderful, and now I'm back to work as a journalist through the biggest crisis this State has ever known.
The land which has always spat out its young people, under the iron fist of a foreign empire, has been betrayed by its own.
Interesting, if sad, times.
For me, 2010 was a wonderful year of growth and adventure, and I managed to get out of my 'comfort zone'. I needed it, and now I know that my future path is not set in stone or too predictable. Any of us can change.
But now everyone in Ireland needs to get out of their comfort zones.
We need to stop voting for the gobshites who think it's enough to make a few calls to fix our roads.
We need to stop voting for people with no vision, other than getting re-elected and looking after their friends.
We need to stop saying thanks to over-paid consultants after they blatantly rip us off with ridiculous prices when they present us with bills.
We need to show solidarity with people who have been terrorised in their Mayo homes.
We need to remember the value of community and friendship, after the madness of the Septic Tiger (thanks Hugo!) years. I learned in Nicaragua that material things or riches don't make us happy.
We need to tell the rotten, corrupt politicians what we really think of them instead of saying 'Arrah, it's grand, and wasn't his father a lovely man?'
We need to challenge bankers and bondholders who have no right to our pensions and taxes.
My gap year is over and I'm back home in interesting times.
Last night I was ashamed to be Irish when I watched what Shell and the State have done to the poor people of North Mayo.
We're a nation of cowards ... the whole West of Ireland should have been protesting when the Rossport 5 were sent to prison. In Ireland, the real criminals somehow don't end up in jail.
My gap year is over. Thanks for reading my blog.

Phenomenal reaction

2011-01-18T11:56:00.000-08:00

Well, I am into my third week back at work, and as the tan fades I'm left to wonder what is the lasting legacy of my wonderful gap year.
I've been thrilled by the reaction I have received back in Galway, both to my full page article in last week's Connacht and City Tribune and my 15 minute interview about my experiences in Nicaragua on Galway Bay FM today.
It was also delightful to meet so many people over the Christmas holidays who told me they were inspired by, or at least enjoyed, this blog.
Last week, I wrote honestly about what it was like to leave Ireland and work among the poorest of the poor in Nicaragua.
While us volunteers went there to help the locals, to boost the education of their children, I guess the locals themselves taught us foreigners an awful lot about enjoying life. Or just enjoying the simpler things in life, such as quality time with friends and family, in the here and now.
The article in the Connacht Tribune has received a massive response, as I guess a lot of us Irish are re-evaluating our values now that the country is bankrupt and has lost its sovereignty.
People have no faith in the politicians, bloated bankers, and greedy developers who pushed this country back to the brink of the third world.
People are upset because there are no jobs for the young, who are emigrating in droves again.
People also have no faith in the Church, whose priests abused so many innocent children with impunity.
There is real anger and a spirit, or need, for change in the air, and I guess that's why so many people were moved by my article.
I went to Nicaragua to help out people who are desperately poor compared to the Irish, but left thinking that they (not us) have a greater appreciation for the important things in life.
The world is not fair and Ireland, like Nicaragua, has had a pretty messed up past.
But this is not a time for self-pity and I guess my growth as a person over the past year, thanks to all my wonderful experiences, has struck a chord with people around me who are also looking for change.
It's sad to be back working in a newspaper in which the main stories of the first few weeks of the year are about job losses and rotten politicians who are trying to cling onto power.
But I've been really happy to see that my few scribblings have struck a chord with so many people in my home town.
Perhaps more Galwegians will go abroad to volunteer, or at least realize that compared to Nicaraguans or Haitians that they still have a lot of good things in life.
We're all searching for answers in these troubled, messed-up times.
The answer didn't scream out to me during all my wonderful travels in 2010.
But travelling and volunteering has been a blast, the best time in my life.
And the legacy of that is that I am not going to allow myself to slip back into self-pity caused by the weather or the tragedies I experienced in my 20s, or anything else in the present or the distant past.
Life is for living right now, it really is so true.
Whether you are out walking the prom in Galway or cruising on a bus through Nicaragua, with reggaeton blasting on the stereo.
Thanks a million to everyone who has given me so much positive feedback since I began this blog on a Thai island back in March.
I don't know where this blog is going, as the gap year has finished after all. But it has been great to share my trials and tribulations with you guys and to get such a phenomenal reaction at the end of my adventure.
On local radio today, I realized suddenly the magnitude of what I'd achieved in 2010 as the presenter on Galway Bay FM, Keith Finnegan, praised my bravery for heading off into the unknown for a year.
I never thought I was brave, I just knew I needed a change.
And any of us can break out of a rut if we have the courage to follow our dreams.
Even in troubled times, such as Ireland and Nicaragua are experiencing right now.
It's been a blast.
So thanks, everybody, for the phenomenal reaction to the blog, Tribune article, and radio interview.
As for the future ... Who knows? The onus is on each and every one of us to live for today, because none of us knows what's around the corner.
The poorest of the poor, in the tin huts outside Granada, taught me that you don't need material things to make the most of life.
Yes, it's been a blast, the best year of my life. Even if I have returned to a land in 'crisis', most of us have our health, good families, and good friends.
And, just like Nicaragua, our troubled history should give us strength to face an uncertain future.

A lasting legacy?

2011-01-13T17:12:00.000-08:00

The funny thing about my gap year is the fact that I never really planned for what it would be like to return home to my 'normal' life after all my adventures in Thailand, Malaysia, Spain, and Central America.
I spent so long planning the Divemaster course, Spanish lessons, and voluntary work, weighing up the magnitude of a full year away from home, that I put little thought into the dreaded return.
So, crash, bang, wallop ... suddenly it all came to an end and I found myself back in Galway during the coldest spell in memory, wondering what the hell I had let myself in for, with no car, my house rented out, and the 'delights' of a job I'd been so glad to leave behind 12 months ago on the horizon.
Hello, Galway. Brrr, it's cold!
It was good to see the family and friends, but I remembered how Irish people drink too much during a couple of sad encounters over the holidays. Not being all moralistic or anything, but Christmas at home can be a poignant or upsetting time for those who are not happy with their lives.
People drink too much, to try to forget, and then you see their nastier side when the drink doesn't suit them. I should know, I had enough horrible Christmases of my own after my little sister and my best friend both died around this time of year.
But that's way back in the past and time really does heal.
I know my parents were delighted to see me home, safe and sound, after 12 months of adventures far from their safe harbour.
It was great to go for a few beers with my closest buddies, to hear how they've been getting on with their lives. I do have incredible friends, even if I felt I was in a bit of a 'rut' here before I began my adventure.
The dreaded return to work conicided with an eclipse which made a wintry Galway morning even more depressing than usual ... the streets were deserted, it was dark, cold and windy, and I wanted to crawl back under the sheets or jump on the first plane to somewhere sunny.
A shiver of apprehension ran through me as I walked towards Market Street and the office I had left with so much expectation, hope, fear, and uncertainty 12 months before.
There is probably no more depressing day in the year than the first working day in January, especially for me after a full year of following my dreams. But given what has happened to the Irish economy, I kept reminding myself that I was lucky to have an interesting job to go back to.
And of course, once I walked through that door, the reality was nowhere near as bleak as I'd feared. If anything, I was delighted by the welcome of my colleagues over the first few days.
Ireland is in the throes of an economic crisis and the reviews of the year I'd missed could have plunged me into depression if I had let the radio reports and newspapers get to me.
But there also seems to be a genuine spirit of revolution in the air. People have finally tired of the sickening elite, including the Fianna Fail politicians, who have plunged the island into a mess, even if the sense of rebellion has come too late.
People look around and see the young emigrating again, pensioners and the low paid being punished for the crimes of over-paid greedy bankers, and wonder why did their uncles or grandfathers die fighting for this country.
In Nicaragua, the revolution means far more to the people, even if they are dirt poor.
And yet people in Ireland are re-evaluating their lives, wondering if they really needed all those apartments overseas or monstrous SUVs. They are beginning to remember that friends and family, health and happiness, are the most important things in life, and not the material things some went mad for during the Celtic Tiger years.
So the big question is whether there is any lasting legacy from my gap year? A Danish girl asked me that just before I left Nicaragua and I had no answer.
The truth is, I spent so much time planning 2010 I never really thought what 2011 would be like. I was a bit like a 'fat cat' banker, living life at 1,000 miles an hour without planning for what might lie ahead.
But I have had an amazing time and I am so full of gratitude that I was given, and took, the chance to sail away from my 'reality' for one year.
I don't think I will let myself feel I'm in a rut again. If I want to change my life, only I can change it and in 2010 I learned that there are wonderful people and opportunities out there in the big, bad world.
It is possible to leave wet and cold Ireland and dive every day in the tropical waters off Koh Lanta or help out the poorest of the poor in Nicaragua.
Trying to match a fulfilling life with paying the bills is perhaps the biggest dilemma for all of us.
I've learned to confront many of my fears, even if I probably still suffer from the lack of confidence which is the characteristic of many an Irish male. I was a different person when I was doing an amazingly rewarding job in Nicaragua and the challenge now is not to sink back into the cynical or self-pitying person who decided that Galway life was no fun some years ago.
Yes, I lost my sense of adventure prior to 2010 and it is amazing how some people wallow in misery while others live and love life to the full each day.
My land is in an economic mess at the moment and there is nothing to celebrate while people are losing their jobs and emigrating once again.
We're remembering our troubled history, which I was reminded of in Panama,where the desperate sacrificies of the 1850s Irish were conveniently forgotten back in their homeland.
During the Celtic Tiger years, nobody wanted to recall decades of forced emigration or how the Irish ended up down and out on the streets of London or New York. That script didn't fit in with the unsustainable frenzy or our new image of ourselves as 'sophisticated' Europeans with big property portfolios.
The 'nouveau riche' of Europe are poor again, but perhaps discovering the kind of values, the sheer fun, which made my time in Nicaragua so rewarding. Poor people seem to have more soul.
The Rubber Bandits confounded the D4 types with 'Horse Outside' because real Ireland's sense of fun and irreverence is in the housing estates of Limerick and a million miles from the likes of Ryan Turd and the late Gerry Ryan.
Getting away gave me a chance to review my home life from a distance and returning has challenged me to either take the changes I've experienced on board and build a happier life in Galway or to try out a whole new life, God knows where, in the longer-term.
I don't know where I will be in 12 months from now, but then again none of us really does.
All I know is that last year was the best of my life, that action can turn dreams into a new reality ... and for that I am hugely grateful, as well as for all the wonderful new friends I've made from all around the world.
The challenge now is to avoid slipping back into negativity and cynicism, to bring the wonderful experiences of the past year into whatever the future holds.
Feck it ... me horse is outside!

The A to Z of my incredible year

2010-12-30T16:20:00.001-08:00

Back in April, a group of us boarded a truck, armed to the teeth with water pistols and huge drums of back-up ammunition. Our mission was to spray everyone in sight as part of Thailand´s Songkran, or New Year, celebrations and it was one of the most joyous days of my life. Throughout the whole land, the biggest water fight in the whole world was taking place and it would have been impossible not to get involved.

Suddenly it dawned on me that I had a whole host of new friends on a beautiful island, Ko Lanta, a place which I had approached with a little trepidation as I began the PADI Divemaster course back in early January. Songkran reminded me of the importance of just having FUN for the sake of fun, without any need for alcohol or drugs.

And that was perhaps the dominant theme of my gap year ... to go out and live life to the full, to enjoy experiences such as learning Spanish, working with wonderful young Nicaraguans (for free), or turning the hobby I´ve loved for 12 years into a career or at least a professional qualification.

Along the way, I have met incredible people and renewed my faith in humanity, as well as in myself. On the night before I went to Central America, I had panic attacks and could not sleep. I wanted to cancel the last third of my trip. But facing my fears, and overcoming them, has been hugely rewarding in 2010. There really is nothing to fear but fear itself, as the saying goes.

Anyway, as we face into an uncertain (and what promises to be a less soaky, even in Galway!) New Year, I thought I would compile an A to Z of my wonderful gap year. It´s been a chance of a lifetime and I think I´ve learned that people who pass 40, or 30, or any milestone, should never think it´s too late to get away from ´reality´ and follow their dreams!

A is for ACCEPTANCE ... things don´t always go according to plan, and you have to learn to adapt and accept. Such as when a Skype link fails in a Nicaraguan school or you find yourself deserted on a Caribbean island, due to stormy seas. It´s also for ACCOMMODATION, I really did learn that I can live in a simple beach hut, without creature comforts, and just one rucksack worth of belongings in 2010.

B is for BASQUE COUNTRY ... I was there for the entire World Cup and to say that they didn´t exactly share in Spain´s glory is a bit of an understatement. They showed me how divided Spain is, with a language which was suppressed under Franco just as the Brits tried to kill off An Gaeilge here in Ireland. It´s also for BANGKOK, a city I´ve never liked and which was, sadly, engulfed in flames on the day I left Thailand in May. Another country or city which is deeply divided.

C is for COURAGE ... Such as that shown by my fellow DMT Jane, who decided to leave her safe job and become a diving instructor after successfully battling against cancer. She inspired me in the first few weeks of my gap year, when I wondered what the hell I was doing in Thailand! And I guess I needed a little dollop of courage myself, to leave my home town after 18 years in the same job. It really is never too late to change!

D is for DIVEMASTER ... or living my dream. Working in a gorgeous tropical island paradise, heading out on the Blue Planet boat every day to the world class dive sites of Hin Daeng, Ko Haa, and Ko Bida. I will be dreaming of those dream days when I´m back in my office next month. It was great to learn so much about my hobby over four or five months and to work with such a great team on Ko Lanta.

E is for EAR INFECTION ... which I picked up at the end of the diving season in May. The low point of my year came in Malaysia, when I was sick, reacting badly to antibiotics, and staying in a kip of a hotel in Georgetown. I never felt so low and I wanted to go home. Within a day or two I was trekking through the Cameron Highlands, loving it, and I guess part of the challenge of a gap year is simply facing challenges or obstacles on the road. You can´t be on a high all of the time!

F is for FEAR ... I was afraid I was too old to become a Divemaster, that I wouldn´t fit in, that a year away was too long, that I would feel alone and not make new friends, and, especially, that I would be a victim of all the criminals I had read about in Central America. And, guess what ... I was wrong on all counts! There was no need for such fear at all and the part of the year I feared most, volunteering in Nicaragua, proved to be the most rewarding.

G is for GRATITUDE ... to my employers, the Connacht Tribune, for giving me the chance to take a year off to explore the world; to my close friends and family for encouraging me, or at least recognising that I needed a change, and especially to all the wonderful new people I met in Thailand, Spain, and Nicaragua this year. The world is a fabulous place if you open your heart to the possibilities and cultures out there.

H is for HOME ... I paid two short visits home to break up the year, which were important as I come from a close and loving family. And home was never far from my thoughts during the economic and political crisis which engulfed Ireland late in the year. Funny, too, how I was most fearful about my travels when I was home in the ´safe harbour´of Galway. Once I travelled, the fears disappeared. And the bizarre moment of the year was when a Nicaraguan told me my country was fecked.

I is for the IRISH ... there are a lot of things which drive me crazy about my home country (the weather, bankers, politicians, general gobshites with big necks); but I genuinely loved meeting Irish people on my travels in 2010. The Irish Embassy in Koh Lanta was my local, for God´s sake, as was O´Shea´s in Nicaragua. Great people from a small land, spread out all over the world.

J is for JANE ... and her husband Chris, who inspired me in the first few weeks when I was finding my feet in Thailand. They were older than me and they had the courage to go out and chase their dreams instead of settling for a ´safe´life back in England. Respect!

K is for KNOWLEDGE ... it was so good to learn new things, good and bad, about the diving industry and life in Nicaragua. And of course my Spanish improved no end after lots of classes and seven months in Spanish speaking countries. It really is good to learn.

L is for LANTA ... still my favourite tropical island, after living there for four months. It´s also for LA ESPERANZA GRANADA, the organization I worked with for ten weeks in Nicaragua. Thanks to LEG I met wonderful volunteers from all over the world as well as the incredibly welcoming local staff. It´s also for love. Maybe I didn´t meet the woman of my dreams, but I sure as hell fell back in love with life and the world!

MALAYSIA ... I spent a few weeks there, doing visa runs from Thailand, and loved the people. It was great to explore this new country and especially to meet like-minded solo travellers in the Cameron Highlands just after my bout of the blues. That place really lifted my soul!

NICARAGUA ... What can I say about the land of volcanoes, lakes, and wonderful (but extremely poor) people? Well, I love the place, and hope to go back some day.

ONE DOLLAR ... If I had a dollar for every time I was asked for one on the streets of Granada, I really would be a millionaire or wouldn´t need to go back to work in 2011. Poverty is a fact of life in Nicaragua and you do have to steel yourself in the face of it.

PUBLIC ENEMY ... Fifteen years after I saw them rock Dublin, I caught up with the US hip-hoppers again on an incredible night in Vigo. I went out on my own, but had a fabulous weekend at an amazing festival. P is also for silly PANIC ATTACKS, such as when I missed my ferry on the Corn Islands, and PEOPLE. I met some truly wonderful people in 2010. I also loved my four weeks in PANAMA, a gentle (but wet) introduction to Central America.

QUALITY ... I was cynical and tired when I left Ireland in January, but such was the quality of the people I met through my travels, including my fellow DMs in Thailand, the language students in San Sebastian, and the volunteers, staff, and kids in Nicaragua that I´ve a whole new appreciation for people in the world. Strangers are only ´strange´ until you chat to them and open your heart to new experiences and conversations.

REVOLUTION ... the heroes of the 1970s mean a lot more to the poor people of Nicaragua than the Irish martyrs who fought to get the British Empire out of our land. Perhaps, as I´m hearing since I came home, Ireland needs another revolution. R is also for REAL SOCIEDAD, whose promotion gave pride back to an entire city in June, and RAFAEL in Panama. A lovely man who lost his wife tragically this year, who can´t face moving back home with his seven year old daughter, and who dared to share his life with me over a few beers. There is pain everywhere, and wonderful people everywhere too.

S is for SAN SEBASTIAN ... my home for five weeks, while I studied Spanish at the Lacunza school. It´s one of the nicest cities in the world, with fantastic beaches, bars, and old streets. It´s also for SPANISH, a language I loved learning this year, and SANDINISTAS, who deserve admiration for standing up to the imperialism of Uncle Sam.

T could only be for THAILAND ... it might be a tropical paradise, but it is also a land of troubles and divisions. While we dived and enjoyed a peaceful life down in Ko Lanta, 16 hours north people were being killed in the dispute between the Government and the Red Shirts. I love the place, but don´t know if I could live in a country which does not have a high opinion of foreigners.

UNDERSTANDING ... or the lack of. It was incredible to hear the expats in Nicaragua, many of whom could not speak a word of Spanish, moan so much about the locals. No wonder people hate other races when they make no effort to understand each other.

VIGO ... I loved this city, which had a hip-hop, heavy metal, skateboarding, and pirates´festival when I arrived. I had been on a downer, all panicky about what lay ahead of me in Central America, and the people of this ´rough and ready´city in Galicia, in NW Spain, reminded me of the value of fun and not taking life too seriously. It´s also for VOLUNTEERING, my ten weeks in Granada which proved to be one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life.

W is for WRITING ... I´m a journalist, I can´t get away from it, and I wrote for magazines in Thailand and Nicaragua throughout the year. This blog was a great way of sharing my experiences with friends and family all over the place and thanks so much to people who gave me positive feedback, especially on the few ´down´times. Thanks for reading my rantings! ... It´s also for the WORLD CUP, which meant little to the Basques. Strange, I lived in Spain when they won it for the first time, but nobody around me wanted to celebrate. Instead, we went mental over Real Sociedad.

X is for X-MAS ... and the synchronicity of coming home to snow and ice, just as I found it so tough to leave Ireland in January, when I was stranded in Dublin for 48 hours. It´s good to see old friends and family again, even if I´m not thrilled to be back in Galway. But the year ended in a natural cycle.

Y is for YEARNING ... a few months into my gap year, I realised that it all made perfect sense. I had been yearning for a change in my life for years and only had headaches and a pain in my heart because I didn´t listen to my heart. It really is important to change when you feel a need to change, to try out new things if you feel ´stuck´in a rut. If you are true to yourself, incredible things happen every day.

Z is for ZEST FOR LIFE ... I regained it in 2010, when I was in danger of becoming a weary cynic. To work as a Divemaster, to learn Spanish in three different countries, and to help the poorest of the poor kids in Nicaragua brought me fulfillment beyond my wildest dreams.

Thanks everyone for reading my rantings and a very happy 2011. Muchas gracias a todos!

Back to the old country . . .

2010-12-20T17:11:00.000-08:00

"When you suppress your wild longing and opt for the predictable and safe forms of belonging, you sin against the rest of nature that longs to live deeply through you. When your way of belonging in the world is truthful to your nature and your dreams, your heart finds contentment and your soul finds stillness" - Irish author John O'Donoghue.

It seems rather churlish or mean to return to a homeland which is deep in crisis and announce to your friends and family that you have just enjoyed the best year of your life in 2010.
But that's how it has been for me over the past few days, as I adjust to the cold while Irish people genuinely worry about their jobs, mortgages, emigration, and what the future holds.
After a year in which the country went bankrupt, the severely cold weather only seems to match the national mood.
And here I am, all full of gratitude for the adventures I've experienced and friendships I have made in Thailand, Malaysia, Spain, and Central America, and wondering how I'm going to turn my new found optimism into some sort of long-term change.
It was thanks to the 'crisis' that I was offered a 12 month career break and after 18 years in the same job it really has been a joy to get a chance to go out and explore the world.
For the first time in my life, I left the 'safe' and 'predictable' behind ... and I had a truly joyous year.
I became a Divemaster, learned Spanish to a decent level, and enjoyed the most fulfilling part of the year when I volunteered among the poorest of the poor in Nicaragua.
While people at home were arguing over pay cuts or who should work on Bank Holidays, I was bouncing into work every day with a smile . . . and not getting paid a cent for my labours.
I hope that my time with La Esperanza Granada has changed me, as it was certainly the most rewarding period in my whole life. It was possibly the first time in my life that my heart found contentment and my soul was still for days on end.
Perhaps I have been lying to myself or settling for too little all along.
In the beautiful city of Granada it felt as though, finally, I had left the tragedies which defined my early 20s, and the subsequent bout of self-pity and hard drinking, behind.
When you see how happy Nicaraguans can be with so little, it makes you think a lot about how Irish people have chased after big cars, big houses, holiday homes abroad, etc., over the past few years.
Do we really need so much? And do these things really make us happy?
So I'm home for Christmas, due back at work in January, and the place is reeling with anger from the economic mess our politicians, bankers, and developers have plunged us into. I wonder if I even belong in my homeland.
But in the first few days at home, I have had reminders of what makes Ireland so special, the genuine warmth of the people which can't be bought out by the International Monetary Fund.
On Thursday, after two long flights, I was met at Shannon Airport by a friendly face. Old friend Hugo didn't mind getting up at 5.30 a.m. in the depths of winter in order to make sure that a friend had a smooth passage home after 12 months on the road.
On the following night, a big group of us gathered in a Galway pub to pay tribute to my best friend, Joe, almost 20 years to the day from when he died in a tragic accident in India.
Joe was Hugo's younger brother and it's only in the last year or two I have realised that I have now known, and been friendly with, the older brother a lot longer than my 'best' friend.
Seeing so many old friends, some of whom had made a great effort to travel on an ice cold night, reminded me of what great hearts so many Irish people have. One old schoolfriend even came up from Cork for the night.
It was lovely to talk to old school friends, Joe's brother, and three sisters, and to realise that the awful shock and despair which surrounded his funeral had given away to a form of acceptance and a warmth about the life of a 24-year old man who was 'larger than life' in some ways.
We celebrated a life which ended too soon, whereas 20 years ago we were just engulfed in the tragedy and grief which surrounds a sudden or violent death.
Joe died 11 and a half months after my little sister Cliona and, for me, Christmas was a time of great sadness, despair, and too much heavy drinking for years. When others celebrated, I just wanted to get blotto at this time of year.
Now, after seeing so much poverty in Nicaragua and meeting so many good people on my 2010 travels, I realise that the tragedy or self-pity which has defined much of my life has evaporated.
I've learned to let these two key figures in my young life rest in peace and move on, even if it has taken me an awful long time.
And I've seen the goodness, the sheer soul, of Irish people who can come out on an awful night to share their memories of a young man who lost his life in awful circumstances.
My 97-year old granny, meanwhile, was 'slagging' me off on the phone for all the cards and letters I never sent from Thailand, Spain, or Central America, as only an Irish granny can.
Like the Nicaraguans, Irish people have soul and a wicked sense of fun.
The country is in turmoil right now, but amongst all the anger, pain, and frustration there seems to be a genuine appetite for renewal and change, if not downright revolution.
To hell with the corrupt politicans, greedy bankers, and developers who have got us into a mess and run the country into the ground. They are no better than the British, who colonised us for centuries.
But when you see the real warmth of people who take the trouble to pay tribute to a fallen friend, long after he's gone, you realise that there are some things in this country that even the IMF can't buy.
And that's why Ireland will rise again.

From Nicaragua to Panama

2010-12-13T20:20:00.000-08:00

Ah yes, Panama. The city of skyscrapers which has been called the 'Miami of the South', a city of extremes in which SUVs dominate the streets while the ordinary people pile onto those mad looking Red Devil buses.
I made it! The last stop before my journey home and just to make everyone back in Galway feel good about themselves it's been pissing rain here for the last two days, and probably a lot longer.
I shouldn't joke about it, really, because Panama, Colombia, and Venezuela are all in the middle of a crisis brought about by weeks of heavy rain, flooding, and people being displaced from their homes.
Here the papers are full of stories about how selfish people are to be obsessed with the materialism of Christmas while so many of their brothers and sisters have lost their homes.
It reminds me a bit of the annual 'season of goodwill' back in Ireland, which always leaves me cold. I don't believe in all that Catholic crap for 11 and a half months of the year, so why get carried away by a mad materialistic splurge?
Bah, humbug, and all that. We should treat Christmas as the midwinter Pagan festival which it always was and not a silly excuse to go crazy on booze, food, and shopping sprees.
Panama is like an American city in many ways, because there is so much extreme wealth and poverty side by side. There are parts of the city where it is not safe to walk in the middle of the day, and parts where you'd swear you were in Manhattan or Miami, surrounded by skyscrapers and beautiful women dressed to kill.
But today, as I struggled through the rain, I missed Nicaragua. I treated myself to a few afternoon beers to watch my enemies, Man. United, defeat Arsenal and then went to the cinema for the first time in months ... it's impossible to find a decent cinema in Granada.
But all I could think of is how much I love Nicaragua. Panama gave me a gentle welcome to Central America back in August, but Nica stole my heart ... like those of so many people I have met over the past four months.
The people are poorer, things just don't work, and yet they have so much soul, and the simplest of things such as a bus journey can become a huge adventure. Somehow, the place just gets under your skin and every volunteer I have known since September found it a hard place to leave.
Funny how the dirt poor country seems so rich in terms of soul compared to its much wealthier neighbours to the south. I even flew back here to avoid the 'gringos' of Costa Rica! Oh, and the 27 hour bus journey.
Don't get me wrong, Panama has a lot to offer, including friendly people, gorgeous countryside, and lovely beaches on two oceans. But I would never consider moving here from Ireland, given that it rains a hell of a lot. I wouldn't move here permanently just to get soaked for months on end.
Nica is the place which has captured my heart this year. I'd love to go back and help them build a canal to rival the one here, to see the place take its deserved place among the most wonderful destinations on earth.
Maybe I could become a propaganda officer for Daniel Ortega, to counter all the Americans'false claims about his poor but wonderful land. Or maybe not!
Panama has far more money, but Nica has far more soul.
Still, it's a nice place to finish my Central American adventures, despite the constant rain. Hard to believe I will be home in just a couple of days. Regards to all!

The Corn Islands ... a world apart

2010-12-11T18:09:00.000-08:00

Never, ever underestimate the power of nature ... it´s a lesson I learned in the very first week of my gap year, when the ice and snow at Dublin Airport prevented me from leaving Ireland for 48 hours, and a lesson I learned again during the last week of my travels.
Way back on January 6, my gap year got off to a terrible start when Aer Lingus dumped me in dirty old Dublin, without a taxi, hotel, or bus. And almost 50 weeks later, the savage seas of the Caribbean almost prevented me from getting home.
After almost three months of living and enjoying voluntary work in the beautiful old colonial city of Granada, I decided to treat myself to a week on the Corn Islands before leaving Nicaragua.
They really are a world apart, two islands in an isolated corner of the Caribbean which have none of the crass over-development you would expect from the region were you to visit countries such as Mexico, Belize, or Honduras.
Maybe it´s down to the political situation, but it felt like some sort of wonderful secret to be among the couple of dozen tourists on the two islands which have a population of about 7,000 between them.
To say that the place doesn´t feel like Nicaragua would be an understatement. Most of the people are of West Indian descent, families have names such as Turner, Kelly, and Wilson, and the local radio station pumps out reggae, even Christmas reggae songs, every day.
People talk English in strange Jamaican style accents and the islands, because of their location, are infamous routes for international drug traffickers.
During my week on the Corn Islands, the US Coast Guard paid us a visit. With them they brought a confiscated boat, with no name and three huge outboard engines. Thankfully for the dealers, they managed to offload the loot before Uncle Sam prowled upon them at night.
I know drugs are a huge problem in the Americas, but it sickens me that the US feels free to pursue boats through the seas of sovereign states such as Nicaragua. Then again, the US sees itself as master of the whole of the Americas and Nicaragua hardly has a navy to scare them away.
A trip to a place such as the Reggae Palace will soon show the traveller that white powder is in steady supply on the island, as is the green herb.
Fuelled by rum and coke and God knows what else, there can be a manic energy about the place at night.
I decided to base myself on the big island, which has roads, bikes, cars, a couple of towns, and a dive centre.
The diving was world class. I was overwhelmed by the quality of the coral and the amount of big fish (nurse shark, eagle rays, lobsters), even if the centre´s safety standards left a lot to be desired. On my fifth dive, I found myself breathing what could only be described as impure air.
My lungs felt uncomfortable and it was clear to me that the owner did not take proper care of his hired equipment. Having been forced to use a faulty regulator throughout my fifth dive, I decided not to continue diving over my last few days.
Which meant that I had more free time than I expected, so I got to enjoy a couple of nights of madness with Danish woman Nina and her two friends. Socialising with them was good fun, but also reminded me of why I enjoy travelling alone ... as I had no desire or interest to keep up with their manic drinking.
The Danes really are as mad as the Irish and these three 30-somethings had become quite infamous by the time I left!
I took a panga over to Little Corn, the smaller island which has no roads and just a pathway around it, a day after them. It was one of the scariest boat trips of my life, as we crashed headlong into two massive waves and the boat almost overturned. The Caribbean can be a cruel beast!
Packed only with a day bag including my swimming gear, a banana, a small amount of cash, and a book, I was then shocked to discover that the boatmen had no notion of returning to the big island that day, and possibly not the next day either. The sea, mon, the sea.
So I went into a bit of a panic, or a tizzy, thinking that I would miss my flight back to Managua the following day and then my trip to Panama for the start of my journey home.
Apparently tourists get stranded on the small island quite regularly, due to high winds and dangerous seas, but they don´t tell you that in the guidebooks!
The result was a heavy drinking session with the Danes, who missed at least three cancelled boats home, a hotel room for US20, and a sleepless night before I managed to get the only boat back the next day, at 7 a.m. Phew!
The Danes, who were nowhere to be seen at 6 a.m., love their nights on the rum and looked set to be stranded for another 24 hours, as the sea was very rough indeed, the waves crashing in upon us, for the return journey. The boat didn´t travel in the afternoon.
I was so overjoyed to reach Big Corn that it put all my panic and worry throughout the previous night into perspective. Yes, I had virtually no money or no change of clothes on me, but people were good and trusting and I had met two Polish lads who were willing to share a chartered boat (and trust me to pay them at the other end) if the ferry didn´t run.
To be honest, I failed to be impressed by the smaller of the islands, which gets more tourists than its bigger brother. It´s a bit like a Caribbean version of Koh Phi Phi, with paths, beach bungalows, lovely snorkelling beaches ... but very few tourists.
Apparently, there is far less wind on the Corn Islands during certain times of year such as April to June, and I would love to return to dive there again some day, because the people and the marine life were fantastic. I also think the two dive centres on the smaller island are better run, but I will make sure to give myself a day or two back on the big island before heading home. Little Corn can be cut off for days at times.
I will treasure my time at Hotel Morgan on the big island, where Kerry and the staff made the three or four guests feel right at home. The hotel had the best restaurant on the island and wonderful sea views, with a reef just across the road.
Glad to be back on the mainland, I will remember my silly panic attacks in my dump of a cheap hotel, even though I knew they were silly at the time.
Sometimes in life, s--t happens. A storm blows and your boat won´t sail, and you have very little money or clothing . . . and you just have to deal with it.
A good metaphor for life, I think. Things don´t always run smoothly when you are far from home and, when they don´t, you just have to try your best to deal or cope with the situation.
So, farewell to the Corn Islands, in this month of emotional goodbyes. The end of my trip looms on the horizon and today I enjoyed an absolutely fabulous trip across Nicaragua in a small propeller plane.
If I had let fear rule my life, I probably wouldn´t even have boarded the plane as the wind howled across the little airfield at Big Corn.
But if I let fear rule my life, I would not even have left Galway or Dublin back on January 6. And if I had stayed at home I would have missed out on the best year of my life.
Panama beckons, and the dreaded return to wintry Ireland. But already I´m full of gratitude for all the adventures, and even the little scares, which have made this a year to treasure.
The highs are higher and the lows quite low ... but I sure feel ALIVE!

Farewell to Granada

2010-12-06T08:51:00.000-08:00

It was with something of a heavy heart that I piled into Felipe´s taxi with my year´s worth of belongings on Saturday morning, for the one hour trip to Managua Airport and the last treat of my gap year, a week´s diving on the Corn Islands in the Caribbean.
For the previous 11 weeks, this wonderful old colonial city had been my home. I had grown to love this city, with its lovely Parque Central, enchanting cathedral and churches, the belltower with the enchanting views, the lovely lakeside walk, and nearby islands and volcanos.
Granada is the main tourist centre of Nicaragua for a reason, because it has so much to offer the foreigner.
I have to admit that I was nervous about what lay ahead of me when I got off the bus from Costa Rica way back in September. After an eight hour journey, I was not quite prepared for life in the second poorest country in the Americas or my first ever full-time volunteer job.
Since then, I have made incredible friendships with people from all over the world, including Spain, France, Nicaragua, the United States, Canada, Germany, even Ireland, and God knows how many other countries.
I´ve managed two hour Spanish conversations with people like Francisco and Benoit, great guys in their 30s who have given their time to helping poor children, without even realising the magnitude of how much my grasp of the language has come on over just a few months.
Looking around me on my last night at O´Shea´s Irish bar, where so many lovely volunteers turned up to wish me good luck, I realised how the time in Granada had passed all too quickly and also that it had been one of the best experiences of my life.
For two and a half months, I got to work day by day with the local ayudantes, gifted young people from dirt poor families who would not get the chance to attend University, or work, were it not for La Esperanza Granada.
I went out to the schools, to see the magic in the eyes of the children when they got to use computers, learn one-on-one in workshops with our brilliant team of 35 volunteers, or talk to kids in the USA via our very first Skype link. What an exciting day that was!
I got to share a house with lovely people from New Mexico, Germany, and Holland, and can now thank Matt and Navi for changing my opinion of Americans. They are not all war-mongers intent on bullying around the little guys, some Americans are really genuine people who want to give the less fortunate a helping hand.
I really hope they turn up in my house in Galway, with their backpacks, and I can bring them on a good Dominick Street pub crawl or a trip to the Aran Islands some day.
I met Bonnie, a widow of about my own age, who has given a chance to a young Nica child called Israel to attend secondary school for the next five years. Bonnie could be forgiven for concentrating on bringing up her own two sons, alone, but she really cares about the less fortunate out there.
The American Government has been responsible for some awful crimes against this impoverished country, but individual Americans have done wonders down here too.
Of course, there has been a dodgy underbelly to life in Granada. Half of the expats are dirty old American men, in their 60s or 70s and with military pensions, who spend all their time drinking beer and rum, sleeping with prostitutes, and talking down the locals.
Having moved up from Costa Rica, where the cost of living has become too high, they have taken advantage of the poverty of the Nicas. And yet, without respecting them or even talking their language, they feel compelled to call them ´stupid´or ínferior´every day.
I´ve seen how poverty drives Nicas to rob cameras or laptops whenever they are left in the wrong place and how young women feel they have to sell their bodies to make a living.
The world is not a fair place and Nicaragua is a country of extremes.
On my second last night, one of our volunteers had a disturbing experience when two little girls, aged about 10 or 12, called to his front door. One gestured to him that the other, her friend or little sister, was available for sex. So I have been appalled by suggestions that there are even paedophile rings, organized and run by American ´veterans´ in the heart of this beautiful city.
Poverty and inequality has made this a desperately unfair world. Men who spent their careers fighting unjust wars have moved to Nicaragua just because their money goes further in such a poor place and they can take advantage, sexually, of people who have nothing.
Back in Ireland, I left a newspaper office which had its quota of bitchiness and infighting last December and certainly didn´t expect to find the same things in an organization with as noble a set of ideals as La Esperanza Granada.
But it seemed to me that idealistic young people with bright ideas were vilified and excluded, for daring to suggest changes which might actually improve the organization.
There is no other way to describe how I felt about the volunteer accommodation or the back-biting and bitchiness relating to departing volunteers who sought to change or improve things .... appalling.
So I won´t miss the people who run the organisation, but I will miss the wonderful staff, volunteers, and children.
And, at the end of the day, it´s fantastic that they are putting 11 young people through University, 90 through secondary school, and giving a chance to hundreds of younger children in eight extremely poor primary schools.
I won´t miss most of the expats I have met who have decided to make Nicaragua their home, despite bitching about the locals all the time.
But I will miss the Nicas, such as lovely 20 year old single mum and ayudante Belkys, whose sense of irreverance and zest for life reminds me of my 97-year old granny.
The Nicas could teach us all a thing or two, about the importance of community and friendship, the extended family, the need to take your time, and simply have fun with friends and family.
Kids here have more fun with baseball bats made of sticks or twigs than Irish children do on thier Playstations.
So what if they have to go around on horseback or bicycles? Because at least they have fun, share time with each other, and enjoy life. They chat on buses and in ´collectivo´taxis and don´t understand the concept of ´strangers´. Life here is a bit like Ireland 50 years ago in some ways.
Yes, living in Granada has been both frustrating and exhilerating. Life in Ireland right now seems dull and predictable by comparison.
So thanks to all the wonderful people I have met over the past three months. You turned the part of the gap year I feared most (volunteering and living in Central America) into possibly the most rewarding experience of my life.
Adios y gracias a todos!

Island of magic

2010-11-30T18:20:00.000-08:00

There is ´something´indescribable about life on a small island and I have to say that I have been enchanted by the wonders of Ometepe over the past few days.
I came here on my own, sprained an ankle hopping from one bus to another on the way here, and bruised both my leg and ego during an ill-fated motorcycle trip around the island´s infamous roads.
So I could be feeling sorry for myself, but instead I love the pace of life here and really wish I could stay another ten days.
Once the last boat goes, there is a real sense of peace here. A bit like Inis Meain in a way, in that the locals see themselves as being different from the people over there, there being the mainland.
About 30,000 people live on the island, which has just two major towns and some of the worst roads I´ve ever seen.
It´s as close as I have come this year to Koh Lanta, the place where I spent the first five months of 2010, and it has the same tranquil charms. In fact, it is far more peaceful than my favourite Thai island, with far less traffic on the roads.
People wander around at a slow pace, even the buses pull up at a really leisurely pace, and they sit around the town squares, chatting with each other, as though they haven´t a care in the world.
It´s great to be in a place with no TV, because all of the news from Ireland was depressing me in Granada over the past two weeks. Here, the only news that counts is who came in on the boat from San Jorge or who crashed into a cow, or pig, or goat, or hen, or monkey on the roads.
Legend has it that the island was formed from the suicide of a young woman, who fell in love with a man from an opposing tribe. After they both decided to slash their wrists, her breasts swelled to form two huge volcanoes, and so much did she cry that her tears formed the massive Lago Colcabolca (Lake Nicaragua).
The indigenous people believe there is something truly magical about the place, and to enjoy its charms you have to get out of the towns and experience the sheer peaceful bliss of its countryside.
When the bigger of the two volcanoes erupted in the 1950s (and it´s still simmering today) the locals refused to be evacuated to the mainland. They claimed it was better to die on Ometepe than to leave their beloved home and I´ve witnessed real pride in their place among the people.
I´ve been told that the Spanish colonists mostly left the islanders, indigenous fishermen, to their own devices.
Which is why you see far more Native Americans here than on the mainland and why the place really does remind me a bit of the Aran Islands . . . not just the slow pace, but the fact that the British hardly touched our western isles during their conquest of Ireland, because the land was so poor.
It´s no coincidience that the Irish language is still vibrant in the areas which were virtually untouched by the British, just as it´s no coincidence that the locals on Ometepe look completely different than the Nicas on the mainland.
The views here are incredible, as is the whole topography of a place which is really just two huge volcanoes and a little isthmus between them.
Even though I´ve stayed in Moyogalpa, the capital and biggest town, the pace is really relaxed here at night. People greet each other on the street and it is surely one of the safest places in Central America.
A friend of mine, Grace, met a crazy, hard-drinkin´Irishman on Playa Santa Dominigo three months ago. Apparently, he owns a little hotel by the lake. We Irish really do get around, but I didn´t feel compelled to give him a visit, with my need to stay off alcohol in order to nurse my ankle back to health.
I´ve met a few of the usual obnoxious ´gringos´(Americans who live here, but can´t speak the language and talk down the locals whenever they get the chance) but I´ve been overwhelmed by how friendly the locals are during my cycles around the island.
When my motorbike broke down, I couldn´t believe the (free) offers of help I got on the side of the road, until I managed to dust myself down and crawl back to town.
The place has its problems, too. Unemployment is quite high, some of the roads really are appalling, and quite a few of the lovely beaches were wiped out during a particularly bad rainy season, just three months ago. Some hotels and bars remain closed.
I visited one of the abandoned beaches today, and met some local youngsters climbing trees and jumping into the lake. Near us, monkeys were playing in the trees.
The kids were full of curiosity about the travelling Irishman and hit me with a dozen questions, but never once did they ask me for a dollar as many of their counterparts would do in Granada or San Juan Del Sur.
Yes, Ometepe is an incredible place. It has one of the most relaxing vibes I´ve experienced anywhere on earth and even a 45 minute power cut this evening only seemed to add to its charms.
Just take it easy on the roads or avoid climbing the volcanoes . . . and you´ll be fine!
Take it from me. I always fancied myself as a careful biker until, in slow motion, I found myself tumbling towards the ground yesterday.
But I have swam in lovely lake water, met incredibly friendly locals, soaked in the finest sunset I´ve seen in my life, and I have slept at night here as though I haven´t a care in the world.
I will leave tomorrow, battered and bruised, but with only fond memories of the place. And a desire to return some day!

Learning from the Nicas

2010-11-25T13:40:00.000-08:00

It was kind of appropriate that I had organised a trip to Leon,the city of the revolution, for the week in which the collapse of the economy of my country made headlines all across the globe.
For it got me to thinking that we Irish have a lot to learn from a country as poor as Nicaragua.
In our rush to progress, to SUVs in Salthill driveways that were never needed and apartments in the sun which were rarely used, we have lost some of the community spirit that still thrives here in the second poorest country in the whole of the Americas.
In Nicaragua, people pass children around on buses and take strangers' kids on their knees because they don't have the Irish or European, or especially North American, concept of 'strangers'.
Here you see whole families of five or six enjoying a Sunday outing on a bicycle. A man in Managua or Masaya doesn't feel shame when he brings his date out on the crossbar of a bicycle on a Sunday afternoon. Imagine asking a Galway girl out for a lift on your crossbar in 2010!
Yes, the people here are poor, but they are not ashamed of the fact. Like the Irish, they are able and willing to emigrate for a better life, but unlike the Irish they have never experienced a boom or full employment in their own land.
Now that the bubble has burst back home, maybe we could learn a thing or two from the Nicas.
They love sitting outside their homes on rocking chairs, chatting with friends and neighbours as they watch the world go by. Part of it is boredom or due to unemployment and a lack of hope, but they still have time for each other.
Their children play baseball with sticks cut from trees or football with plastic bags which have been wrapped together. They aren't locked up inside with their Playstations.
How many Irish people living in cities even know their neighbours?
How many waste their time obsessing about the lives of vacuous so-called 'celebrities' instead of engaging with the real-life people around them, as the Nicas do every day?
Nicas know that money doesn't make people happy, even if they wouldn't mind even a fraction of the riches the Irish have enjoyed through the past 15 years.
Leon, the scene of so much fighting during the revolution, is far poorer than Granada, the city I've been based in for the past ten weeks.
Throughout history, the liberals and revolutionaries of Leon have fought against the conservatives and wealthy of Granada. That's why the Nicaraguans eventually located the capital in Managua in the 1850s, as a compromise between the two.
What struck me most about Leon last weekend was the genuine pride of the people in their city and their land, even if a host of lovely buildings were destroyed in the fighting of the 1970s and some of the remaining buildings are crumbling.
They got rid of a fascist dictator and his corrupt sons, who were backed by the Americans for 50 years. Economically, their lives haven't improved immensely since then, but they still value the memory of the young people who gave up their lives for a just cause in the 1980s.
In the Gallery of the Martyrs and Heroes, I met two old ladies in their 80s on Saturday morning.
Both of them lost sons, who died fighting Somoza's State terrorists, in the 1980s. One of them lost both of her sons. In a dignified way, these old ladies keep the memory of their sons and daughters, and their friends, alive in a simple museum which has 300 photos of fallen heroes.
Two blocks away lies the Museum of the Revolution. A once fabulous old colonial building, it overlooks Parque Central and has seen much better days. If it was in Europe or America it would probably be a fabulous luxury hotel. But here in Nicaragua it's the scene of a very primitive museum, with newspaper clippings sellotaped onto the walls.
I was struck by the pride of the guides and staff in the museum. They might have no money, but they believe in what they are doing ... they believe in the need to remind people of what their brothers, sisters, and friends died for back in the 1970s and '80s, when they dared to take on Somoza and the USA.
I climbed to the roof of the bell-tower of the Cathedral, the biggest in Central America, and soaked in the incredible views of all the volcanoes around the region. That Cathedral looks like it hasn't been painted in two hundred years, but it is still the pride of the city.
The vendors on the street, less used to tourists than their counterparts in Granada, greeted me warmly every evening ... and suddenly I remembered how fearful I was, stupidly, of even coming to this beautiful country three months ago. I was in terror that I would be mugged or robbed.
In Nicaragua, they have genuine pride in their revolution and its legacy. Even if it hasn't led to prosperity, at least Somoza's henchmen don't torture, maim, or kill innocent people on the streets of Leon any more.
The main prison, with its torture chambers, is now a quirky little museum full of witches, dwarves, giants, and legends.
These people have pride, but it's not false pride. And right now, I guess, six years before the 100th anniversary of our own 'revolution', Ireland also needs to regain some of its own pride.
Not 'pride' in the fact that we own ten houses or big cars or material things that don't make us happy.
But the pride that comes from a small land with a big heart which has survived centuries of oppression and bullying, and which will rise again because of the spirit of its people. Just like Nicaragua.

The shame of it all

2010-11-20T17:46:00.000-08:00

What a horrible, horrible week for the Irish, even for those of us a long way away from the wet and windy isle.
It´s been a shock to the system to see BBC World News, CNN Ingles, CNN Espanol, and even the local Nicaraguan news dominated by the revelation that Ireland is bankrupt and threatening the whole future of the European Union.
To think that a country which people fought for through 800 years of colonisation has been put out of business by our own rotten politicians with their lack of any vision other than sheer greed.
I haven´t missed Ireland at all this year, apart from family and good friends, and now I relly wonder what the hell I am going back to.
For the past three months I´ve lived in the second poorest country in all of the Americas and all I´ve hoped for is some hope for the Nicaraguan people.
They were pillaged by the Spanish, lived for 50 years under an appalling dictator and his family, and when they finally got their freedom they were discarded and neglected by the great Uncle Sam.
I´ve been sickened by the injustice of it all, how the Americans feel like messing around in their own back yard and how some of the American expats treat Nicas like pieces of meat simply because they have far more money than the natives.
But looking at Ireland from this vantage point makes my blood boil even more.
We kicked Farmer Jones (the rotten, racist, tyrranical British Empire) out of the farm in order to be ruled by pigs (there is no more apt way to describe them) of our own. The names of Haughey, Ahern, and Cowen will be remembered as the disgraced, greedy b''stards who filled their own pockets while allowing the country to drift down the drain.
The party was all too short and all too insane.
I come from a land with a troubled past, which gives me a bit more understanding than most Europeans I think, and that´s why Irish people seem to be hugely welcomed (and loved) in troubled lands like Palestine and Cambodia. We have big hearts and root for the underdogs, thanks to our own f''ked up history.
And we have a tendency to feel sorry for ourselves, and for other underdogs in the world, because 800 years of being treated as second class citizens, robbed of your language and the right to vote, can do untold damage to your self esteem.
And that was something we thought we got back in the so called Celtic Tiger years, when young Irish people were not forced to emigrate for a better life.
All through the 19th century, and the 1950s and 1980s, we lost generations of good people who were spat out by our British masters or our own so called leaders who didn´t have enough imagination to turn our fortunes around.
And then when they got a chance, they went into a frenzy of greed. Which is why one Galway TD owns more than 20 houses or our former Taoiseach, Ahern, urged the doubters to kill themselves just a few years ago.
We deluded ourselves into thinking the days of seeing thousands of Irish men lining either side of the Kilburn High Road, in search of any labouring jobs going, were dead and buried.
Or the way we brushed real, painful Irish stories such as the arrival in Ellis Island, the building of the Panama railway, or the poverty of Hell´s Kitchen or South Boston under the carpet, because those stories were too painful to acknowledge.
Well, so much for the SUVs in Salthill and the pads in Marbella, the party is over and the hangover is all our own fault after we elected some of the most incompetent politicians in Europe.
We let bankers, politicians, and auctioneers (amazing how many Irish politicians are auctioneers too) drive us into a frenzy.
Here in Granada, there are five resident Irish, seven if you count myself and Fidelma, the two La Esperanza Granada volunteers who are here for just a few months.
Well, we all found ourselves gravitating towards O´Shea´s Irish bar in shock midweek, wanting to share our despair over the news from home.
In their own way, the resident Irish sum up a land which has continued to reject its own people down through the years.
The three older lads (Tommie, Billy, and Jimmy) are all from a generation who were forced into exile, choosing the United States before moving on to Costa Rica and Nicaragua.
Gerry, who is my age, came and bought a beautiful colonial house after being made reduntant two and a half years ago. And Fidelma is a teacher in her 30s who, despite her training and experience, can´t get a job back home.
Thanks, Ireland, for letting them all down.
But right now I think they are all wise to have left the sinking ship, even if they live in a country as poor as Nicaragua.
Economically, the revolution here, just as justified as Ireland´s uprising against the British, has not led to a huge change in the nation´s fortunes. People are still extremely poor.
But at least they haven´t been sold out by pigs of their own.
And that´s the most galling thing.
In Nicaragua, these lovely people are crying out for hope, and a chance of a real change in fortunes.
Ireland had its chance, but it was blown by greed.
And, suddenly, I´m embarrassed to be Irish. When I meet travellers from Sweden, Holland, or France now they want to talk about how messed up the economy of my country is.
For just a few years, we had national pride. We could backpack through Thailand or Spain and stand shoulder to shoulder with the best of them, confident in our own land.
Well, not any more. We´ve been pushed to the brink and it´s about time the FF and Green bastards gave the people democracy and stepped down.
Sorry for not writing about Nicaragua this week, but it´s hard to enjoy my weekend away in the beautiful city of Leon when there is so much worry about the mess at home.

Adventure on the roads

2010-11-15T10:15:00.000-08:00

In Nicaragua, even the smallest thing can become quite an adventure. Provided you are relaxed enough to go with the flow and you don't let your experiences be overshadowed by fears.
Such as a weekend away. After eight weeks of living in the beautiful colonial city of Granada, I figured it was time to head down to the coast and check out the country's main beach resort, San Juan Del Sur.
A few weeks ago, on the internet forums, I had read about so many people who had been robbed on buses or in 'collectivo' taxis (which pick up passengers all along the route) that I had considered becoming a 'Gringo' for a weekend and going on one of those express shuttle buses reserved for foreigners.
The price? A whopping US$46 return for a two hour journey.
Well, after a few months of living in Nicaragua I've come to the conclusion that the country is not as scary as all the forums make out. People do get robbed in cabs or buses, but usually they've been just unlucky or fallen asleep and left an expensive camera or piece of equipment as too easy a target for an impoverished opportunist.
There have been people held up at knife-point after getting 'collectivo' taxis, forced to go to ATMs and take out money by a driver and accomplices who target foreigners at the side of the road.
But, feck it, you would never go outside your front door in Ireland if you listened to all the scare stories and people's fears.
It is a fact that Nicaragua is not as dangerous as most other Central American countries. In fact, they say that only boring old Canada is safer in the whole of the Americas, and I'm sure that there are parts of LA, New York, Chicago, etc., which are a lot more dangerous for the unsuspecting visitor.
So, anyway, armed with a rucksack and my diving gear, I found myself at Granada's bustling bus station last Friday morning. It was hot and sticky as I climbed on the bus for the start of an adventure.
The first thing that hits you is the amount of vendors who pile onto the buses in every town and city in this country, as I had discovered during a trip to Masaya's famous markets (about 40 minutes away) the previous weekend. They sell fruit juices, tortillas, cakes, sodas, a huge variety of things.
And, because there are so few cars in this poor country, people think nothing about bringing a car battery or a bag of cement or even a live chicken onto a bus here. It just adds to the fun.
Beside me on the first bus was a teacher from one of the schools we work with, who shared a brilliant conversation with me about his work. Then he hopped off in the middle of nowhere, as the road south climbed towards the spectacular Volcan Mombachu.
Having told the conductor, who hollers out the destination at every stop, that I was going to Rivas, he roared out for me mid-trip as he had sourced another bus for me to change over on the highway. I needed to be quick to grab my rucksack and change over, but it was all part of the fun.
In Rivas, I had an hour's wait, where the woman selling meals for about $1.50 a go wanted to know if I was single. She was a single mum, about my age, attractive and great fun, and I was tempted to stay on ... if I hadn't booked a day's scuba diving for the following day!
I was approached by a taxi driver, who wanted to bring me to the coast for 200 cordobas (about $10). When I made it clear I wanted to travel by bus, he sat down beside me and talked about politics for half an hour.
There was no pressure on me to pay for his cab and every now and then he would jump up to approach passengers descending from a bus on the highway. Then he'd come back to my table and resume talking about the current border dispute between Nicaragua and Costa Rica.
Suddenly, I was really glad that I had improved my Spanish so much over the past couple of months.
Then my third bus, packed to the brim, pulled up and I was on my way to the gorgeous resort town of SJDS, with its lovely horse-shoe bay.
I checked into my accommodation, the beach front Hostal Esperanza, where I had a private room for $20 per night and then headed off to find the dive centre and meet Fidel, the owner, to arrange a time to meet up for the following morning (a ridiculously early 7.30 a.m., but that's diving for you!).
I ate a lovely meal in a comodor at the market for 40 cordobas, for just over a euro, and walked the scenic promenade at sunset. It was simply gorgeous!
The day's diving proved to be a bit of a disappointment, it was like tumbling around inside a washing machine, so strong were the currents.
But the weather was glorious, I met a few local divers from Managua, and saw some of the most amazing, deserted beaches I've come across in my entire life, including one where turtles are hatching this season. We saw a huge turtle on the way to the dive sites and a school of enthusiastic dolphins kept us hugely entertained with their antics as they danced around the boat, leaping out of the water, on the way back to the deserted beach.
I had gone to SJDS alone, just to dive, but managed to meet eight people I know from Granada, including six of our volunteers. Three were on their way home for a visa run to nearby Costa Rica, it really is a small world!
You learn that in Central America ... there are places on the travellers' circuit where you tend to run into people a few times.
Glad to have been back underwater after a seven month break from diving, I was really tired after swimming so hard against the strong current and was in bed, asleep, by 10 p.m. I could never imagine that happening on a Saturday night in Ireland!
That meant an early start on Sunday, and a trip to the huge statue of Jesus which is up on a hill overlooking the town. Again, the weather was glorious and Ishmael, the friendly hostal manager, advised me to leave all my valuables in my room. Even at 8.30 on a Sunday morning, it seems that rich foreign tourists can be targets for local hoods.
But nothing bad happened to me during a wonderful two hour walk to the summit. I even met a friendly bulldog on the beach who accompanied me all the way up the deserted steps to the hill, where I had to jump over a gate which said 'private property' in order to reach the clifftop statue.
Meeting the bulldog was another one of those strange coincidences that have happened to me so often this year. Suddenly, I had a big security guard and I felt the Gods were on my side.
After meeting a few volunteers on the beach, I decided to head back to Granada quite early and found myself at the bus-stop at midday. Then a 'collectivo' pulled up and the driver offered to take me to Rivas for 50 cords (just over $2).
Already in the cab were a woman in her 50s and a man my age in the front seat, so I stored my rucksack in the boot and sat in beside the woman.
When we got to the edge of town, the driver stopped to pick up a woman and four children at the side of the road. I couldn't believe it when they all piled in on top of us, but that just added to the fun.
Soon, I was reminded of how sociable and downright friendly the Nicas can be. The woman beside me took a seven year old girl she had never met onto her knee and then proceeded to weave her hair into a lovely design as we made our way towards Rivas.
The other woman to my right told me that two of the children were her own, and the other two were nieces who had been abandoned by their mother. Again, I was so glad to have improved my Spanish as we laughed and exchanged stories in the glorious sunshine.
In front of us was the amazing Volcan Conception, rising out of Lake Nicaragua at a height of 1,610 metres. I felt I would be too much of a 'gringo' to point out the scenery while these beautiful but poor people interacted so warmly with each other and with the big, lanky Irish man in the middle of the back seat.
At Rivas, I hopped on a bus to Managua, and got in the good books when I offered my seat to an 80 year old woman, who took a five year old boy from another lady on her knee. The bus was crowded and I was the only foreigner on board, but I never felt threatened or in danger of being robbed.
In the middle of nowhere, I jumped out of the bus and ran across the highway to catch my Granada connection, one of those old American-style school buses, for a cost of seven cordobas or about 25 cents (in euros).
Soon I was back 'home' in Granada after a lovely weekend.
The diving had been disappointing, with poor visibility and choppy seas.
But it was the fun I had in getting to San Juan and back, experiencing the warmth of poor rural people, which made this a fabulous weekend.
Thank God I didn't take the advice of some richer expats by taking the 'Gringo' shuttle direct from Granada to San Juan Del Sur. If I had, I wouldn't have experienced half as much of an adventure!

Life as a volunteer

2010-11-08T09:49:00.000-08:00

Without a doubt, one of the highlights of my gap year has been the opportunity to come to the second poorest country in the Americas, Nicaragua, to work with fabulous people and to do just a little bit to improve the lives of impoverished rural children.
Living here has revived some of the 'revolutionary' spirit in me. I feel a bit like Che Guevara in the 'Motorcycle Diaries' when I contrast the poverty, hopelessness, but sheer loveliness of the local people with all the rich, obnoxious, right-wing Americans in the world.
Suddenly, I feel like I'm 17 again. Passionate about issues such as the treatment of the poor in Latin America or the annihilation of Palestine. No longer a cynic, but keen to do even a tiny bit to make the world a better place.
I'm only here for three months, and I wish I had a lot more time. Because I've fallen in love with this country and its wonderful people, despite the poverty, lack of hope, and lack of interest in education among the older generation.
It's a crime that people here believe there is no future, when there is so much potential in this beautiful land of volcanoes, lakes, fabulous weather, and youthful people.
I've grown tired of people who demand one dollar from me, simply because I look like a 'Gringo'. But I get really emotional during computer class or when I go to a concert organised by Ritmo en los Barrios, another wonderful volunteer organisation.
They allow children from dirt poor communities a chance to perform for their friends and families, and you leave their Sunday sessions in Casa De Los Tres Mundos with nothing but a sense of joy. Seeing the confidence 50 children get from performing on stage is far more rewarding than spending a Sunday afternoon watching football in a pub.
Nicaragua is not exactly a 'failed state', but its economy is in tatters and the dependency on outside powers, such as the EU, for funds for the most basic of projects is startling. The Somoza family raped and pillaged this land for generations and outside forces have made progress difficult ever since the popular uprising of 1979.
Amazing, too, how it's the Europeans such as the Germans and Spanish who are helping out here, when the USA has been so guilty of so much recent criminal activity almost in its own back yard.
Volunteering is so much more rewarding than travelling around from hostal to hotel with a rucksack. After two months in Granada, I feel almost like a part of the community and that I've made just a bit of a difference to some people's lives. That sure beats ticking off sights along the route of my travels.
I get to visit schools in which the facilities are unbelievably primitive. Yet the children turn up in perfectly cleaned uniforms, despite the fact that some of their families live in galvanized tin huts in which the heat is unbearable during the day.
During the past two months, I've been overwhelmed by the welcome of the children and the teachers in the schools. I've been writing blogs, making films, coordinating volunteer meetings, and almost bounce into work in the glorious sunshine, full of expectation, every day.
When I go out with the computer class, the children are so grateful to be given the chance to play on a computer for 40 minutes a week. Playstations and the likes, things which Irish kids take for granted, are the stuff of dreams. Imagine.
The organization I work for is small, local, and engaged with rural communities at a very basic level.
We have 35 volunteers here right now and I've been overwhelmed by their desire to help these poor communities for anything between two and six months. Most of them are in their early 20s and build up great bonds with the children who need a little extra help in school. When I was their age, back in Ireland, I just wanted to drink myself into oblivion.
We work with 11 local ayudantes, dirt poor young adults from the local schools who work with us five days a week and have been given a chance to attend University. If it wasn't for La Esperanza, none of them would have made it to third level education.
They have generous sponsors in the US and Europe, and earn just US80 per month for working from Monday to Friday.
If La Esperanza didn't exist, they would never have got the opportunity to extend their education. And they are improving their 'life skills', learning English, organising the office or computer or English classes, or guiding foreigners on tours, every day.
Whenever I lose hope, I think of what this organization means to them, and I think of what great role models the ayudantes are for the children in the schools.
Given the opportunity, these young people themselves would make brilliant business leaders, office managers, bankers, or administrators, if given the kind of chances they would get in the developed world.
Living here has been a sheer joy and I could easily see myself staying for six months more, if I didn't have to go back to the 'reality' of life in Ireland.
Strange, isn't it? I was paralyzed by fear about what lay ahead of me in Nicaragua during my travels in Spain, Panama, and Costa Rica.
People told me I'd be robbed, held up at gun-point, that it was unsafe to go out at night. I even had panic attacks in a hotel in La Coruna and, on my last night in Galway, even considered cancelling this part of the trip.
Instead, the part of the year I feared most has turned out to be the most rewarding of all. I've made brilliant friends, done hugely rewarding work, and love life every single day.
The man who was so fearful of life in Central America now wonders whether he really wants to go home at all!
And that, I guess, has been the main lesson learned during my wonderful 'gap year' of 2010. Once you confront your fears, there is little or nothing to fear after all.

What does revolution mean to you?

2010-11-02T19:28:00.001-07:00

Living in a country in which the scars, glories, and hopes of a revolution are so fresh or raw has got me to thinking of what the hell does ´revolution´ mean to an Irish person in 2010.
Here in Nicaragua, taxi drivers or people you meet in the pub are keen to talk politics. They are divided, they are passionate, they fight on the streets when the elections come around, but they don´t just sit around moaning in the pubs like people do back home.
The current President, Daniel Ortega, was one of the revolutionary heroes. Anyone over a certain age can remember vividly the struggle against the right wing dictator Somoza in the 1970s or the fight against the US-backed ´Contras´, who had no mandate from the people, in the 1980s.
All Brian Cowen is currently famous for is his love of a pint, a cigarette, and the destruction of an economy.
Ortega is by no means an angel, but I´ve become tired of all the Americans I´ve met here who condemn him for all this nation´s ills.
When he started, he fought against a Fascist Dictator because he believed in change and giving the people a chance. Can the same be said for your average FF County Councillor or US Republican?
It was the good old US of A, after all, which responded to a rebellion of the people by sending marines into Nicaragua as far back as 1912. It was the USA who spent the next two decades installing presidents it favoured and ousting those it didn´t like, namely those who wanted to give some of the country´s wealth back to the people.
It was the US that signed a treaty to build a canal through Nicaragua, to link the two oceans, even though they never had a notion of building a canal here. Already, they had their eyes fixed on Panama, a country they invaded as recently as two decades ago.
Yes, they messed around with a little country in their own back yard so that nobody else could get the rights to a canal project which would have made a huge difference to one of the world´s poorest nations.
It was the USA which backed the awful Somoza regime for decades and then supported the Contras after the Somozas had been overthrown in a popular rebellion. And it was the USA who imposed a cruel embargo on the Sandinistas in the 1980s, ensuring that Ortega lost power because the economy was wrecked by outside forces in the years after the war.
As a ´lefty´teenager in Galway in the 1980s, I wanted to come to Nicaragua and join the fight against the world´s biggest imperial power. Over two decades later I finally got here and, while I´ve been disheartened by the poverty and lack of hope, I have developed a huge admiration for the revolutionary spirit of the people.
So what makes me think about Ireland so far from home?
Well, as a white, European former colony, people in countries such as Nicaragua and Palestine look to us for inspiration and hope for a better future.
Little do they know that we replaced the Brits, who ruled our isle with an iron fist for 800 years, with corrupt b--tards of our own.
Even going back to 1916 and our own rebellion, the nice middle class people of Dublin hurled abuse at Padraic Pearse and his cronies when they dared to attack our British rulers. It was only when the Brits executed our revolutionary leaders in cold blood that Sinn Fein gained massive support throughout the land.
After our civil war, we got two right wing parties who were no better than Maggie Thatcher and the Tories, the only difference was that the FFers and FGers spoke with Irish accents and didn´t oppress the Catholic majority.
But, apart from which side they were on back in the 1920s, can anyone tell the difference between the two parties?
Instead of visionaries and revolutionaries, we have people like Frank Fahey TD, who loved to collude with the property developers and bankers during the so-called ´boom´ years. A man who, somehow, manages to own 20-plus properties.
A man who told the young people of Galway in January 2009 that there was ¨never a better time¨ to buy their first home. I sincerely hope that nobody was listening to Frank, because prices have tumbled ever since then.
Yes, Ireland from far away looks just like George Orwell´s Animal Farm. It took us 800 years to overthrow our British masters, but we just replaced them with pigs of our own.
And instead of offering hope to the people of Palestine, that cruel oppressors and invaders can be overthrown; or to countries like Nicaragua, that former colonies can eventually develop their economies and bloom; we became a greedy, self-centred nation, obsessed by property, cars, and material things.
Instead of fighting in the UN for the rights of poorer former colonies, the Irish became the ´cute hoors´of Europe with tax incentives to attract the big American multinationals into the country and tax breaks for our own developers.
Ireland, after all of its troubles, should be a beacon of light for less fortunate lands, but in our rush for wealth over the past decade and a half our nation of mass emigration even became racist against Eastern Europeans and Africans.
The people who once stood on the Kilburn High Road, looking for any work they could get, instead wanted ´pads´in Marbella, SUVs in Salthill, and cappucinos in overpriced cafes, as they discussed how immigration had blighted the land.
In six years time, we will be commemorating 100 years of our own revolution, but we´ve forgotten what people like Robert Emmett, Daniel O´Connell, and our so-called ´terrorist´grandfathers struggled for down through the centuries.
Here in Nicaragua, at least they know who the ´terrorists´are, that they can just as easily wear the uniforms of the State as join clandestine organisations in the back rooms of Derry or Tyrone.
For me, Ortega is far less of a terrorist than Ariel Sharon, Ronnie Regan, or George W. Bush were, with their vast military strength, wealth, and power. And Martin McGuinness had a justified 'war' after what the Brits, the authorities, did in Derry on Bloody Sunday when they murdered 14 innocent people.
Perhaps it´s time for another revolution back home!

Feelings of guilt

2010-10-23T13:41:00.000-07:00

It is kind of hard to live in a country as poor as Nicaragua without experiencing feelings of guilt from time to time.
Only Haiti, currently in the midst of a deadly cholera outbreak, is poorer among all the nations of the Americas. Here in Nicaragua, meanwhile, the local TV stations are dominated by news of an outbreak of leptosporosis, caused by rodents contaminating the water supply. So far, 16 people have died from a disease which could be easily avoided if they had the resources to deal with it.
Poverty is a fact of life, even in the most 'touristy' city in the country.
About 15 young volunteers live in the house next to my office and it is quite common to see impoverished local men rummage through their bags of waste on a week day. The young volunteers are by no means rich by European or North American standards, but some men think it's worthwhile to go through their left-overs in search of food or valuables.
Every day in town, you are bombarded by people selling cashew nuts, ceramics, clothes, CDs, or cigars. Even worse, loads of youngsters approach the foreigners on the Calzada, the pedestrianised street, looking for one dollar.
You harden yourself, you try not to encourage begging because it just makes them more dependant on the whims of foreigners. The 12 year old who wants money to buy glue could be the prostitute of tomorrow and there is a seedy underbelly to this place where North Americans enjoy extremely cheap holidays.
The locals think that all white people are rich, and relative to them we are. Not for your average Nicaraguan the chance to leave their country, even once in their life, for a holiday in a foreign land.
Already, I have grown used to people shouting at me, seeking a dollar, as I cycle around the streets.
Something as routine as visiting a family home to get a bike repaired can turn quite menacing, such as when a young man (also waiting for his bicycle to be fixed) demands money from you for looking at the Che Guevara tattoo on his arm. You try to laugh it off, show a sense of humour, but you know there is a hint of a threat in his demand.
It's the lack of hope that is most striking, the way so many people spend the entire day sitting outside their homes in groups, watching the world go by. The economy just doesn't work here and those who do find work often do so for just US$5 per day.
Just imagine what they think of people who can afford to spend the equivalent of two days' wages on a meal in a touristy restaurant.
Foreigners cannot do much to change a country that seems so broken, in which parents have no incentive to send their kids to school because they can't see any jobs or prospects for them on the horizon.
But, I guess, as a volunteer you just try to do a little bit to help out.
It's great to see some of our volunteers working one-on-one with the children over a number of months in the schools. They build up bonds and, more importantly, give the kids an interest in learning.
And it's magical to see the excitement in the schools when we go around with computers once a week. The children only get to use them for 40 minutes every seven days, but it's a wondrous experience for them.
Helping an organisation such as La Esperanza Granada is a richly rewarding experience, and has far more benefit than giving a dollar to a beggar on the street.
Quite possibly, it is the best thing I have done in my entire life.
When you see all the children who sniff glue in the heart of the city, you thank God for the handful of students who our volunteers might just encourage to stay on in school . . . or even to go on to University.
Our organisation has 11 'ayudantes', young people from dirt poor families who cannot afford to go to University. Thanks to our sponsors, they do so every weekend and they get paid US$80 per month for working for La Esperanza from Monday to Friday.
Every day, though, poverty is a fact of life and you rarely forget how well off you are compared to the locals.
For a white foreigner, it is not safe to walk home from the pub after 10 p.m. We stick out like sore thumbs because, relative to most Nicaraguans, we are really rich. My private Spanish language teacher only charges volunteer students US$3 per hour and considers that to be a decent wage.
That's not to say I have had any bad experiences in my five weeks so far in the country. I did up an old bicycle and have had no problems cycling home from O'Shea's Irish bar on a Wednesday or Saturday night.
But I've been told off by locals for daring to go home on my own at night, without taking a taxi.
Then again, as I've said in quite a few posts this year, too much of our lives is ruled (or ruined) by fear.
If I had listened to all the negative comments and predictions in Panama and Costa Rica, I would not even have come to Nicaragua.
Yet I have found that the poorest country I have visited in all of my gap year travels has also been the most enjoyable.
The Nicaraguans have a great sense of humour, a great joy for life, an ability to have fun and slag each other off which seems quite familiar to an Irish person.
These people are incredibly warm-hearted and, after all my doubts, I am so glad I came here and that I'm getting a chance to do something so rewarding.
Poverty might push people towards crime, as it is simply unfair to put temptation in the way of someone who struggles to put food on the table every day.
But I've found that, contrary to all the negative talk in neighbouring countries, this is actually the safest country in Central America.
Now if only someone, somewhere, could give them some hope in terms of the creation of jobs, so that they would not all have to dream about emigrating to Costa Rica or the USA, countries in which many of them are treated as second class citizens.
In a way, this country is like Ireland in the 1950s, when our parents' generation grew up without shoes to go to school in overcrowded rural homes.
Hopefully, the Nicas, too, can taste some of the radical change which allowed Ireland to become rich, if only for the briefest of times.
Because it must be very, very hard to live your whole life without some hope for the future, some hope of a job or a better life.

Beware of obnoxious Americans

2010-10-17T21:18:00.000-07:00

Beware of loud Americans with obnoxious opinions, as I learned again tonight when I was approached by a seemingly friendly New Yorker (while having my dinner in an outdoor restaurant) who just would not stop talking.
After regaling me with some interesting tales about life on the east coast of the country, where the locals speak a curious language (Moskito) which has been compared to Pidgin English, the internal alarm bells rang when he switched to politics.
Before I knew it, this tall, geeky type was explaining to me 'why' the Americans had sent the 'Contras' into Nicaragua in the late 1980s. I couldn't believe the arrogance, this assumption that the good old US of A has a right to mess around with and abuse every little country in its own back yard, and I nearly exploded when he got on to calling the current President of Nicaragua, Daniel Ortega, a 'war criminal'.
Unfortunately, due to a busted foot, I was unable to kick the man. But when I countered that good old Ronnie Raegan and George W. Bush could also be perceived as war criminals, he told me this was "only an opinion". Only an opinion, after I had listened to his tripe for half an hour? I could sense the pointlessness of the conversation and got out of there.
I'm no apologist for Nicaragua's current leader after a month in the country, but I am full of admiration for a tiny country (with a population similar to Ireland's) which staged a revolution to topple an awful, right wing dictator (Somosa) in the late 1970s, and dared to stand up to the might of Uncle Sam and its rotten Contras.
There has hardly ever been a 'war' in which atrocities were not committed on both sides ... for 'Bloody Sunday', internment, or Maggie Thatcher's response to the hunger strikes, which gave the IRA huge legitimacy in the eyes of thousands of Irish people for years, we had 'Omagh' and 'Enniskillen'.
But it shocks me the way some Americans go about their daily lives in Nicaragua, full of their own self-importance and not a bit conscious of the fact that fate has been kind to them (economically, if not mentally!) by virtue of where they were born.
It's low season in Granada, so it doesn't take long to get to know some of the expats if you are into drinking along La Calzada, the only pedestrian zone in the entire country.
To generalise, most of them are male, in their 50s and 60s, divorced and retired, and enjoying life here because their dollar will allow them to buy the company of pretty girls in their 20s.
That's all fair enough, I've seen their likes in Thailand (mostly Brits and Germans), even if it is a sad reflection on the entire world that people feel to compelled to sell their bodies in order to get out of extreme poverty.
But what sickens me is the way these North Americans sit around the same bars every day, drinking Flor de Cama rum. They show nothing but contempt for the street vendors who approach them selling ceramics, cigarettes, cashew nuts, or a countless variety of trinkets.
These 'gringos' don't speak Spanish, so they dismiss the local traders, loudly, in English; and then complain among themselves about how annoying the locals are.
This is in a country where a huge per centage of the population struggle to put food on the table every day, where they dream of doing crap jobs in Costa Rica or the USA.
Daniel Ortega is no Saint, I have learned, just as my first (and only) trip to Cuba ruined my illusions about another revolution 11 years ago.
But the poverty in both countries has only been exacerbated by the terrible foreign policy decisions of the Americas' only superpower down through the decades.
Just imagine, if instead of arming the Contras to the teeth, what this country would be like if the USA invested in its education and its infrastructre.
Nicaragua needs hope and investment, as there is huge potential in this youthful country which has so much poverty and unemployment.
What it doesn't need is more and more North Americans, who only come here because their dollar can go further in the poorest country in the Americas. I don't care if they are drinking themselves to death on Flor de Cana, as many of them are doing each day, but it annoys me as a fellow 'gringo' (in the eyes of the locals) to see them insult the Nicos so regularly while they plonk their fat asses outside a handful of pubs.
There but for the grace of God, any of us could have been born a Nicaraguan. And hundreds of dollars will buy you a prostitute in any impoverished country, no matter how fat, obnoxious, or ugly you are.
Sadly, the New Yorker in his 60s still hasn't come to that realisation, as he abuses the locals in a language they don't understand. So it's probably a good job he is too dumb or lazy to learn Spanish!
I don't mean to put down all North Americans, because I have also met some incredible Americans and Canadians during my time here, many of whom have given up their time to help out those in need through charities and NGOs.
But Nicaraguans have a distrust of loud North Americans ever since a man called William Walker came down here from the USA, staged a coup, and took over the country for a brief time in the 1850s. From what I've seen here so far, they are dead right!

Settling into Nicaragua

2010-10-07T14:45:00.000-07:00

Life here in Nicaragua is certainly different to anywhere else I've lived in. The reality of poverty faces you daily as you negotiate the picturesque city of Granada, and I don't need reminding that this is the most 'touristic' city of the country so I haven't even seen the real Nicaragua yet.
People approach you looking for one dollar, and no matter how you deal with them the reality is that you are rich compared to them.
In Nicaragua, there is a desperate need for hope. The organisation I am working for, La Esperanza Granada, send a team of 30 volunteers out to help provide education in crowded rural schools and, once you get out there, far off the beaten track, the living conditions are a real eye-opener.
Most tourists never see the primitive tin huts our volunteers visit after school each day.
But, after just over two and a half weeks in the country so far, the reality of life in Nicaragua has exceeded all my expectations.
In Panama and Costa Rica, I was warned that I would be robbed or assaulted here, and a big Irishman with blond hair and blue eyes does stick out in this impoverished country. But so far, so good ... I actually feel safer here at night than in Costa Rica.
That's not to say there are no problems, because Managua is reputed to be a nightmare of a city for foreigners and there are parts of Granada in which it is just not safe to walk alone after dark.
There is a small expat community here, mostly Americans, many of whom make little or no effort to integrate. They drink in the pubs along the Calzada, the beautiful main pedestrian street which links the huge lake with the city centre, starting early and finishing early.
Used to walking home from the pub in Galway, Thailand, or Spain, the idea that I need to take a taxi as early as 10 p.m. at night takes a bit of getting used to. But once the streets get quiet there is no other option, and foreigners definitely cannot walk down the darker side streets in which the poverty is more acute.
I've seen huge families living in squalid tin huts, been called a 'Gringo' more than a few times by bored young men in dodgy areas, and watched the mad street life where 70 year old Americans walk around with 17-year old 'girlfriends'.
I didn't think I'd encounter the kind of sex tourism which has given parts of Thailand such a reputation all over the world, but I guess there's poverty everywhere and the disparity manifests itself in different places. For all the Germans and Brits in Pataya or Patong, there are plenty of Americans here.
Who am I to tell the 65-year old hard drinking divorced American that the 25-year old model under his arm is only after him for his money? He knows that anyway, and he doesn't care, and he will probably be with someone else tomorrow night anyway.
It's an intriguing place, a mixture of loud obnoxious American bars and decent local spots where I can even catch a Barcelona or Liverpool game on a weekend morning.
On my first weekend, I even caught a live heavy rock band in Kelly's which, despite the name, is locally owned.
There is one Irish bar, owned by Tommie from Dublin, and it's a real social hub for the European expats. O'Shea's is where we host our pub quiz every Wednesday night. There are three other Irish people in town that I know of, and at this stage I have met all three!
And as for the work? I don't think I have ever worked for nothing before, but I am also pretty sure that I have never had such a rewarding job.
Seeing the joy which playing on a computer or interacting with a foreign volunteer brings to a child has reminded me of the value of the simple things in life.
Right now, life in Nicaragua is incredible.
I'm not getting to scuba dive in pristine waters, or drink until dawn in a beach bar, and I haven't fallen in love with a Latin supermodel.
But I've fallen back in love with life and the world and I am full of admiration for all the young volunteers in their early 20s, who have come here just to try to provide a slightly better life to impoverished children.
When I was their age, all I wanted to do was party all the time and the idea of volunteering for months so far from home never crossed my mind. That was a self-destructive period of my life and I think I am much better prepared for this experience now.
Yesterday, I edited a video about our volunteer programme after bringing a sponsor from the US and a representative of a volunteer website in the UK around to a number of our projects.
And today, under the blistering sun, I walked into work with a relish at 9 a.m. I can't remember feeling like that at home for quite a while. I am still only scratching the surface of this place, but I am meeting lovely, genuine people who only want a chance in life everyday.
Already, I feel really content here, and I just don't want to think about going home at the end of the year.
And to think that for weeks, especially when I went home, I had built myself up into a frenzy of fear over the thought of coming to Nicaragua.
Sometimes the reality can be totally different from our fears.

Hope and acceptance

2010-09-30T20:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in life, things just don't go to plan . . . and this week I think I learned a lot about hope but, especially, the need for acceptance.
And I've had a few of my own prejudices challenged by someone way younger than me.
This week, my first as a volunteer with La Esperanza Granada, saw me visit rural primary schools outside the city on three different days.
During the first two, the rain bucketed down and many of the children were absent, unable or unwilling to make the journey through potholed roads. In Nicaragua, there is no compulsion on parents to send their kids to school.
On my second day, I met Barbara, a primary school teacher from the United States. She spent eight months volunteering with La Esperanza (Hope) last year and is back in Granada on holidays for a couple of weeks.
Not for her a trip to laze around or a chance to just lie by the lake during her break from her school in St. Louis.
Instead, she busied herself trying to set up a Skype link between her school in the USA and a small, impoverished school here in Nicaragua.
She purchased one of those mobile internet connections from Claro, one of the mobile phone operators here, and together with me and one of the 'ayudantes' headed to the school to instigate a link between the two classes.
My God, talk about excitement! The children were absolutely thrilled at the prospect of talking, in Spanish, to kids in the USA. Nervous and overjoyed, they sat down in front of the computer and roared out 'Ole' to the kids in America.
And then the connection died.
For the best part of an hour, Barbara tried to get Skype going again. But to no avail. Quietly, without any fuss, she accepted her lot, told the kids to write down their hobbies, a bit about their families, etc. for their conversations the following day. She got in touch with her counterpart in the US and organised a link up again for Wednesday.
It was raining on Tuesday, but gloriously sunny on Wednesday. And Barbara hoped that the weather was a factor. But this time she got no signal at all. The kids lined up again in front of the computer, and managed to mask their disappointment when nothing happened.
Barbara has another week of holidays and, after intense discussions with the mobile phone company, hopes to set up the link again. I sincerely hope it works out, for a bunch of kids who have never had access to the Internet in their lives.
My point? Well, Barbara taught me the value of quiet, stoic determination, and acceptance when things went wrong, even if she is probably 15 or 20 years my junior. Quietly, she accepted the disappointment, packed up the computer, and went back to Granada in the truck. But determined to do the link again.
In third world countries, things often go wrong. People put up with things that would result in endless moaning in first world countries like Ireland. The teacher and the kids shrugged their shoulders and got back to business in their class.
And Barbara taught me that it's too easy to make judgments about races or nationalities. Here was an American who gave up a year of her life to help out far less fortunate people in the second poorest country in the Americas. And she's back, a year later, on a break from her steady job to help out those children again.
Meanwhile, back in Ireland, from the little bit of news I am getting through the Internet and BBC World, all the talk is of doom and gloom, and the bankers, politicians, and developers who have wrecked our economy.
But every day I see poverty and levels of unemployment which would be unthinkable in Ireland, and yet - aside from the odd 'Gringo' comment - Nicaragua seems to be one of the safest countries in Central America.
I would love to see these people, who stood up to brutal colonial powers and corrupt right wing dictators, get even a fraction of the opportunities which were available to most of my generation (and certainly the younger generation) in Ireland.
They put up with crap and stagnation every day, but still manage a smile or a friendly gesture.
These people deserve more hope but, like Barbara, they can teach the first world quite a bit about acceptance.
Recession? Back home, nobody I know is sleeping under a tin roof or forced to work for just US$5 per day.
In recent years, as a single man with a good job in Ireland, I've probably managed five trips away each year to places like Spain, Thailand, Egypt, and France. In Nicaragua, they dream of getting out of the country just once ... in order to take up a crap, low paid job in Costa Rica or the USA.
Despite all the negativity I'm hearing from home, when I look at the lack of opportunity facing the lovely people of Nicaragua around me, I realise how fortunate I was to be born in Ireland.
And how unfair the world is. Just imagine if the American Government had the same outlook on life as Barbara, helping the less fortunate in their own back yard rather than spending a fortune on pointless wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Enough of a rant, because this week I learned more than a little about about acceptance in the face of frustration.

And on to Nicaragua...

2010-09-25T14:31:00.000-07:00

At the border, it only takes seconds to realise that you are crossing into a much poorer country.
A host of useless ´helpers´hover around, attempting to grab your bag as you stumble off the bus, or waving wads of cash which they offer to exchange at rip-off conversion rates.
Red and black flags, the symbol of the Sandinista (FSLN) revolution, are as prominent as the blue and white national flags and the road looks worse than the route up from Costa Rica.
Welcome to Nicaragua!
Since I was a teenager in the 1980s, I have always an interest in this troubled land. A land that dared to stand up to the might of Uncle Sam, a land of revolutionaries in which pictures of El Che (Guevara) are more prominent than football stickers on parked cars.
This is a land in which politics are discussed every day, in which people´s lives burn with a sense of injustice, against imperialism, against corrupt dictators, against greedy landowners.
Perhaps Ireland right now could learn a little from the spirit of the Nicos, another small land with a weak economy which has been bullied by bigger neighbours.
I´ve only been here a few days but, already, I love Nicaragua.
I´ve been amazed by all the warnings I received from people in Costa Rica and Panama. They wondered why I wanted to go to such a poor and troubled land.
They told me I´d be robbed on the bus or held up by muggers and yet here in Granada I feel perfectly safe walking home from the pub in the early hours.
The poverty, the prostitution, the restlessness and lack of opportunity are all around me, and yet I wonder what potential there must be in this land of poets and warriors if they hadn´t been bullied, mined, and mistreated by Ronnie Reagan and his cronies back in the 1980s, and still treated like the ´second class citizens´of Central America right through to this day.
In Nicaragua, the stagnation is palpable. The unemployment rate is colossal and this land of five million people has 1.5 million living overseas, mainly in Costa Rica and the USA.
Crossing the border was like going from Thailand into Cambodia, in that the higher level of poverty and lack of opportunity were palpable.
In Costa Rica, where Nicos do the crap jobs, the Ticos look down on their neighbours to the north. Yet San Jose is an unsafe city in which tourists are warned not to bother going out after 6 p.m. at night.
They haven´t that much to brag about and Nicaragua does not have the gang problems which have troubled virtually all of its neighbours.
Nicaragua today is a bit like Ireland in the 1980s, a basket case of an economy in which the young are forced to emigrate (in the main, to the land of their worst enemy) in search of a better life.
San Jose has enclaves of Nicos, just as Kilburn and Cricklewood were full of unhappy Irish emigrants (who hardly moved to London for the love of the place) in the 1950s and again in the 1980s.
Every day in Granada, I am approached by beggars, but they are rarely insistent or threatening.
I have already met the other three Irish residents of the town and enjoyed a night out in the city´s only Irish pub, O´Shea´s, which is run by a Dubliner called Tom.
I know it is poorer than Panama or Costa Rica, but in the main I have found the people to be incredibly honest and friendly. Relative to most of them, I am virtually a millionaire.
For US10 a night, I have an en suite room and a swimming pool just outside my door. I am staying with an Irish man called Gerry, who is the same age as me. He was made redundant back home last year and decided to head off, buy a gorgeous old colonial house, and live a new life.
I´m going to be in Granada for the next two months, working for an organization called La Esperanza, which means Hope.
What an appropriate name and organisation in a beautiful land of volcanoes and lakes which is crying out for a chance to take its place in the rich modern world.
So far, I´m delighted with the charity I have chosen. I´m going to relish the work, the challenges, and the opportunity to learn.
I´m so glad I came, and that I didn´t pay too much attention to all the vicious rumours and scare stories. Nicaragua isn´t dangerous, just like Ireland wasn´t dangerous during the troubles when people in London would tell tourists to stay away from the Emerald Isle.
Nicaragua is a beautiful land of beautiful people which, like Cuba or Venezuela or must Latin American countries, just needs to be given some hope.
Children need to learn that there is a point to going to school, that at some point along the way they will get jobs or a chance to travel or use a second language.
La Esperanza? If I can only give a tiny bit of hope to a few people during my two months here, then I think this will be the most fulfilling part of (and a perfect end to) my gap year.

Back from beautiful Boquete

2010-09-19T13:28:00.000-07:00

In the end, travel is not just about ticking off the boxes and seeing as many places as possible ... much as I've treasured my new experiences and locations this year ... it is more about the wonderful people you meet along the way.
For the past two weeks, I have been a student at the Habla Ya school in Boquete, Panama, improving my Spanish in a place which is just as wet as Ireland at this time of year. They have an excellent website, www.hablayapanama.com
It's fair to say that a few years ago I would not have been too keen on the place. There is virtually no night life, apart from a gem of a pub called Zanzibar and a couple of local rough spots, and the heavens open almost every day from May to December.
Yet I had an incredible experience, living in the home of Pucho and Rita, who welcomed me like a brother and made me feel right at home from day one when I knocked back beers with Pucho and Rita's two brothers into the early hours.
I got to see how hard these people work, getting up at 5 a.m. seven days a week, in order to provide a better future for their sons.
And, despite my limited grasp of Spanish, I got to treasure the Saturday night sessions on the terrace in which we would swap stories about our lives and families, and enjoy traditional Panamanian dishes such as 'sao', an extremely fattening dish which goes very well with cerveza.
One of the brothers, Rafa, lost his 37-year old wife, suddenly, in March of this year and is bringing up his seven year old daughter, Genesis, on his own. Well, not quite, because he has the support of a wonderful extended family and has lived with his mum and sister since March, because he cannot face the pain of going back to his home.
Saturday was my birthday, and I was due to move out of their home. But they insisted that I stay on so that I could celebrate with them. They didn't want me heading off to a hostal on my own.
What can I say about such incredibly warm people, except that all of us experience pain at some stage in our lives? And that I was taken aback by how keen they were to make me feel at home? Sharing my life with them for two and a half weeks was an incredible experience, and I will always treasure the three Saturday night sessions I enjoyed right outside my room.
In Boquete, I was lucky enough to have a private class with the lovely Leydis for two weeks. She gets up at 4.30 every day in the city of David in order to be at school on time. They fight so hard to earn a standard of living we take for granted in Ireland, and yet they don't complain.
All of the staff at Habla Ya were lovely and I was so glad I stayed for two weeks rather than the one I had originally planned. The place was very quiet, but I befriended a half-dozen wonderful students, mainly from the USA, and we planned outings together such as a morning at the Caldera hot springs.
In Boquete, which is over 1,000 metres above sea level, it tends to pour rain every afternoon. Which is why the classes take place at Habla Ya from 1 to 5.30 p.m. during 'invierno' (their winter).
The place has been colonised to some extent by American retirees, some of whom make no effort to integrate, and yet the locals were incredibly friendly during my stay of almost three weeks in their town.
Sunny mornings were spent on lovely three or four hour walks, there is a huge circuit of lovely roads and pathways all around the mountains and hills of Boquete, even though I never made it to the summit of Volcan Baru, Panama's highest peak.
I might have felt a little lonely, but for the friendship of Danish couple Marie and Jakob, who like me are on a journey of discovery, but with two and five year old daughters on tow.
Real estate agent Tamara, child psychologist Kristyn, and Boston sisters Jodie and Kolie reminded me of how friendly North Americans can be, as I have met very few people from their part of the world during my travels through Thailand, Malaysia, and Spain this year.
So the morning walks were spectacular, and my Spanish came on no end, but ultimately I will remember Boquete for the warmth of a family who treated me as one of their own.
One of them, Ronald, wondered whether I was lonely spending my birthday with Panamanians so far from home. Well, to be honest, I've felt lonelier during heavy drinking sessions at home in Galway pubs.
The rain was a pain, but the magic of the people I met ensured that I left Boquete today (the day after my birthday) with wonderful memories of the place . . . Oh, and a new family of Panamanians who have introduced me to the delights of barbecued chorizo in the early hours!

My own little ´Bucket List´

2010-09-09T16:04:00.000-07:00

"People wondered why they didn´t take more risks, why they worried about having enough money in the bank" - Paul McDermott, Pilgrims.

During my four months in Koh Lanta, Thailand, at the start of this year, one of my fellow DMTs (Divemaster Trainees), Jane Waites, set up a DVD library which proved to be a huge hit among the staff at Blue Planet Divers.
If you had to be up at 6 a.m. for a day out on the boat, then it was great to lie at home in your beach bungalow and watch a good movie on your laptop instead of going to the pub of a week night.
One of the first videos I took out was called ´The Bucket List´, a tale of two old terminally ill characters, played by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, who decide to live out their dreams before they "hit the bucket". They go all around the world and have a whale of a time, chasing adventures, but ultimately Freeman´s character (the poorer one) teaches Nicholson´s millionaire that all that really matters in this life is love.
The film really struck a chord with me as I came to the realisation that I was ticking off items on my own ´Bucket List´during my 2010 gap year.
And when I returned the DVD, I was thrilled to note that Jane had rented it out the night before me.
During my time in Thailand, Jane was an inspiration. For starters, she was older than me, when I was afraid on the way over that all the other DMTs would be 25 year old hunks and babes.
She had battled breast cancer two yeas earlier and, along with husband Chris, decided to change her life by selling her house in England and touring the world, becoming DMs and Instructors in the process. Two years on, they are still on the road and loving every minute of their new lives.
Jane is just one of the courageous people who have inspired me in 2010, just one of the amazing people I have befriended since I left my ´comfortable´(but unfulfilling) life in Galway behind in early January.
Since I left home I have lived on a tropical island in Thailand, become a professional DM (after 12 years of diving as a hobby), spent a whole summer in Spain (which just happened to be the year Spain won the World Cup!), learned an awful lot about Spain and the Basque Country, visited a tropical rainforest in Malaysia, and now I am living with a wonderful family in Panama, while learning even more Spanish for two weeks.
I´m enjoying knocking back the beers with the Panamanians on Saturday nights, but I have also seen how hard Pucho and Rita work in order to provide a better future for their teenage sons. They get up at 5 am every weekday.
In my daily walks around the beautiful mountain town of Boquete, I see indigenous Ngoble Bugle children whose futures are already bleak because their parents don´t bother to send them to school. Life in Panama is not easy, but what an incredible experience it is to live among these beautiful, friendly people, who love music and have a zest for life.
All of these experiences would be on my own personal ´Bucket List´... and so many people I´ve met in Thailand, Malaysia, Spain, and Panama have renewed my sense of adventure, plus my faith in humanity. Nine months on, I can´t imagine how negative I would be right now if I had not taken this career break from my job in the Connacht Tribune back in Ireland.
This morning, for example, I enjoyed a tranquil three hour trek through a beautiful rainforest. Then I spent four hours talking Spanish with, and learning from, my beautiful teacher, Leydis, at the Habla Ya school. She gets up at 4.30 a.m. and earns about 400 euros per month.
Today, I talked to a Danish couple who are touring Central America for five months with their two and five year old daughters. Life seems full of possibilities, instead of the negativity I experienced back in Ireland last month.
In the mornings, I leap out of bed, full of adventure and anticipation of what lies ahead. I can´t remember feeling like that at home in Ireland for a long time.
So I guess my point is that we should all make our ´Bucket List´right now ... because the time is now.
If I had toured the world when I was 25, I probably would have drank too much or got into silly drunken scrapes along the way. Right now, like Jane and Chris, I feel as though I´m living life to the full.
Why wait until you are 70 or 80 to live out your dreams? Because none of us really knows what lies around the corner, aren´t we all better off to live life to the full, right here, right now?
At 42, I thought I was too old for a gap year. Instead, I have been encouraged and enriched by all the good people I have met on my travels, and I still have two months of voluntary work to come.
For me, the biggest problem is going to be trying to convert my new found positivity into my mundane life back in Galway. But at least, in 2010, I have lived out my dreams to the full ... for the first time in over 40 years on this earth.
The quote at the start of this piece, by the way, comes from a hospice for the terminally ill.
It´s too late to regret not taking risks when you are at the end of your days, sitting in a wheelchair in an old folks´ home.
So thanks to the Tribune for giving me 12 months to explore, dream, and discover, and thanks to all the people who have inspired me along the way.
I´ve had fears and worries and down days on my travels, but this has been the most enjoyable year of my life so far. By a long shot.
Because, like others I´ve met this year, such as Emma and Raggi in Thailand, or Amanda in Spain, I had the courage to try to live out my ´Bucket List´.

How quickly we forget ...

2010-09-03T13:18:00.000-07:00

On a soddy, drizzly afternoon, which could have matched Galway´s worst if it wasn´t so warm, I found myself heading for Panama City´s excellent Canal Museum.
Among the exhibits is a section dealing with the construction of Central America¨s first (and only) railway from Panama to the troubled city of Colon, where tourists are warned not to even go out in the middle of the day.
The railway, which linked the Atlantic with the Pacific, was constructed in the late 1840s and early 1850s and, guess what, the country which had the biggest representation among the manual workers was Ireland ... and that´s despite the fact that it was considered part of the ´British Empire´ at the time.
Just imagine what life was like for the thousands of labourers who left their villages in Galway, Mayo, or Offaly behind, crossing the Atlantic on the infamous ´coffin ships´ in order to begin new lives alongside tough men from all over the world.
Of course, the museum did not refer to the fact that the railway was built right after our Potato Famine, when Ireland (or its British masters) spat out its young men and women, forcing them into exile.
Uneducated, penniless, and facing yellow fever and malaria, life in the tropics must have come as a huge culture shock to the thousands of Irish men who found themselves in Panama a century and a half ago, working for a pittance as they traversed dangerous country.
To my knowledge, RTE has never made a documetary about these unfortunate men, or no major study has been undertaken in Ireland into their lives.
Because in Ireland it´s more convenient to ignore or forget about the people who were forced out of our wet and rocky isle in search of a living.
Panama City, my introduction to Latin America, was an incredible experience. I did not feel a bit unsafe wandering the streets by day, although of course it pays to be careful (or take taxis) at night.
The Casco Viego (or old town) is undergoing a massive revival and wonderful old colonial buildings are being restored. It´s like Havana, but without as many crumbling old abodes.
During two days of wandering its streets, I probably met a dozen foreign tourists in Casco Viejo. It really feels like an unexplored gem.
The museum, which is in the heart of the old town, also showed the appalling conditions in which slaves were brought from Africa to the Americas, which might just explain why the ghettoes of LA or Detroit are troubled to this day. The ancestors of America´s poorest had a horrid introduction to life on the other side of the Atlantic.
Seeing the Panama Canal, with the huge ships lined up to enter it, reminded me of how insignificant little ol Ireland is in the wider scheme of things.
And, as the Banana Republic spits out its young again, just as it did in the 1980s and 1950s, our wonderful leaders will probably care as little about their stories, their futures, as the Brits did back in the 1850s.
While the pigs who took over the farm continue to knock back the porter and defy the smoking ban in public places, while bailing out their banker buddies, Ireland´s youth are searching abroad for jobs again.
Thankfuly, they are probably a lot better prepared for the big bad world than the West of Ireland peasants who fled starvation at home in order to work on the Panama railway a century and a half ago.

Panama ... first impressions

2010-08-31T11:20:00.000-07:00

After two weeks at home, it was time to hit for the skies again and so I found myself in Shannon Airport on a Sunday morning, answering questions about why I was going to the dear old US of A, even though I was only going to be there for a total of two hours.
Jetlagged, exhausted after leaving two emotional parents behind, I found myself in Panama Airport about 16 hours later, waiting for my rucksack to be unleashed from the carousel and still quite anxious about what lay ahead.
My taxi-driver, arranged by the hostal, did not show but, after some gentle negotiations, I found msyelf sharing a ´collectivo´taxi into the city for the start of my new adventure.
I managed to chat for a while, in Spanish, with my two fellow passengers, who were from Venezuela, even if part of me just wanted to go home ... Silly me!
Central America is the final third of my gap year and over the next three and a half months I´m going to explore life in Panama, Costa Rica, and Nicaragua.
My jitters weren´t helped when I found two Tourist Police at the reception of Hostal Marmallena, aparently one of my fellow guests had been relieved of her bag right outside the front door.
I was extremely tired, and slept quite well, and still felt quite anxious in the morning.
Then I got up, got out, and began to explore, and soon I was enraptured by the city and its people.
Yes, there are dodgy areas at night.
Yes, tourists stick out like sore thumbs.
But my room was extremely comfortable, so quiet that I slept for 12 hours on my second night, and day one of the last leg of my trip involved a seven hour walk all around town.
Casco Viejo was stunning ... old colonial houses, which reminded me of Havana, which were abandoned by the rich and the middle class decades ago. Now they are being restored with US dollars and there is a building frenzy in the area. Nobody told the Panamanians, it seems, about the ´crisis´ which has crippled Ireland and so many other countries.
So I walked for hours, checking out the action on Avenida Central, the city´s man hub and the wealth of colour of the indigenous people in the pedestrianised zone.
I found a Chinese restaurant, dark and seedy, which served up a huge scrumptious meal for about US4 and I gazed across at the huge boats readying themselves to enter the world´s most famous canal.
The city´s modern high-rise zone has been called the ´Miami of the South´and there are a host of things to do and see in this city.
After 48 hours, my anxiety has all but vanished. Central America is going to be an adventure, just as it is for virtually every tourist who takes on the challenge and goes out and explores.
The girl in the hostal did nothing wrong, she was just unlucky at 11 p.m. at night in one of the ´safest´ places in town.
Poverty is a fact of life in this region, but the vast majority of Latin Americans are friendly, hospitable souls, who are just trying to survive on poor wages. Already, after 48 hours, I feel that the place is far friendlier than Spain.
Suddenly, I´ve conquered some of my fears. And, as I´ve said in earlier posts, that´s what this gap year has been about for me.
We can go about distrusting strangers and feeling scared, or we can open our eyes to the goodness in the vast majority of people in the world.
I´m not anxious, I´m not scared, I´m looking forward to the next three months with genuine excitement, as I´ve again left the safe harbour that is Galway behind. Once again, it´s time to get out and explore ...!

The final third ...

2010-08-26T03:59:00.001-07:00

"Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure . . . Life is either a daring adventure or nothing." - Helen Keller.

I came across this wonderful quotation today in one of the local papers as I finalised preparations for the last third of my gap year.
The quotation was used in the context of entrepreneurs and their ability to pick up the pieces after failures, but it could equally apply to those of us who leave our 'safe' lives behind in order to travel and see the world for a while.
Many successful business people gave up 'safe' lives in order to take a risk and many of them had to fail before they managed to succeed. But they all had the spirit of adventure to go out and take risks.
I've been rested up in the safest harbour possible over the past two weeks, my parents' house where I haven't lived for 20 years, and it seems so far removed from what I am going to encounter in Central America over the next few months.
As an adult, I've rarely spent so much time with my parents as over the past two weeks, with the added bonus that my 96-year old granny, whose spirit is unbelievable, joined us for the last five days or so.
Part of me is really fearful of what lies ahead, traveling through Central America on my own, and that makes me wonder why so many of us doubt ourselves so much in this life.
My plan for the year was to become a Divemaster, living on a tropical island in Thailand for five months; to improve my Spanish by spending much of the summer in my favourite city in Spain, San Sebastian; and then to do voluntary work, and so far everything has gone to plan.
Yet suddenly I'm in fear. Even though I know I will spend two months working with a voluntary organisation in Nicaragua, where I am bound to hook up with like-minded souls from around the world and make some sort of difference to the lives of people who are less fortunate than us Irish.
And, truth be told, Galway has been a tad depressing over the past two weeks. I've met two people who lost their jobs this year, one or two whose businesses are in trouble, and everyone is talking about the crisis, the corrupt politicians, and the unbelievable bail-out of the fat cat bankers.
But nobody seems to be doing anything about it, apart from moaning.
In Nicaragua, I'm going to see children who don't have food to eat each day, poverty on a scale which will put Ireland's current woes to shame.
Maybe I will learn a thing or two about revolution from the Sandinistas, and bring my lessons home!
Or maybe I will see that Ireland's woes are not really as bad, in the context of poverty and just putting food on the table, as what I will encounter in Central America.
There are a host of scare stories on the internet about how tourists in the region are targets for robbers, and suddenly I'm in fear. And yet this is the guy who backpacked around Cambodia when it was definitely not safe and never experienced problems, even in Phnom Penh at 4 a.m.!
Perhaps I should have more faith in myself and, by extension, in the world as I prepare for the final third of my 2010 adventure.
Apart from a cancelled flight (due to the awful weather in January), a cancelled credit card, and a five week illness, nothing has really gone wrong so far in my travels through Thailand, Malaysia, Swizterland, France, and Spain.
And now I'm in fear . . . It just doesn't make sense!
Life has become an adventure after 18 years in the 'safe' job, a job I can go back to in January. It would have been far worse to take the 'safe' option and continue to sit in Market Street, Galway, for another year only to dream of such adventures and encounters.
I've made wonderful friends in Koh Lanta and San Sebastian, yet I'm haunted by the thoughts of all the criminals who are going to be following me around Costa Rica or Panama next month. It's just negative, pointless, fearful thinking, which we can all be guilty of from time to time, whether it's about our relationships, our jobs, whatever.
As my friend Cian said in Valencia, as we prepared to go out and see The Cult play in a huge park, "how lucky am I?" It was a beautiful summer's evening in a big park in a big Spanish city and I was getting to see one of my favourite bands 25 years after I became a fan.
The 'safe' version of me would have been back home watching some mediocre act going through the motions at the Galway Arts Festival.
It's up to each of us to overcome our fears, whether we are sitting in our home town or negotiating rough streets half-way across the world.
I'm looking forward to seeing everyone at Christmas, and I realise that I do have a wonderful family and friends in Galway, but I have a few more adventures to experience in the meantime. Yes, how lucky am I?

Showers of introspection in Salthill

2010-08-19T09:38:00.000-07:00

It's cold, it's wet, it's grey in the month of August . . . Oh my God, I must be back home in Galway.
After five months in South East Asia and two fabulous months in Spain, it's been good to get home and see friends and family even if a couple of dark, dank days have reminded me of why I felt a need to get out of Ireland in 2010 in the first place.
I'm home to have a medical check-up, sort out vaccines for Central America, review my finances, and organise my pending return to work in January (sob, sob), but especially to catch up with the people who are so important in my life.
My faith in humanity and planet earth has been hugely enhanced by all the new friends I've made in Koh Lanta and San Sebastian this year, but there is nothing quite like hooking up with the people who I have shared joys and tears with for so many years.
This November is the 20th anniversary of the death of my good friend, Joe Seale, in an accident in India, less than a year after my sister Cliona had lost her life to cancer. A second sad waste in the space of 11 months, another tragedy which took me years to get over, and a terrible loss for his parents, siblings, and buddies.
But with age has come a great awareness of the richness of the friendships I've kept with the old buddies I've managed to stay friends with through thick and thin over the intervening two decades.
At the time, I could see only dark clouds. Life was unfair, and offered no sense of adventure. When I listened to bands like Killing Joke and The Sisters of Mercy in the early 1990s I really felt that this was a black, black planet, which took good young people away too young.
And I lost my sense of adventure, my desire to live on a tropical island or scuba dive with sharks and manta rays, for too long.
Now I see that my friend Joe at least lived to fulfil his dream (he lived in India for 12 months before he died) and not too many people can say that even if they live to be 90 in this crazy, messed up world.
Since January, I've become a Divemaster on my favourite tropical island and lived in my favourite city, in Spain. At 42, I finally found the light to follow some of my own dreams, thanks to an opportunity given to me due to Ireland's financial woes.
Joe's brother, Hugo, has been in touch. He's organising a 'tribute night' to mark Joe's 20th anniversary and he's put it off by three weeks so that I will be home from Central America.
What a lovely way that will be for me to mark the end of my own 12 month break from 'reality', meeting a host of good friends from the old days in a Galway bar a week before Christmas. And a fitting tribute to Joe, too.
It's strange to be home for two weeks and not to have a job to go to. Strange, but good too. It means I can spend three hours playing a manic and silly game with my little niece, Sofia, on a drizzly Wednesday afternoon . . . the kind of activity I'd never have time for if I was working full-time in Galway.
In the space of a week, I've met a couple of people who have lost their jobs this year, some in very unfair or unfortunate circumstances, a proud new dad or two, and people who've been coming to terms with long-term unemployment after being laid off a year or two ago. Life never stands still.
Yes, Ireland is in depression, or recession. Those who have jobs are counting their blessings and those who don't are worried about mortgages and where the future might take them. And there's silly old selfish me, complaining about the weather when I walk the prom!
Spain is in recession, too, with 20% unemployment compared to Ireland's 13%, but somehow I think it's easier to deal with when it's gloriously sunny every day at this time of year.
But, as I plan the last quarter of my year, I'm suddenly filled with appreciation for what I have.
Nobody close to me is dying of a terminal illness, nobody I know in Galway has to go without food every day, and few people anywhere have a chance to enjoy the rich variety of life I've experienced this year . . . with the 'safety net' of a job to go back to in Galway, for all its faults, at the end of the year.
In Nicaragua, I won't be surrounded by close friends and family. I will meet people every day who are struggling to eat, or to put clothes on their backs, and they won't be worrying about a few clouds in the sky or a bit of 'bitchiness' in their offices.
In Ireland, we had it very good for many years, and greed swept through the land like a virus, from the bankers, politicians, and property developers, to the ordinary people who suddenly felt that they needed two houses, holiday apartments, or brand new cars.
Perhaps, for our country right now, a bit of introspection is a good thing after so many years of blatant greed.
And, perhaps, for me too, this 12 month break from my career and my home town is offering me a great opportunity to reflect on all the good things in my life.

Value of nothing!

2010-08-13T03:37:00.002-07:00

It was the great Irish writer, Oscar Wilde, who claimed that a cynic was a person who knew the cost of everything and the value of nothing. Well, it could be argued that during the Celtic Tiger years, Ireland became a nation of cynics and many of us felt like strangers in our own land.
The obsession with material things, new cars and houses, accumulation of wealth and property ultimately led to the collapse of the economy and a real blow to our nation's soul.
I've usually had real joy in meeting other Irish people on my travels, be it in Thailand or Australia or Egypt, but sometimes I feel like a stranger in my own land. And I'm sure I'm not the only one.
Coming home for a couple of weeks, after being away since the start of the year, I found myself sitting on a train to Galway next to four or five extremely attractive young women.
Until they began talking! My God, somehow they managed to talk about wedding dresses, engagement rings, and shopping for the whole journey from Dublin to the City of the Tribes. Home again ... !
Still, it's good to get back to meet up with friends and family, sort out a few things before what promises to be the most challenging (and hopefully rewarding) trip of my year.
Central America looms on the horizon, with all its poverty, crime, but also soul and the promise of using my Spanish. I'd be a liar if I said I was not scared about the prospect of spending four months there, but I'm also excited too by the chance to make a genuine contribution to people's lives during two months of voluntary work in Nicaragua.
In pure material terms, my gap year makes no sense. My five months in South East Asia and two in Spain cost me a lot more than I had expected, but I always knew that Spain would be the dearest part of the journey.
But, after 18 years in the same job, I've had a chance to get off the career ladder for a while, not to mention a break from the Irish climate which has driven me mental over the past five wet and windy summers.
The magic of 2010, for me, is that I've met really good people from all over the world, especially in Koh Lanta and San Sebastian. All of them shared a desire for change or to experience new cultures and lifestyles, and I guess you can't really put a price on that.
I might be living on beans and toast for the month of January to come, but by then I will have had the experience of living on a tropical island for five months, be a professional Divemaster, reasonably proficient in Spanish, had a full summer in mainland Spain, and helped poor Central American kids to learn English.
To take inspiration from Oscar Wilde, the value of those experiences should be far greater than the cost . . . even viewed from the nation of cynics where I have covered one club GAA game too many in Pearse Stadium or Athenry.
It's great to be home this month, to meet my family and close friends for two weeks, and, yes, I am experiencing fear about what lies ahead. But life should never be all about comfort zones, or ruts, or over-familiarity, because life is constantly changing, even if you spend all of it in your home town.
And life should definitely NOT be about cynicism. Not when you meet a lady who has battled breast cancer to become a scuba diving instructor in Thailand, a famliy who have sold their house to spend a year touring the world, or a London lady who has given it all up to become an English teacher in Spain.
When I was at my lowest point of the year, sick with an ear infection and from very strong antibiotics, I took huge inspiration from a little Malaysian man who had given up a good job in Kuala Lumper in order to become a guide in the beautiful Cameron Highlands.
For seven hours, he guided me through a trek in the rainforest, sharing his wonderful enthusiasm for one of the most beautiful places I had ever been to. Suddenly, instead of questioning why I was doing what I'm doing this year, I could see the sense in giving up a conventional life in order to follow your dreams.
I might not know the cost of a new house, car, or whatever in Ireland right now, but I sure know the value of meeting new people and trying out new experiences.
Priceless.

Facing my fears ...!

2010-08-09T13:39:00.000-07:00

Part of the reason for this whole trip, I guess, has been to face up to my fears and to reclaim a sense of adventure which I felt I had lost somewhere along the way of my life so far.
It's too easy to stay in your home town forever, in a comfortable job, but like may Irish people I've always had a wanderlust ... only I never got to spend a substantial amount of time anywhere outside of Ireland, except London, before. A month in Australia doesn't count.
It's not all easy and it has not been a case of highs, highs, highs, all the way. When I got to A Coruna, for example, I found myself in a tiny room in hostal which I had booked for six nights and suddenly felt self-conscious about travelling on my own.
I didn't feel like partying, after all the socialising in Valencia, so I found myself taking long walks by the promenade, checking out the world's oldest lighthouse, and the free concerts on the Riazor Beach. But, for some unknown reason, I felt quite alone and sad.
Then I began checking out information about Central America, where I intend to spend the last quarter of my gap year. The travel forums were full of tales of robberies and crime and, suddenly, the man who has been to Thailand, Cambodia, Egypt, Jordan, and God knows how many other countries, found himself in a state of fear.
Fear of change, fear of the unknown ... these are the things I want to grapple with this year, and it doesn't necessarily have to be about travel. It could be the fear of asking out the woman I fancied for ages or the fear of standing up to unacceptable behaviour by a boss at work, or even the fear of going into a bar on my own.
So, despite a series of good gigs, healthy walks, a decent game of soccer between Deportivo and Newcastle United, and a lovely day trip to Santiago de Compostella, I didn't really enjoy my time in A Coruna, and it was time to move on.
And then ... magic, as seems to be so often the case this year. Just when I least expect it, I come across a gem, just as the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia lifted my spirits after my ear infection put me into a downer in Penang back in May.
It seems that when I go back to 'just travelling' I can feel most alone, whereas Ive mostly been happiest this year when I'm busy. I loved my four months training to be a DM on Koh Lanta and meeting loads of sound people (apart from my house-mate!) during my month at the Spanish school in San Sebastian. Then I take off with the rucksack on my back and I can sometimes feel a bit down.
So, thank you Vigo!
Vigo is Europe's biggest fishing port, on the Atlantic Coast, and it's two and a half hours from A Coruna by train. The weather was ten degrees hotter, it was sunny every day during my stay, and I arrived on a Thursday afternoon to find they had invented a fiesta just for me!
On my first night, Public Enemy played a fabulous live gig for two hours in a big park an hour outside the centre. I struck up a mighty conversation (en espanol) with a couple of local loons. It was a fantastic night.
I awoke on the Friday to discover that the warren of streets which define the old town had been taken over by pirates, in zany costumes and playing medieval music, for the weekend. It was great fun.
There was a folk festival in Plaza de Campostella and a massive festival down by the port, O Marisco, featuring local and international bands, skateboarders, breakdancers, motocross, graffiti artists, and mountain bikers. It's considered to be Europe's biggest 'urban' festival.
What a contrast with the tame affairs we have in Galway. Here, the teenagers are encouraged to take part in events ... I was amazed by the skills of the breakdancers, a fad which lasted about six months down at the Westside Shopping Centre in Galway in the 1980s .... if memory serves me right!
All of these events took place for free.
I know I was lucky. The weather was superb, between 28 and 32 degrees, but I loved Vigo.
It's a rough, working class town with high unemployment, but that's what makes the people so warm and special. In my one star hotel, they treated me like a friend. And all the doubts and self-conscious thoughts which took over in A Coruna seemed to disappear.
It was magic just to follow the pirates around the old town during the day, or to check out a live Cuban gig one of the nights in the gorgeous Plaza De La Constitution, right in the heart of the city. A free gig at 11 p.m. at night, you'd never see the likes back home!
It was probably down to me, rather than the city, but I seemed to have no problem striking up conversations with people and, on my last night, Grandmaster Flash played a glorious gig to 10,000 devoted fans down at the marina. Two of the legends of hip-hop over four nights, I was blessed!
Twelve months away from work and 'normal' life can seem like a long time, but my four magical days in Vigo reminded me of just why I've undertaken this adventure. Thanks, Vigo, for reminding me about the importance of 'the craic' and not taking life too seriously.
Even though the locals are Celts, and very like the Irish, it's a place that does not get enough tourists from our part of the world. I was overjoyed to sample so many fun activities, Vigo reminded me that life can be just fun.
For four days, I was living in the here and now, and didn't want to be anywhere else, surrounded by skateboarding teenagers and veteran hip-hop fans of my own age. And, when life just is fun, what's the point in worrying about anything else?

A country divided

2010-08-04T04:16:00.001-07:00

This summer has been a real eye-opener and I have to confess I haven't a clue what is Spain or what it means to be Spanish.
In the Basque Country, virtually nobody wanted the national team to do well in the World Cup, and presumably it was the same in Catalonia.
I've spent the whole summer in the country of the world champions, but what a divided place it is.
In the Basque Country, people wore the orange shirts of Holland on the night of the final. The balconies of San Sebastian were adorned with hundreds of banners of Real Sociedad, who won promotion to La Liga in June, and there was not a single red and yellow flag to be seen.
In Catalonia, a small village voted for independence, only to be ruled out of order by the Central Government in Madrid. Weeks later, Catalonia voted to ban bullfighting, which was seen as 'two fingers' to the rest of Spain.
Bullfighting might be a part of Spanish culture, but then again drink-driving was part of the Irish culture until about 15 years ago. I attended a bullfight in Valencia, but while I was impressed by the skills of the matadors, I couldn't help feel that the 'sport' was unbelievably cruel on the bulls.
So should it be banned? All I know is that they could retain the entertainment value and the skills without having to spear the helpless animals time after time until they fall to their death.
But that vote in Catalonia wasn't really about bullfighting at all. It was a form of defiance from a people who want to break away from Spain.
The fans of Real Sociedad and Barca might love their big games against the over-hyped giants of Real Madrid, but to take some of their wishes to their logical conclusion their teams would play instead in Basque or Catalan leagues.
In the Basque Country, the language of the people was banned for decades under Franco. Now a teacher cannot work in the Basque Country unless he or she speaks Basque, which rules out anyone from outside the region or those over a certain age who were educatd during the Franco years.
The national media seems to hype the threat of ETA to the maximum, even though thankfully there hasn't been an atrocity for a year now. Less popular than the IRA, the Basque terrorists still clearly have plenty of support in the region if you judge by some of the bars in San Sebastian's Old Town.
In Valencia, I was startled by the number of Spanish flags around the place two weeks after the World Cup final. What a contrast with the embittered North, it felt like a different country ... which the Basques argue it is.
In Galicia, where the local language is going through a massive revival, I've seen quite a lot of grafitti in favour of independence. Galician is quite similar to Irish (or Gaelic) and the people don't consider themselves Spanish, either.
Both Spain and Ireland are going through an economic crisis, as the newspapers in both countries remind us every day.
But Spain is also going through a crisis of identity, as huge chunks of the country don't feel they belong to Spain.
I love its climate at this time of year, the food, the warmth of the people, the beaches and the diving. But, despite the high of the Mundial, there is hardly a country in Europe which is more divided right now. It's been an eye-opener!

Magic of Madrid

2010-07-30T10:37:00.001-07:00

After a week of almost endless partying in Valencia, it was time to get back on the road again and so I found myself travelling to Madrid by train, slightly the worse for wear after The Cult's gig the night before, on a gloriously sunny afternoon.
Suddenly, I was alone again, after four and a half weeks surrounded by new friends in San Seb, a week with Brid and her extended Spanish family in Peniscola, and another week in Cian and Marie's Valencian pad.
Suddenly, too, life was an open book again. I didn't have a return ticket to Ireland, all I knew was that I had four nights booked in a Madrid hotel, and everything seemed uncertain. And I loved that feeling!
Some people tell me they could never travel alone. For me, of course, it's always great to spend time with friends or family or loved ones, but there is a great feeling of freedom associated with getting on a bus or a train on your own, without knowing what's at the other end of the journey.
There is no pressure to drink or to party, you can have the quietest night in or walk ten miles through unfamiliar city streets according to a whim. While specific projects have been really important to my gap year (four months in Koh Lanta, becoming a Divemaster; four and a half weeks in San Sebastian, learning Spanish; and still to come, my volunteer project in Nicaragua) I haven't minded my times on my own.
I don't think I could travel endlessly for 12 months, wich is why I've tried to put down temporary roots in Koh Lanta, San Sebastian, and, in September, Granada, but life on the road challenges me in a way that sitting at home in my home town never could.
What I'm saying, I guess, is that we are all different, and yet we can all suffer from loneliness from time to time. But I know I could feel just as alone in a crowded late night bar in Galway on a Saturday night as I did pounding the streets of Madrid, not knowing a soul.
Anyway, I made my way across Madrid to book into my superb hotel, Antigua Posada Del Pez. Located in a quiet side street in Malasana, just five minutes from the action of Gran Via, it was a gem, with a spacious room, unbelievably quiet, and free wi-fi.
Malasana is a funny area, with lovely (and cheap) ethnic restaurants, alcoholics gathered round a square and 'ladies of the night' on street corners, within just minutes of Puerto del Sol and the tourist heart of the city.
Having unloaded my huge rucksack, I took a stroll around town, only to come across a free concert on the terrace of Teatro Royal, featuring Placido Domingo, who had earlier featured in an operatic show inside.
Standing beside him was the Queen of Spain, Sofia, whose arrival was greeted with ecstasy by the gathered hordes. I might not be much of a fan of the royals in any country, must be the Irish rebel in me, but my darling niece Sofia is called after this particular monarch and I was kicking myself that I'd left my camera back in the hotel.
Later the same night, an all female group from a college of music in Portugal treated a large crowd to a thrilling, free concert on Calle Arenal. Suddenly no longer feeling in any way alone, I was heartened to strike up a conversation with two women in their 70s who were bopping to the music at 1 a.m. Madrid really is a late night place.
The next few days were spent exploring the heart of the city on foot. It's amazing how much you can cover in four or five hours.
I spent five hours in the Museo del Prado, the highlight of which was Goya's massive anti-war murals depicting scenes from the Spanish uprising (against the French) two centuries ago.
The following day, I was equally enthralled by the Reina Sofia Museum, featuring photos from the deprived streets of New York in the 1980s, Picasso's massive 'Guernica', and a host of surrealist paintings by Dali and company. Madrid truly is one of the great cities of the world.
It was 37 degrees each day during my visit, but I didn't find the heat too repressive. Perhaps I've become accustomed to it after five months in South East Asia.
I found Madrid to be a friendly, lively place; and nothing like the place I'd conjured up in my mind from years of listening to tales of Basque repression. O.k., I will never cheer for Real Madrid, Franco's team, but as is so often the case, the perceived 'enemy' didn't seem to be so bad once I got to know them!

Bulls and bands in Valencia

2010-07-26T16:42:00.000-07:00

Almost a week of total leisure at the Meditteranean resort of Peniscola, which is thankfully free of the British and Irish stereotypes, ended with a trip to Valencia to stay with Cian Campbell and his wife, Marie, who left the 'joys' of Ireland behind a year and a half ago.
With an apartment overlooking the city's 160 year old bullring, which itself is right next to the city's train station, it's fair to say that they've radically changed their lives since leaving Galway.
And, having missed the bullring in Pamplona by a matter of hours, there was no way this reporter was going to miss out on the summer festival literally yards from the terrace where we would sip a 'cerveza' in the evenings.
First, though, there was the matter of a gig by The Wailers to attend, Bob Marley's old band coming up with the goods in a huge open air venue, alongside the former riverbed.
Valencia endured massive flooding back in the 1950s, and as a result the city authorities decided to divert the river away from the centre, ensuring a 9km long park, Jardines del Turia, for its citizens.
The Wailers, who I last saw playing to a couple of hundred in the Roisin Dubh, did a good job to get the Spaniards grooving on a Monday night and I met some of Cian and Marie's lovely circle of new friends, including Bergonia from San Sebastian, who was full of enthusiasm as she asked about my time in her native city.
Afternoons were spent exploring the city, including the Cathedral which is said to host the original Holy Grail and also boasts a bell-tower with spectacular views, once you've mastered the 207 steps.
Wednesday night was bullfight night, featuring local star Enrique Ponce. It was amazing to see the passion of the crowd, the skill of the matadors and, espeically, their horses, but the whole thing left me cold. A century ago, Hemingway was enraptured by this sport, but let's just say that the modern version is a bit more sanitised, and to modern Irish eyes, simply cruel to the bulls.
It's not a fair fight and my feeling that this was a culture in decline, or at least under threat, was intensified later in the week when there was a large protest outside the entrance to the ring.
But the stadium itself is impressive, even if I left thinking that the village festival in Igea is better fun. Up there, they tease and fool with the bulls, but they don't hurt them and allow them to leave the ring unharmed. In Valencia, all of the bulls, even the very bravest, were slaughtered.
On Friday, we got to sample the delights of a flamenco show, in a bar outside town which is frequented by more locals than tourists. It was a rousing show, full of passion and no little skill.
But for me the highlight of the week was a return to the park to see The Cult belt out all their old favourites (Rain, She Sells Sanctuary, Nirvana, The Witch, Spiritwalker) etc to a manic crowd. I made my way up to the very front, where I befriended about half the local loons. It was great fun.
Sometimes you need the Spanish to remind you that there is no harm in growing old disgracefully. Here, it doesn't matter if you are 30 or 40 or 50 if you want to stay out until the early hours and have fun. There is still a 'joy for life' in Spain which the Irish seem to have forgotten in all the greed of the Celtic Tiger years, and the despair which has followed the 'crisis'.
I love the Spanish work ethic. Entire businesses shut down for the month of August, because holidays are important to them, more important perhaps than making money during the peak tourist season.
And that's why I liked Valencia. The place has a lovely long beach, but no mass of English pubs selling 'full' breakfasts or fish and chips. Tourists have not over-run the place, but that's why the locals love it.
It's Spain's third city and does not have the confidence or brashness of Madrid or Barcelona. But it has a warmth and a passion which will linger in the memory ... even if I was very lucky that one of my favourite bands from the late 1980s also happened to be in town.
I took the train to Madrid on the afternoon of the Galway versus Tipperary hurling game and it seemed somehow appropriate that I was missing an event which would have been so central to my life for so many years.
A gap year is about change, about trying new things and seeing new people, and somehow it seemed right to be moshing up the front at a post-punk concert instead of hitting for Dublin for another tale of Galway heartbreak at Croke Park.

Farewell to San Sebastian

2010-07-12T14:28:00.000-07:00

And so, on the morning after the World Cup triumph, it was time to bid farewell to the beautiful city of San Sebastian which had been my home for the past four and a half weeks.
In some ways I was sad to say goodbye, and the first bit of drizzle in three weeks reflected my mood as I boarded the train to Barcelona for the next stage of my 12 month adventure.
Last night, Sunday, was the first time I saw anybody celebrate Spain's remarkable progress through the World Cup, and to judge by quite a few locals in the Auld Dubliner, not everyone was pleased when Iniesta fired home the game's only goal against Holland.
In an instant, the Barcelona man became a national legend. But many of the Basques, blinded by tribal hatred, could only see disaster in the victory of the despised national team.
In the Old Town, earlier in the day, huge posters had gone up to remind tourists that this was not Spain. Yes, for many people, supporting La Roja is an act of treason and there were few red shirts to be seen down around La Concha beach throughout the day.
It must be really weird for the local hero, Xabi Alonso, to play for a 'national' side which is despised by many of his neighbours . . .
But, suddenly, in the minutes after the game, the mood changed. People took to their cars, horns beeping, to celebrate ... even if the celebrations lacked the intensity you'd find elsewhere in the country.
Anyway, I had a brilliant last night in one of my favourite European cities. I had met my cousin Ian, his wife Isobel, and their 18 month old son Arthur for lunch, vino, and a swim in the sea in the afternoon and hooked up with half a dozen new friends in the pub for the game.
Ian could not believe how few Spanish flags there were around the city. In fact, there were far more blue and white banners of Real Sociedad, who won promotion to La Liga a month earlier.
The atmosphere was good in the Aul Dubliner, owned by Margaret and her Basque partner, even if some Basques wore Dutch colours and some of those in red were from Ireland or England.
Soon it was time to bid farewell to lovely Norwegian couple Cigi and Christian, Scottish teacher Mellisa, fellow Galwegian Eoin, and veteran English teacher Jon, whose insights into Basque life were intriguing over the four weeks since I first met him, watching a game.
I was not a bit sad to say goodbye to my psychotic house-mate who had criticised me endlessly over the four weeks and even decided to clear out my room, putting all my personal belongings into bags, on the Sunday afternoon.
I complained to the school, twice, and I'm sure I will enjoy telling tales in the future about her obsessions and compulsions.
Let's just say that she didn't like buying things for the house (such as toilet paper), didn't like the way I closed the window in my room, or showered, or dried after a shower, or left powder in the washing machine, or bottles in the fridge, and never made me feel at home.
She would lie in her room with the door open on the nights when I dared to 'corner' the TV and, no, I don't think it was a little late invitation!
I've complained to the school about this person's attitude to foreign students, twice in fact, and at least the whole experience has made me appreciate just how laid back most of us Irish are when it comes to sharing places.
In fairness, the staff at the school were very understanding. They offered to rehouse me as soon as I raised my concerns and were appalled by the litany of petty incidents I reported to them.
As for the school itself, I think my Spanish came on immensely over the month and two of my teachers, Rosa and Naroa, were simply superb. My classes were sociable but hard-working, challenging, and extremely practical, and it's a pity my whole experience with Lacunza was soured by having to share a flat with an impossible woman over the four and a half weeks.
But, what the hell, I had three weeks of glorious weather and got to snorkel in La Concha Bay. I met some fantastic people and I'm sure I will see the funny side of my horrible experience in the Egia flat in a week or two, once I get over the pettiness of it all.
All I can say to my friends and family, and anybody else who happens across this blog, is to get yourself to San Sebastian for a week or so some time in May, June, or September. It really is a gem of a place.
The city is blessed with the best bay in any European city, brilliant night life, delicious pintxos, scenic walks, narrow streets you can get lost in, and just a fantastic vibe, and jest for life. That's probably why I've been back there about five times in the space of four years!

Bizzare to be in Basque land!

2010-07-09T05:10:00.000-07:00

Well, my four weeks of studying Spanish in the Basque Country have come to an end. It has been an incredible experience, with three weeks of glorious weather and instant friendships made with students from all over Europe as we enjoy nights out on the tiles.
It´s also been pretty bizarre to be here for the World Cup, because I could count on one hand the number of Spanish jerseys I have seen around San Sebastian over the past month. And most of them belonged to tourists!
Nobody admits to supporting ´their´national team and I even saw a violent bottle fight between a group of locals and some ´pissed up´tourists in the heart of the Old Town on the night of the excellent victory over Germany.
"This is not Spain," roared a woman in her mid 40s from outside an ETA supporting pub, as she launched a glass missile at a first floor window. The Americans and Australians inside, full of the joys after a day in Pamplona, probably hadn´t a clue what she was on about.
Basically, Basques do not support their national team, even though local boy Xabi Alonso is one of its stars. There is no wild beeping of horns, no flags being flown from lamp posts or balconies, and all soccer loyalties are reserved for Real Sociedad.
The fun over the past few weeks came from the ethnic supporters, the immigrants such as the Argentinians who made the Auld Dubliner pub their home. They chanted, they brandished flags, they wore the shirts, and they made this Irish supporter wish they had gone all the way to the final.
But there are people here from all over the world at this time of year and I also found a pub full of Dutchies who were jusifiably proud of their side on the afternoon of the quarter final. The streets tend to fill with fans from Holland, Brazil, Uruguay, or wherever, after the games, but you won´t see any fans of Espana dancing in the fountains. It´s strange, especially when you see how much the national team has captured the hearts of people in other parts of Spain.
Around here, all the attention at the moment is on the San Fermins festival, 45 minutes down the road in Pamplona. The morning bull runs through the heart of the city are the stuff of legends, and no few accidents, and a cause for celebrations in which people´s loyalties don´t come under question.
It´s strange to be in a country which feels it´s not part of a country, if you know what I mean. The first flag which greets boats on their arrival into the port of San Sebastian is the red and green flag of the Basque Country, what I call "the Mayo Union Jack".
National flags are not even visible over Government buildings and all of the discussions over whether or not people should support Spain have brought out the latent Socioligist in me.
For an Irish person, it´s fascination. The question of the Basques is in many ways similar to that of the Irish, even if there are also a host of differences.
But it´s sad to see people in their 40s or 50s, full of hatred and despair, hurling bottles at windows because they can´t accept that people want to enjoy a celebration.
In other parts of Spain, the team´s wonderful run to the final has lifted the national mood, but here it has just opened up wounds about what it means to be a Basque and whether that is compatible with supporring the red shirts of Espana.
Anyway, the plan is to enjoy the final in the Auld Dubliner, before heading south to see Brid and Manolo, Sofia, and Cian and Marie over the coming weeks in Peniscola and Valencia. Sure beats covering the Arts Festival.
And, yes, the past few weeks have made me realise how far our own piece of rock in the North Atlantic has come. I met a young student here who told me he was from Co. Londonderry, which pretty much set out his tribal loyalties from the start.
Thankfully, these days, our two tribes are not killing each other any more. Ireland has left the dark days behind, but some Basques seem to be intent on holding on to the hatreds of the past.
In our country, we´ve learned that such bitterness takes time to clear, that wounds are not easily healed, but we´ve come a long way. But right here, right now, I would not like to parade around town in a red Spanish team shirt on Sunday night, even if in the comfort of their own homes many locals will be rooting for the national side.

Learning Spanish in the Basque Country

2010-06-28T06:06:00.000-07:00

It was good to get back on the road again after a two week trip home to Galway to recharge the batteries, catch up with friends and family, sort out a few financial woes, and get things in order for the next stage of my gap year.
Highlights of the trip home included a visit to my 96 year old granny in Caltra, seeing my two and a half year old niece Sofia dancing to live salsa music in the heart of Galway, and a good old fashioned night out with the boys outside Ti Neachtain.
But enough of Quay Street! It felt really strange to be home for such a short period, without a car or job, or even a TV, and to find that my house has been taken over by a cat called Lucy, who could not work out whether I was a friend or foe. I can have Galway anytime.
The nation’s current economic woes were encapsulated by a meeting with John Lillis from Salthill. He’s moving back to San Francisco with his Irish wife, who he met in the States, and young child because work has dried up in Ireland. So much for coming home to settle down! But, then again, he blames the Irish climate for his wanderlust too. I can relate to that, but it’s sad to see people leave in droves again, like they did in the 1980s and early 1990s.
It was sunny leaving Dublin. I happened upon a ‘chancer’ of a taxi driver who was poaching customers from the Dublin Bus rank at Heuston Station and transferring them to the airport for the same price. Totally unethical, but a sign of the times.
It was extremely cloudy and drizzly in the Basque Country when I arrived into Bilbao Airport. The keys to my apartment were left next door to an Irish bar, which I visited a few hours later to cheer on the USA against the English in the World Cup. I hadn’t intended to roar on the Yanks, but a group of extremely loud Brits brought out the Irish rebel in me over the 90 minutes.
In San Sebastian, however, the World Cup hardly matters. The Basques cannot really make up their minds whether or not they support the national team, even though it features local boy Xabi Alonso. Here, the big story of my first weekend in the city was Real Sociedad’s last home game of the season, against Celta Viga.
Real have just endured three painful years in the Second Division, which is a real blow for a club with such an illustrious history going back to 1909. I’ve kind of followed them ever since John Aldridge moved from Liverpool way back in 1989, and have even attended three of their home games since first discovering the joys of San Sebastian before my sister’s wedding in 2006.
So, along with half the province, I made my way to Anoeta on the Sunday, a good two hours before the game. It seems the Basques jump on bandwagons as much as the Irish do, because tickets were impossible to come by. One year earlier, almost to the day, when they weren’t going so well, I just walked to the ground and bought a ticket for the last home game, against Levante, less than an hour before.
There was a huge screen just outside the ground and it soon dawned on me that all 10,000 fans gathered in front of it were in the same predicament as me. When two ‘fans’ offered me precious ‘entradas’ for €140 each, it soon became clear that a change of plan was required. So I made my way to a bar to see Real win 2-0 on TV, before heading back to the stadium to join the massive celebrations. There must have been 50,000 fans around the ground, spilling out of the stadium and all the bars.
Throughout that night, and all of the following evening, football fans took over the city. The celebrations were infectious and I joined the throngs outside the Town Hall for a wonderful communal party on the Monday evening. World Cup? What World Cup?
Earlier, I began my first day of school at Lacunza. I was pleasantly surprised by the maturity and desire to learn of my fellow students, who all seem to be at about the same level, even if the weather in the first week (drizzle and grey skies) took away some of the novelty of living in such a beautiful city.
But I was determined to get out and about, joining an organised walk up to the statue on Monte Urgull, in which I befriended some of the more ‘mature’ students such as fellow journalist Tony and English teacher Amanda, who were both from London, and Mellisa from Scotland. And so began devious plans for nights out in the Old Town, plus long walks along the city’s glorious promenade.
Living with a Spanish woman has not been easy, I’ve never met anyone so anal about cleanliness in my life, but I guess it’s all about learning for me this year. My class is great, I’m getting on great with my fellow students, and the only downside is having a flat-mate who worries about where you leave the drinks in the fridge or how much washing powder you use in the machine.
After talking to a couple of Irish girls at the school, it seems I’m not the only one to have to put up with such pettiness. A pity the flat share has become a pain, because I had asked to live with a fellow ‘mature’ student from overseas in the first place.
But the sun came out for all of my second week, which has included a glorious day out on Isla Santa Clara, via a boat, in the middle of La Concha bay; an evening of traditional Basque rowing races in the bay; the midsummer celebrations for St. Jean in the heart of the city; and a massive surf festival which, amazingly, has suffered because of a lack of wind.
Midsummer saw a group of us attend a traditional Basque celebration in Plaza de la Constitucion. I was amazed by how similar the music and costumes were to those back in Ireland. Then they burned a tree and a scrum ensued to collect pieces of the bark which would bring good luck for the coming year. Not quite as much fun as the Thai New Year celebrations in April, when I picked up enough good luck (I think) from so many soakings during the water fights on Koh Lanta.
Midsummer is the start of the ‘fiesta’ season and there seem to be an incredible amount of things going on around the Basque Country over the next few weeks. Indeed, there are two large ‘fiestas’ within 30 minutes of Donostia (as the locals call the city) this weekend.
I made my way out the suburbs for a good old ‘Sunday session’ with my brother in law’s brother in law, if that makes sense! Clemente might not have any English, but it’s amazing how well you can keep the conversation going for five hours when you’re hopping from bar to bar . . . or enjoying Basque handball on TV!
My decision to spend a full month learning Spanish in a Basque city really seems to be paying off in terms of how much of the language I’m picking up and there is also the running of the bulls in Pamplona to look forward to before I leave this part of the world. Trips to Peniscola and Valencia await me, too, so plans to return home for certain Galway festivals or GAA matches have been abandoned so far.
It’s really hard not to like the Basques, their love of music, wine, cider, food, bars, nights out, and general ‘craic’ makes San Sebastian an unbeatable location for a Celt to visit; they love the Irish, and I certainly wouldn’t mind swapping GAA convetions with red necks in Athenry for a few years of covering Real’s games against Barca and Valencia, and the despised Real Madrid and Atletico Bilbao, at Anoeta. The stuff of fantasies!
Living here has been completely different to my five months training and working as a Divemaster in Thailand. But, yes, I am having the time of my life .... and it was 25 degrees down at the best beach I’ve ever come across in a European city today. It was glorious down by the aquarium when I watched the Basque rowing crews battle it out over a gruelling course. Beats covering a club hurling match in Athenry or Loughrea on a Saturday evening, that’s for sure!
I’ve also covered that the Irish pub in the centre, the Auld Dubliner, doubles up as the Argentinians’ home for the World Cup in Sen Sebastian. First the English lose 4-1 and then the place goes crazy for the victory over Mexico. With flags, bunting, etc., it seems to be the place to hang out for the soccer ... and the views!
Agur! That’s the Basque for goodbye. Part of the problem of living here is that I’m picking up Basque as well. With the smattering of Thai from the start of the year, I’ll probably be conversing in ‘mumbo jumbo’ by the end of the year!

The Crock returns!

2010-06-09T14:30:00.000-07:00

After five months in South East Asia, it was a bit of a culture shock to return home. I lessened the pain a bit by spending five days in Geneva and Marseille, enjoying the sun and the wind without perspiring and just catching up with my brother who has built a fabulous life for himself in the Swiss city, even if he needs to escape most weekends.

Arriving into Galway felt really strange. I was, after all, on a gap year. But as soon as I met my two and a half year old niece, Sofia, who thought I had been living in 'Toyland' since Christmas, I knew that coming home to catch up was a great idea.
Thankfully, I had found space in my rucksack for some plastic food for her massive kitchen, which she had been given at Christmas.

The two weeks at home have been a whirlwind of medical appointments, catching up with friends and family, and enjoying the 'craic' of just being in Galway at this time of year. Thankfully, the weather was reasonably o.k. for my fortnight of cycling around while my car has been stowed away up my friend Kev's boreen in An Spideal.

It all felt so surreal when I found myself at a 'work wedding' two nights after coming home, and staying out at my sister's house with no wheels to take me into town.

But the June Bank Holiday Weekend, with the Salthill Fives, the Latin Quarter festival, and the power boating down at the docks, reminded me of how fabulous my native city can be when the sun shines. Nights out on Quay Street were as enjoyable as at a major Spanish fiesta, with people from all over the world enjoying the live Cuban sounds. Fair play to all the businesses in the Latin Quarter for putting such a fabulous festival together.

I called into the office and suddenly felt a huge sense of relief that I didn't have to cover GAA club matches, but the relief disappeared somewhat when I went through a big pile of bank statements! But, what the hell, you can't really put a price on the experience of getting out and having an adveture after so many years in the same job in my home town.

I had to see the GP about my ear infection, the dentist about a filling, and go back to the GP after suffering a foot injury .... my special arch supports tore into my muscles after a few days of walking the Salthill prom, and it dawned on my that I had been either barefoot or in flip_flops for all of my time in Thailand and Malaysia.

Seeing my friends Keith, Kevin, and Ian so happy with their families in their lovely homes really gave me a lift, given the troubled times we used to have in our younger days. Visiting my Granny in Caltra was another highlight, it's not often you meet 96 year olds with such a zest for life and tall tales about rough people who showed disrespect to the authorities a long time ago.

So, it's time to get back on the road. I'm off to Bilbao and San Sebastian on Saturday, for a month of classes in my favourite European city. Hopefully, by July, I should have a reasonable command of Spanish ... if I'm not gored by a bull in Pamplona where the bulls will be running during my time in the Basque Country!

Farewell to Thailand

2010-05-31T04:42:00.000-07:00

Huge plumes of black smoke were billowing across the city centre as I made my way across Bangkok on my last day in Thailand. It was a sad end to my time in the country, as soldiers moved in to destroy the Red Shirts' encampment which had disrupted businesses and forced the closure of hotels in the Silom area for the previous seven weeks.

The dispute had dominated news in Thailand for a couple of months and I felt as though I was in the equivalent of Bangkok's 9/11 as I watched the fires blaze while taking a taxi across town to visit a Galway man, Tony O'Connell, who has been living in the city for the past six years.

A curfew was announced for the night of my departure and, thankfully, I got out to the airport with a couple of hours to spare.

But I felt sorry for the people of the country, who seemed so divided, and especially those who work in tourism, most of whom are oblivious to the dispute between the supporters of the former and current PMs. One things for sure, ordinary people were being manipulated by powerful figures who were never in the front line. Oh, and the Thai tourism industry will suffer yet again ... after the Tsunami and the 2008 airport occupation, the Red Shirts had done their bit by ensuring something like 50 countries had warned their citizens not to go to the so-called 'Land of Smiles'.

There had been some bizarre scenes through the previous months, such as the day when a group of Red Shirts held up a train full of soldiers and argued with them over whether they were on their way to Bangkok or the troubled south, where there has been an Islamic insurrection for almost a decade. Eventually, after being told the soldiers were not going to Bangkok, 50 of them accompanied the train to the south, just to make sure.

Koh Lanta, where I was based for the first four months of the year, might as well be on a different planet, but the fact is that most people have to fly through the capital to get there and after all the turmoil of the early months of 2010 I can see a lot of people opting to go elsewhere next season. What places like Lanta need are more connecting flights through Phuket and Kuala Lumpur.

But now Thailand has a reputation for trouble yet again. It's a pity, because for all its expansion over the past decade, Lanta still has a lovely pace of life and a laid-back feel which makes it a hard place to leave. Even though the island was virtually deserted of tourists by the time I left, I really found it a bit sad to have to say goodbye.

I still don't think I could live in Thailand, long-term, for a variety of reasons, but doing the Divemaster course over three months was undoubtedly one of the best experiences of my life. It's not always a great idea to turn your hobby into your job, but those of us who scuba dive tend to really love diving and it was probably a dream of mine for a decade to turn professional. I feel that I learned so much about diving, about business, about life in the tropics, and about myself, that you really couldn't put a price on it. I also met some really wonderful new friends, whereas I felt that I wasn't learning much in my same old job back in Galway.

I spent five days in Geneva to break the journey home, staying in my brother's fantastic apartment and going to Marseille for what was a holiday weekend in France and Switzerland. Bizarrely, the place was taken over by Cardiff and Toulon fans. We hadn't realised that the final of the Amlin Cup - Connacht had lost the semi to Toulon - was taking place on the day after we arrived.

It was great to get home and see the family, especially my parents and little niece, Sofia, after being away for five months. Sofia wasn't a bit strange with me and thankfully appreciated the present I picked up in Marseille.

It felt really strange being back in Galway, with no job or car, but it was time to make plans for the next leg of my 2010 adventures .... a month at a language school in the Basque Country, some backpacking around Spain and visits to Peniscula and Valencia, and then hopefully a few months of volunteer work in South America to round off the most rewarding year of my life.

I'm also hoping to do some DM work at some stage, either in Spain or Latin America, but the main thing is that I'm living out my dreams before I'm too old to travel and see the world. Perhaps it's costing me a bit more than I expected, but you can't put a price on the kind of experiences I'm having during this 12 month career break.

Last days in Thailand

2010-05-16T08:16:00.000-07:00

As it turned out, Malaysia proved to be a fabulous experience after the downer of reacting so badly to the antibiotics. The Cameron Highlands lifted my spirits, it was such a quiet place, there was nothing to do bar take off on three to seven hour jungle walks ... and some days I was glad to get back to the very sociable guest house, the Cameronian Inn, in one piece.

Some of the trails were dangerously slippy and, apart from the seven hour trek with the guide, I did most of them on my own. I had visions of falling down a ravine, Jim Thompson style, as the Thai-silk entrepreneur came to a mysterious end there back in 1967.

How ironic I was staying in the Cameron Highlands when that twat called Cameron became the new British PM, but I met so many solo travellers with tales to swap that the place really reaffirmed my faith in my decision to take a year off and travel.

There was David, the lefty US academic who left his native soil during the Vietnam protests and hasn't returned; the two French nurses, enjoying a break from trying to make money in Australia; Eethan, the enthusiastic young American graduate, heading to East Timor to do voluntary work; and Thomas, who has retired to a tiny village outside Chiang Mai where his rent is a paltry 1,000 baht a month.

But, with a flight home from Bangkok looming on May 19, it was time to take to the road again, even if I felt I could have stayed on for another few days. I had a four hour bus trip down through the highlands to Butterworth, and then another four hour trip to the Thai city of Hat Yai. Crossing the Thai border, I was the only non-Asian on the bus or heading through customs .... a taste of things to come.

Understandably, given all the trouble with the Red Shirts and the various Government warnings, tourists have deserted Thailand at this stage. Not many Europeans come here in May at any rate, but the Thai tourism industry really is suffering right now.

After an uneventful night in Hat Yai, where the amount of security locks on my hotel door made me just a tad nervous, I faced another seven hour (smelly) road trip north to Chumphon. Again, I was the only 'farang' on the bus. After covering 15 hours by bus in two days, I was looking forward to some rest and I decided to hit for the beach at Hat Thung Wua Laen, where Reg had raved about the diving a few years ago, when he visited with his young family. A taxi out there, for what was about a 15k journey, set me back 300 baht.

I got a very nice bungalow right on the seafront for 700 baht, about 15 euros, but I was shocked at how deserted the place was. Over the next four days, I counted seven foreigners, including a pair of retired British codgers, who told me that a former SAS man, who wrote a sensational book about his military past, was running one of the area's two dive centres. Would I like to meet him? No thanks!

Actually, my ear still hadn't fully healed up, so I didn't fancy diving there at any rate, but I did manage a daily swim in the sea, with the aid of silicone ear plugs. But, God, there was nothing to do at what was literally a deserted beach. Supposedly, this is their peak season at the place which is known as a stop-off point for people on the way to Koh Tao.

After two days of reading, walking, and eating, I was bored out of my mind. I did meet a French guy, Thomas, who was a neighbour at Koh Lanta. He had worked for the kickboxing gym down the road from my bungalow. But he was really ill with a stomach complaint, had to go to hospital in Chumphon, and any plans I had for a few beers with him were abandoned.

I watched the Chelski scum win the FA Cup final, no surprise there, with the old British codgers (who left when the shorts kicked in) and about seven Thai young lads who were all cheering for Chelski. I couldn't really explain to them why it was better to root for Portsmouth, the relegated underdogs, with no money, and I was at home in bed by 11 p.m.

My bungalow did have a TV, and the news from Bangkok was grim. Basically, the on-going fued between the Government and the 'Red Shirts' has escalated out of control over the past three days and parts of the capital are now a war zone. The images on the TV news seemed a world away from the peace and harmony of Koh Lanta, which of course they are!

A friend of a friend from Galway, Tony O'Connell, has kindly offered to put me up on the night before my flight back to Geneva. But right now, I don't really want to spend any time in Bangkok. A couple of nights in the resort town and Hua Hin, followed by a bus and a taxi straight to the airport, is my plan for a low-key farewell to the so-called Land of Smiles.

The Government has declared a two day national holiday, which should make it easier for them to clear the streets, and Bangkok must be eerie at the moment. Two French nurses I met in Malaysia said they were shocked by how few foreigners there were on the Khaosan Road, the traditional backpacker hangout, two weeks ago.

Nobody knows how this thing will pan out, and there has even been talk of a full-scale civil war. There are faults on both sides, but one thing is clear ... the Thai tourism industry, so important to this country, is going to suffer because of all this trouble for the next few years.

I spoke to a Thai girl who opened up a cafe by the beach just three months ago. She's attracting maybe ten customers a day. The beach is deserted, there is nobody around, and the only people enjoying swims in the sea were local Thai families enjoying a few hours away from Chumphon.

Who wants to visit a city which is engulfed in smoke from tyres? Where protesters have sealed off a huge section of the commercial zone and hotels and businesses have been unable to open for more than a month? It's all a mess. Promoting Thai tourism right now must be like trying to pretend that Ireland has a decent climate. Impossible!

Given how deep rooted the conflict has become, how entrenched the two sides are, it seems to be a complete misnomer to called Thailand the 'Land of Smiles' right now. I never thought I'd say it a couple of weeks ago, but I'm quite looking forward to getting on that 'plane on Wednesday.

Boredom seems infinately preferable to life in the troubled city right now and, suddenly, I'm looking forward to the second part of my adventures during what has been, already, an eventful gap year!

Ten nights in Malaysia

2010-05-11T03:14:00.000-07:00

Well, I had the first downer of my trip when I got to Penang. The antibiotics I was on just didn't seem to be clearing the ear infection and the arrival of an unwelcome virus to my computer only added to the blues.

I treated myself to four nights in a four star hotel in Penang, a reward for finishing the DM course and living in such basic accommodation for four months, but instead found myself visiting the doctor and spending four hours getting the computer fixed on my first day.

The doctor in Penang put me on even stronger medication, which made me nauseous, drained me of energy, and with no mobile phone I suddenly felt quite alone in the world. I spend 20 hours in bed one of the days.

Thankfully, a young Malay man fixed my computer and I had to force him to take some cash as a reward. But I had no energy to tour the city of Georgetown, it was hot, sticky, dirty, noisy, and all I wanted to do was stay in bed.

Coming from a close family, I hadn't really thought much about how much I would miss them during this gap year. Ever since my sister Cliona died at 16 years of age, we've had a special bond, and not being able to text just made me uncertain over whether or not this whole trip was worthwhile. I forced myself to get out and visit temples and beaches, but when I moved out of the Sunway Hotel to one I'd been recommended, I found that my room was a kip with no natural light.

At one stage, I wanted someone or something to beam me up and bring me home to Galway!

Thankfully, I found the conviction or the energy to book an onward bus to the Cameron Highlands, my first wise move since I left Koh Lanta. Leaving the hell-hole on Lebuh Chulia at 6 a.m., I had no pangs of regret about leaving Georgetown, and my spirit lifted as soon as I arrived.

The highlands, about 1,500 metres above sea level, are cool and damp and in total contrast to the coast down below. It's Malaysia's highest hill station and my bus driver recommended the Caledonian Inn, which has been only a quarter-full. I've met sociable souls here from all over the world.

There's no night life, but I didn't mind. The town is quiet, so quiet and peaceful, and the ear pain which had been bothering me for three weeks seemed to vanish at high altitude.

On the second day I booked a seven hour trekking trip with Yen, the guest house's resident guide, and it was truly amazing. It was tough, yes, and a tad too long, but the views were spectacular as we breathed in the mountainous air.

I stayed four nights instead of the three I'd planned, met some lefty Americans to hang out with, and just enjoyed long walks in the jungle every day. My ear is not 100%, but it's waaaay better, and the homesickness which crippled me in Georgetown virtually disappeared as well. And anyway, I'm now about to make my way home for a two week break in Galway in which I hope to hook up with loads of friends and family.

Tomorrow, I think I will have pangs of regret when I leave Tanah Rata to take a bus to Butterworth, and then another one across the Thai border and into Haat Yai. Back in Thailand again, for the first leg of my trip back to troubled Bangkok, where the Red Shirts have still taken over the Silom business district.

I really should have expected the blues at some stage, but the important thing was to breathe deeply, experience the anxiety, and then let it go. The Cameron Highlands have refuelled my batteries, sometimes there really is nothing better than peace, quiet, and the joys of nature (far from the madness of big cities) to bring peace back to your soul!

On Leaving Koh Lanta

2010-05-03T08:38:00.000-07:00

Meet Hutyee Boat. Hutyee was my neighbour for the last four months and I'd often come home from a day's diving, or in the office, to find him sitting on the hammock outside my bungalow, looking for gossip. He would always want the latest news from Saladan or to discover which bungalow operations were doing well.
Huytee probably fancies himself as a bit of a 'Del Boy', but I consider him more to be Koh Lanta's version of Moycullen's Ronan Ryan. Like Rhino, he has the gift of the gab, but he has a country innocence which belies his big plans.
He's known to go to the bank with no shoes on, to make them think he's poor, even though he owns about 20 bungalows on Koh Lanta. And at 350 baht a go (about eight euros) his bungalows are better value than virtually any others at the end of Long Beach (Phrae Ae).
It was meeting someone like Hutyee that made living on Lanta so special since January. He invited me to my first Muslim wedding, his niece's, and there were even photos taken of the big Irish guy with the Mayor of Lanta. Handy, I'm sure, if I ever have visa problems.
I also became friends with Pakob, in Saladan, whose wife cooks up the best 'pad Thai kai' (a chicken and noodle dish) on the island. The language barrier didn't get in the way of our love of 'sanuk' or 'craic' as we enjoyed the banter during my regular visits to their outdoor food stall.
It was great to see the Ozone guys doing really well, nine years after myself and Keith Carty first befriended them. They were even asking for Keith and gave me a huge welcome the first time I wandered down to the bar which has the biggest party on the island every Thursday.
But Korner Bar was better, and it was right beside my bungalow as well. I used to try to wrangle my way out of working Sundays with Blue Planet just so that I could enjoy meeting the eclectic bunch from all over the world who turned up there every Saturday night.
In the past, I'd spend ten days or two weeks on the island, diving the odd day with Blue Planet, but would just be getting into the pace of life when I'd find myself moving on. This time around, I got used to living without creature comforts such as a TV in my bungalow at the rear of the Red Snapper restaurant.
The main reason I went there, of course, was to become a Divemaster, and I do feel I learned an awful lot about my favourite hobby since January. Now that I'm qualified, I would love to work at it for a while during this gap year, and the time at Blue Planet in which I wrote seven articles for 'Krabi' magazine showed that I could combine journalism with professional diving.
It's not an easy life, especially when you have to get up at 5.45 a.m. in order to dive Hin Daeng and Hin Muang, the region's two world class sites, and there was a forlorn feeling about the place when I left on the first of May. The season only last six months, before the seas get rough and the monsoon rains roll in, so it's pretty tough for Lanta businesses to make money.
There was a real 'end of season' feel in the last few days, after I had completed the course, as many Thais were also making plans for heading home after six months on this beautiful, tropical island.
Long-termers will tell you that they love low season, but walking an empty 4km beach was quite eerie in the past few weeks. There were virtually no tourists around.
But living there has been a phenomenal experience for me. I've made great friends through Blue Planet Divers, especially my felow DMTs such as Chris and Jane (UK), Raggi (Norway), and Emma (UK), and even a diving instructor from Galway called Oisin Gormally, a teacher on a three year career break.
We'd never met at Scubadive West or any of the West of Ireland's cold dive sites in the past, but it really felt like a small world to be working on the boat alongside someone from Barna. Plus, I had back-up for my showdowns with the British National Front, in the guise of Instructor Kev Skellern, who is under the deranged delusion that there is a place called the British Isles (!).
He wanted a toast to the British Isles on my last night, to which I replied that I'd have a drink to every country that was messed up by the British Empire. Then I realised that I couldn't possibly drink so much, even on a party night. Anway, it was all good fun!
It wasn't all good at times, there were not enough opportunities to get on the boat in the first five weeks or so, the boat staff were pretty rude and surly, but I really learned an awful lot about the dive industry and it was just the change I needed, really, after so long in the same job in Galway.
Some of the staff in restaurants were downright rude and unfriendly to foreigners, too, which made me realise that one of my neighbours for a while, Oonagh from Tyrone, was right to claim that Malaysians are far friendlier.
I didn't intend to become the token Irish man at the Irish Embassy, the island's only Irish pub, but Jamie and Darren were friendlier than any of the other 'farang' publicans along our end of the beach and, like me, they have a passion for sport on weekend nights. Plus, their Thai staff produce a Sunday roast which can only be described as 'legendary'!
On motorbike trips I discovered the joys of Lanta Old Town, which had a brilliant three day festival in March and Songkran, the Thai new year, was the best day I've had all year as we all went on the rampage with water pistols. It would have been impossible to go diving that day!
The three and a half months passed incredibly quickly and I was quite sad to leave, especially after a phenomenal last night at the Irish Embassy, where people were dancing on tables until I baled out at about 4 a.m. Getting a computer virus in Trang the following day only added to my pain at leaving the island.
The beauty of Lanta is that Thai, Chinese, and 'farang' (white foreigner) seem to get on in harmony, with Buddhist and Muslim coexisting without any worries. It was great to see the robed monks at dawn on my way into Saladan in the mornings, but there was also a mosque within 500 metres of my bungalow.
With all that's been going on in Thailand for the last two months, it could be argued that this tropical paradise is a model for the rest of the country. It's certainly a hard place to leave, as most of the DMs have discovered when it came to packing their bags at the end of the season.

Back to Malaysia

So I'm in Georgetown, Penang, for a few days after quitting Thailand on Sunday. The people here have been incredibly friendly ... one guy insisted on taking no cash after spending three hours fixing my laptop and the buildings in this UNESCO World Heritage site seem to be well worthy of exploration.
It's actually good to be back in a city for the first time in 2010, and the food here seems to be fantastic. I'm due to fly out from Bangkok on May 19 and had intended to meet up with a couple of Galway lads before that, but right now a few days of chilling down this side of the border seems a lot more appealing.

Lanta in Low Season

2010-04-25T03:57:00.000-07:00

A piece I've written about how tranquil the island becomes in low season (May to October) when tourists desert the island.

*****

Laid-back Koh Lanta is
a low season delight

Words and photos by: Ciaran Tierney

With its deserted sandy beaches and fantastic deals on accommodation, the delights of low season on Koh Lanta are among the best-kept secrets of the Thai tourism industry.
While Lanta retains a laid-back vibe even in its busier months, when the island’s popularity never matches the intensity of Phuket or Phi Phi, it’s during the monsoon season that its character really shines through. Just ask some of the ex-pats who have made the island their home about how hard they find it to leave.
For them, low season provides an opportunity to relax and engage with their friends, to enjoy long walks on empty beaches or party with the ‘hard core’ who visit the island when the seas become rough between May and October. Apart from the month of September, it only tends to rain for about two hours per day during the low season, if it rains at all, and for the resident ‘farangs’ it can be a magical and peaceful time.
“It’s just really relaxing,” says Irish man Darren Troy, who operates the Irish Embassy bar on Long Beach. “There are great deals in the resorts during low season and the couple of hours of rain cool the day down nicely. We call it the green season. During the low season you have more time for your friends, because you’re too busy during high season. People tend to get more involved in Lanta life, because they have more time.”
Darren ‘discovered’Koh Lanta during a backpacking trip with his ex-girlfriend and immediately fell in love with the island. Within days of first visiting, he decided he wanted to live on Lanta, and he opened up his first pub, the Laughing Leprechaun, in late 2004.
“I thought it would be affordable to open a business here, because I could not live in a really busy place like Phuket,” he says. “I opened my first business just six weeks before the Tsunami and eventually moved down here, to Long Beach.”
The Irish Embassy has built up a reputation as Lanta’s leading sports bar, with soccer and rugby games on four screens on weekend nights, and the staff are expecting quite a few regulars in during the World Cup football tournament over the coming weeks.
They intend to stay open throughout low season, with reduced hours, and will continue to serve food, including the legendary Sunday roasts which have become firm favourites among the ex-pat residents on the island.
“I still enjoy life on Lanta, after almost six years on the island,” says Darren. “I love when I go out every day on my motorbike, before the bar opens, and the scenery still takes my breath away. I love to just drive around and take in the sea and the jungle. If a place can still do that to you after almost six years, there really is something about it!”
Dutch woman Joyce Quarre, co-owner of the acclaimed Red Snapper restaurant, easily discovered the joys of life on Lanta. Her parents, Joop and Clarie, had retired to the island about seven years before Joyce and her husband, Ed, also made it their permanent home.
Chefs back in Holland, the couple used to visit her parents regularly before Joop spotted what they believed would be a perfect site for a European style restaurant in a tropical garden at the southern end of Long Beach. It didn’t take them long to make up their minds!
“After my parents saw this spot, within a month we got married, sold our house, and came out,” says Joyce. “We knew the potential of Koh Lanta, that the island was growing, and we were among the first people to provide quality European style cooking on the island.”
That was in October 2003. Since then, Red Snapper has become known as the best ‘farang’ restaurant on the island. Joyce, Ed, and their staff work seven days a week between mid-December and the end of January, which is why she loves the peace and tranquility of the monsoon months.
“When you have time off, you just enjoy the wonderful sunsets on the beach,” she says. “In low season, it is really friendly here and everyone has more time for each other. It doesn’t actually rain as much as people think and the island doesn’t shut down completely. I love it here around this time.”
This year, Red Snapper is shutting down for six weeks from mid-May, but Joyce and Ed intend to be back in business by early July. Until October, they intend to take a well-earned break every Tuesday and Wednesday.
“I love the weather in low season,” she says. “Because of the rain, it’s not that hot. You have more time to have a chat with your friends and neighbours and it’s also nice to have more interaction with the customers in the restaurant. I find that the same people come back here every year and that people just don’t want to leave Koh Lanta!”
English woman Mellisa Bunyan first came to Koh Lanta to run a dive centre on a six month contract in October 2006. She loved the place so much that she became a partner in Blue Planet Divers by the end of her first dive season.
“I had been working in Greece at the time and could either have gone to England or Thailand,” she says. “I had been to Thailand ten years ago, with a boyfriend in Koh Samui, but I didn’t know anything about Koh Lanta. I bought a share in the business in April, right at the end of the season, and expected to be inside all the time, watching videos and hiding from the rain, for the following six months!”
Mellisa was pleasantly surprised by how little it actually rained during her first low season on the island and also by how much she actually enjoyed the monsoon rains. “It really shocked me, how little rain there was, even though it really was heavy when it did rain,” she says.
“Most of us who live here really look forward to it; we start to get excited in March. People just seem to have more time for each other in low season. It’s kind of sad to just stop talking to people because you don’t have time. People who come here in low season really notice how much time we have to talk to each other.”
She has had a busy high season at Blue Planet and now she cannot wait for long days off, walking the dog on an empty beach, watching videos, or enjoying a few beers. “There’s always diving on the island, but it’s less predictable in low season because you cannot dive every day between May and October” she says.
“We spend a month getting the boat ready and we do repairs to the shop. Last year we spent a month completely revamping the shop. But it was a social thing. We come in, do a few hours, and then have a couple of beers. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Mellisa intends to keep her dive shop in Saladan open throughout low season, apart from September, which is usually the wettest month. She could go home to England, but all she wants to do is enjoy the most relaxing time of year on the island.
“There’s nothing better than going to an empty beach to walk your dog and feeling like you own it. Parties are great, too, because everyone goes to the same bars. Koh Lanta feels more and more like home to me every year. I have four or five months off when the boat doesn’t go out, but all I want to do is stay on Koh Lanta!”

* This piece was written for the June edition of 'Krabi' magazine. I've been a bit lazy the last ten days or so, due to an ear infection and the 'distractions' involved in finishing the DM course on April 16. I'm due to leave Lanta, sadly, on May 1, but the island has become extremely quiet since Songkran. I'll update the blog as the next episode in my adventures begins....

Songkran Celebrations

2010-04-14T05:27:00.000-07:00

Considering what a turbulent few weeks Thailand has had to endure, it was great to witness the Songkran celebrations take over the west coast of Koh Lanta yesterday. Foreigners and Thais alike came out from mid-morning to sunset to fire water bombs, water guns, saucers, and buckets ... basically, any vessel that can carry liquid is fair game (or a fair weapon) on Thai New Year.

In a way, I felt a bit like Oisin in Tir na nOg yesterday. We had no diving, so we spent the entire day firing water at people, including occasional raids along the coast road in the Blue Planet van, which was stocked to the gills with water.

Having left Ireland in early January 2010, suddenly I was enjoying my third New Year's festival of the year. And, suddenly, it was the year 2553. Have I really been away for 543 years? Well, let's say I had as much fun as Oisin in the 'Land of Eternal Youth' yesterday.

Sometimes, it can be quite scary, but the world's biggest water fight, which extends from the Laos and Cambodian borders to the Deep South, is probably the best and biggest outdoor party in the world. It was also a welcome respite from the troubles in Bangkok, which have seen a host of Governments warn their citizens against coming to Thailand. Just what the tourism industry needs!

The whole idea of the water bombs is that you wash your troubles of the past year away, and obliging Thais also come around to put talcum powder on your face in the midst of being drenched from top to toe maybe 100 times in one day.

It's actually considered rude not to slow down your motorbike when people want to throw water on you as you make your way around the island, so let's just say that the journey home from Saladan to the end of Phrae Ae was memorable as I got soaked at least a dozen times ... even with my trusty water gun at the ready!

A huge crew had gathered around The Tavern, which seemed to be the centre of the action for the day, but there was also great fun to be had in Saladan, where rival dive centres and businesses took turns to load up their trucks with water and guns and attack their opponents up and down the island.

It was, quite simply, the best fun I've had since I came to Thailand over three months ago and really showed this country in a wonderful light. People may have troubles and disputes and tragedies, but Thais love to party and have 'sanuk', which is their own word for 'craic'.

Considering that we are getting near the dive season, and the peak tourist season, it really was brilliant to see the island in full-on party mode for a day. I can see now why some tourists make Songkran an annual event, because there is hardly anything like it in the world.

Sure enough, Chris and Jane came back from a month in Malaysia for the celebrations, and the Tregembo family from Cornwall (whose gap year is being filmed by Channel 4 in the UK)could not resist coming back from Cambodia for Lanta's massive water fight.

It really was a phenomenal party!

Divemaster dreams

2010-04-07T06:26:00.000-07:00

Since I got to Koh Lanta in mid-January, I've been earning my keep at Blue Planet Divers by writing monthly articles (sometimes two) for Krabi magazine, which is circulated all around this region and in Bangkok.

As a 'part-intern' I have 'part-paid' for my Divemaster course and writing a half dozen articles about diving on the island has been a good way of keeping me active on the keyboard as well as being of benefit to the centre.

Stories just seemed to pop up every few weeks, such as the family from Cornwall who have sold their house and are touring the world for a Channel 4 documentary to be screened in the Autumn. They did their Open Water course with us. Then there was the American couple, Antonio and Jenny, who got engaged eight metres underwater on St. Patrick's Day.

Now that the course is virtually over, I'm not looking forward to leaving the island, even as I watch the numbers of tourists dwindle away. Lanta seems to cast a magical spell over people and many tell you that it's hard to leave. Some of the DMs are going to stay right through the rainy season, even if it's virtually impossible to get work in diving.

Anyway, here is the article I wrote about the Divemaster course for next month's Krabi magazine. I hope it captures some of the magic I've experienced here, trying something new, something that I love, and meeting new people. It really has been a phenomenal experience.

Next week is Songkran, the Thai New Year, so the whole place is about to go crazy. A fitting way to end what has been a thoroughly enjoyable season, as we see in the year 2554 (!). So.. Happy Songkran!

***

Divemaster dreams on Koh Lanta

Words by: Ciaran Tierney

It had always been something of a dream. On four previous visits to the Krabi region, and Koh Lanta in particular, I used to fantasise about extending my holiday in order to turn the hobby I love into a whole new career. But reality always seemed to get in the way of my dreams!
Somehow, ten days or three weeks never seemed to be enough, and the thought of returning to my wet and windy home town each November or December used to fill me with dread. Days spent diving at Koh Haa or Hin Daeng, or touring the island on my hired motorbike, seemed to be light years away from the winter gloom I had left behind for two to three weeks each year.
But I never did much about turning my dreams into reality, apart from a few half-hearted inquiries at the reception of my bungalow at Phrae Ae (Long Beach) or a few brief chats with the staff at my favourite dive centre, Blue Planet Divers, in Saladan. After diving for fun for 11 years, I felt that the chance to become a PADI Divemaster had passed me by.
And then, out of the blue, the financial crisis hit Ireland. My boss, acting out of financial necessity rather than any huge desire to see my dreams come true, asked whether there was anyone interested in a 12 month career break. Not one other person in my company put up their hand, but suddenly I found myself blurting out that I wanted to get away for a year to become a professional diver.
Emails were exchanged with Mellisa Bunyan, co-owner of Blue Planet, after my boss gave me a few months to make up my mind. Mellisa was full of enthusiasm and encouragement, as she had taken the same route (i.e., a career break) into the dive industry herself a few years earlier.
She had no regrets about leaving a well-paid job in London behind and sent on all the necessary advice about getting the visas required to spend four months in Thailand.
And so in early January, a little anxious but also very excited, I found myself on a ‘plane bound for Bangkok, and then Krabi. On the ferry to Koh Lanta, I hardly had time to consider what lay ahead as I chatted to a couple of fellow tourists, before I found myself, rucksack in tow, walking into the Blue Planet shop which was to be my base for the next three months.
Mellisa had already fixed me up with a bungalow at the back of the acclaimed Red Snapper restaurant and, within hours of my arrival, I had a lovely motorbike which was to become my mode of transport over the following weeks and months.
Being slightly older than the ‘normal’ Divemaster (DM), I was still full of trepidation as to what lay ahead at first. Who would I meet? What would the skinny and super-fit 20-something instructors make of this big Irishman in the midst of his midlife crisis?
My fears were totally unfounded. From day one, I was made to feel part of the team. I had to be on the jetty 45 minutes before the customers, but I got to know how the whole dive operation worked from the shop and the office to the boat which departed for glorious dive sites in the Krabi region each morning.
I soon discovered that I was the eighth and last DMT (Divemaster Trainee) to join Blue Planet for the season. And they didn’t all fit the stereotypes I had conjured up in my head!
I was totally inspired by English couple Chris and Jane, in their late 40s, who had decided to change their lives and sell their home after she had bravely battled a serious illness two years earlier. They were full of enthusiasm and encouragement in the first few weeks, when I wondered whether or not I should have been there in the first place!
There were the two French speaking girls, Aude and Sabrina. Aude moved to Sweden in March after falling in love with one of our customers, while Sabrina was so sad to be going back to France at the end of her course that her only desire was to sell her car, get rid of her flat, and move back to Thailand to work as a Divemaster!
Then there was Luke, from England, who was just finishing the course as I began it in January. He had also left a career behind in the UK to try something new and helped me to improve my dive skills which had become ‘rusty’ over a decade of diving since I first undertook the Open Water course in cold Irish waters.
Well-travelled Emma, from London, was delaying her return home after a year in Australia and 20-something Raghnild (or Raggi, as she became fondly known at the dive centre), from Norway, was perhaps the party animal of the 2010 DMTs. She enjoyed her nights out, but it’s hard not to enjoy the beach bars and restaurants of Koh Lanta!
At first, things moved quite slowly, and boring days of learning dive theory in the Blue Planet classroom, when I really wanted to be on the boat, made me wonder from time to time whether the whole course was worth the effort.
In the first few weeks, my appearances on the boat were rather infrequent – and sometimes I’d receive rude awakenings when I was asked to go back over the basic skills! – but later I could see the logic behind Mellisa’s approach. After getting the boring stuff out of the way in peak season, when there were more customers on the boat, we had more time for quality dives through the months of March and April.
Those who know me might find it hard to believe I’ve chosen a hobby or job that involves getting up at 5.30 a.m. on certain days, but there is a magic about spending two hours under water, looking at turtles or leopard sharks or rays or tiny shrimp, which only fellow divers can really understand.
It was great to dive with a variety of instructors over the three months, learning each professional’s quirky ways of dealing with customers, how they brief dives, or how they guide the guests around the beautiful sites of the Andaman Sea.
Every day, whether in the shop or on the boat, I seemed to be learning something new, which I could hardly say about the job I’d been in for years in Ireland. If we weren’t diving, we were practicing basic skills on Long Beach or helping out in the shop, where a variety of customers from all over the world took part in Open Water, Advanced, and Rescue courses. Diving really is a great way of meeting new people.
By their nature, dive professionals are a sociable bunch, so even though I’d come to Lanta on my own I soon found myself with a whole new set of friends from a host of countries. Every week there seemed to be a party or two and the socialising could get quite frantic for people who had to be up and on the boat at the crack of dawn!
As each and every one of us passed the course, the infamous ‘snorkel tests’ loomed. For some DMTs, this was tougher than the course itself as they were put through gruelling and amusing tasks at Opium Bar.
Highlights of my time on Koh Lanta included the Andaman Freediving Challenge, the only competition of its type in Thailand, in February and the three day Laanta Lanta festival in which the whole island seemed to party together in Lanta Old Town, with bands from all over South East Asia playing into the early hours. Plus, of course, the lunacy of the Songkran (Thai New Year) celebrations in April.
At one stage, Mellisa managed to coax the male members of staff to pose for a charity 2011 calendar which is bound to be a big seller on Koh Lanta . . . thankfully, I will be off the island by the time that appears!
Sightings of sleepy leopard sharks and turtles became so frequent that it was easy to forget how exciting they were for the customers on the boat and, after a good deal of practice, I finally got my rusty basic skills in order before finishing the course in April.
So now I’m a PADI Divemaster, licensed to guide divers all over the world. And was it worth it? Well, even if I never end up working as a PADI Divemaster in the long term, I can honestly say that my three months on Koh Lanta were among the best experiences of my life.
• For information about pursuing the PADI Divemaster course on Koh Lanta, including three month internships, check out www.blueplanetdivers.net

Back in the water

2010-03-31T04:14:00.000-07:00

It's great to be back in the water after a full week of, literally, looking after my infected eyes, including putting on some mad strong ointment last thing at night. So I got back in the water on Tuesday for two dives at Koh Haa and today (Wednesday) managed to pass my DM 'stress test'.

This for the uninitiated involves swapping all your scuba gear (BCD and tank, fins, mask) with another diver while kneeling on the bottom (in my case at eight metres) and having sand flung in your face, your air turned off, your regulator purged and bubbles blown into your face by some obliging instructor. It's probably one of the toughest assignments of the Divemaster course, so it was great to get it over and done with!

I was lucky because Luke, who became a DM two months ago, has done a few of them and was my 'buddy' for the equipment exchange. He's become wise to Mellisa's sly moves and managed to keeep me calm when she was attacking me from all angles!

It's been amazing to see my hobby from the professional point of view, how the boat works from behind the scenes and, thankfully, the number of divers has picked up in recent days after Koh Lanta got extremely quiet at the tail end of last week.

The dive season usually ends at the end of April, but the rainy season (or a little sample of it) has come early as it has rained for about 90 minutes in the late afternoon for the last four days. It's bizarre to watch the little microclimates from the Blue Planet boat as we return from the dive sites.

I'll do a full blog on the DM course when I finish it, which should be in about a week to ten days. Imagine, I'll be a dive professional! Scary, that. The two most recently qualified DMs, Emma (UK) and Raggi (Norway), are having their 'snorkel' test this Saturday night which will mean copious amounts of alcohol for them (shots are obligatory) and a few little tricks from the boys at Blue Planet.

If we are not diving the next day, no doubt we will end up at the Saturday night party at Korner Bar, my favourite night out on Koh Lanta. The boys behind the bar wear t-shirts from old punk bands like the Misfits and their DJ plays some of the finest hard house and techno I've heard in years. And I thought those days (or nights) were well behind me, me of the ancient Happy Mondays and Stone Roses generation.

It's fantastic to groove to the Korner Bar DJs sounds on a Saturday night, with a totally eclectic bunch of people, while looking out on the Andaman Sea and the glorious 4km stretch of sand which is Phrae Ae (or Long Beach). It's hard NOT to go there because Korner Bar is literally 100m from my bungalow at Red Snapper. I've met kickboxers, divers, hookers, lady-boys, Ozzies, Viking wenches, and Dubs, on verious Saturday nights there and, somehow, they all seem to blend in well together.

That's all for now. I'm up at 5.45 a.m. to dive the world class sites which are Hin Daeng and Hin Muang tomorrow. It's still pretty hard to believe that Ciaran Tierney, of all people, has found a hobby / job which involves getting up at such an ungodly hour!

When the news here is all about rain, tides, sunshine, people coming and going at the end of the peak season, it all seems so refreshing compared to the economic 'doom and gloom' back home. Yes, I know the 'Red Shirts' have been marching through Bangkok for the last three weeks, but they might as well be a zillion light years away from Lanta. Just as all the Fianna Failers, paedophile priests, bankers, GAA officials, and auctioneers (all the lovely Irish people I so sadly miss) seem as though they inhabit another world from this gorgeous tropical island, thousands of miles away...!

Out of the Water

2010-03-23T22:36:00.000-07:00

When I got back from Malaysia, apart from wanting to get pished for Paddy's Night (duly accomplished at the Irish Embassy) my main aim on returning to Koh Lanta was to get the diving course finished as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, the eye infection I picked up in a kip in Langkawi seems to have put paid to that notion for a week or so. After my hangover on the 18th and two days of assisting on an Open Water course with Kev Skeltern, my eyes hadn't cleared and a trip to Dr. Salarin on Monday brought the grim news that I have to take medicines and spend a week out of the water.

Given that we are getting near the end of the season here on Koh Lanta, I'm anxious to get in as much diving as possible over the next couple of weeks so that I get finished and qualified as a DM by mid-April. Still, what the hell, I love life on Lanta and sometimes living in a place like this should really be all about relaxation and not worrying about getting things done. "Sabai, sabai," as the Thais say quite often!

So this week is all about catching up on dive skills videos, finishing the theory part of the course, and basically just resting until my eyes recover from whatever happened in Malaysia (!). Contrary to what Roan Cambpell posted on Facebook, I didn't hurt my eyes by looking through a hole in a wall in a dingy brothel!

The island seems to be getting much quieter, if one is to judge by my sunset walks on Long Beach . . . not that Lanta ever really gets crowded, in the same way as Phi Phi and Phuket do. The beauty of this island is how chilled it is, which gives the solo traveller a better chance of sparking up conversations in the beach-side bars.

Stuart from Liverpool, who completed the Open Water course on Saturday, joined me for the disastrous 2-1 defeat to Man. U. on Sunday (8.30 p.m., Thai time). I introduced him and his travelling companion, Michelle, to the delights of the Sunday roast at the Embassy. It was interesting to hear Michelle's take on Lanta, she felt like Shirley Valentine in 'honeymoon central' during the three days when Stuart was off doing the diving course.

Had a couple of great chats with Stuart about LFC, their history, legendary away trips, and all their troubles, he's been following them for almost as long as I have. And then, the next day, they were gone to Ao Nang on the ferry. That's the thing about life on a holiday island, you get to meet a huge amount of people, most of whom move on within a day or two.

There's something about Scousers, really. It always feels like meeting another Irish person when you get chatting to them and we always seem to have so much in common. Maybe it's all down to Maggie Thatcher and how she tried to ruin their city, while Ireland was also a basket case in the 1980s. Maybe it's down to the fact that so many Irish ended up there by default, because they couldn't afford the onward coffin ships to America.

Maybe we're going back to those dark days, but hard times do bring out the best in people, which is why I've always loved my trips over to Kieran and Liz in Merseyside. Down the Smithdown Road, which may be a hole, everyone in the pub loves to chat to you. You just don't find the same level of ambience and friendliness in rich and frantic London.

I guess time here flies if you are into something like Muay Thai (kickboxing)or diving, which, of course, is the main tourist activity on the island. If not, you really need to learn how to relax, play football on the beach, swim, tour on motorbike, or just read a book. I think it's only when I leave Lanta that I will appreciate what a fabulous life I've had here since early January . . . beautiful beaches, motorbike tours, lovely Thai food, great new friends, one hour Thai massages for about five euros a go, etc.

The nightlife is not as hectic as on other islands, but that's definitely not why I came here. If you want it, it's there ... there have been Thursday nights spent at Ozone until 5 a.m. or Korner Bar, where the music and ambience are excellent, until dawn, but that kind of lifestyle doesn't really tie in with having to be at the boat at 7.15 (or, God forbid, 6.15 on Hin Daeng and Kingcruiser Wreck days) in the mornings!

Still, when Monday morning involves hopping on a motorbike, driving for 15 minutes to a boat, loading up the gear before bringing people to fabulous dive sites, I can't really complain, now can I? And did I forget to mention that it's over 30 degrees on land every day and 29 to 31 under water, which is why I only need to dive with a rash vest rather than a wetsuit. I can only dream about conditions like that when I dive in Carraroe, the Aran Islands, Fanore, or Inis Bofin!

Paddy's Night on Lanta

2010-03-18T02:07:00.000-07:00

Well I got back to the island just in time for Paddy's Day and as my mini-bus made its way around Saladan I noticed about 20 people dressed in green, with a huge flag, on a bit of a pub crawl, complete with five tuk-tuks to lead the way. It was only 2.30 p.m. and on closer inspection I could see it was Darren, John, Jamie and company from the Irish Embassy.

John was in flying form, having come back from Malaysia, and his daugther won the 'Miss Lanta' beauty contest the day I left. One up for the Irish, all dozen or so of us on Koh Lanta!

I got back to my bungalow at Red Snapper and, after arranging laundry etc, took a tuk-tuk into Saladan where Gin had my beloved motorbike ready for action for another month. There was great excitement in the Blue Planet office, as American couple Antonio and Jenny got engaged underwater. Jenny (Prunty, no relation to the Mayo GAA official) is Irish-American and loves Paddy's Day.

He did well to keep it a secret from her because everyone on the boat knew of his intentions. Later in the day, I interviewed them for 'Krabi' magazine - she smelt a rat when the slate bearing the words 'Marry Me?' slipped out of the pocket of the BCD - and I met them drinking flat Dwyers (a stout like Guinness) in the Embassy. Being Americans, they had the sense to go home at midnight. Being Irish, I was still in the pub after 5 a.m.

My eyes were still bloodshot which meant no diving on Thursday (good job) so after a long walk along Phrae Ae and a two euro meal at a Thai food stall I joined in the festivities. Within half an hour I had met Alan and Michelle, the Irish couple I'd watched the rugby with in Langkawi the previous Saturday night. They're staying on in Lanta for next week's game and we downed the Signa, til it ran out, and then the Tiger until the early hours.

Met loads of people, quite a few of them Irish, and the resident band made up for their lack of talented with some spirited renditions of old Irish ballads. I'd never seen the Embassy so packed, not even the night Ireland beat England in the rugby, and the 'craic' was mighty.

Meanwhile, the texts were coming in from home, informing me of Portumna's demise. I felt for them, even 9,000 miles away, because this team have become Galway sporting legends and have been an absoulte pleasure to deal with in the last decade. Possibly the best club team I've ever seen, at least I can treasure the memories of covering their three victories at Croke Park ... and they are not finished yet, either!

Funny how you can be living on a tropical island in Thailand, but still anxious to hear how the GAA, Galway United, etc. are going. And, of course, I've hardly missed a Liverpool game since I came over because there are more of them on TV in Asia than in Europe.

The Americans forced me to wear a leprechaun hat, seeing as how I was 'real' Irish and I eventually stumbled home at 5.15 a.m. Needless to say, I've been pretty quiet in the Blue Planet office today. Time for a swim now, then a quiet night, cos I'm diving tomororow for the first time in two weeks.

I'm hoping to get the Divemaster course finished in about three weeks now. There are only two of us left now, Raggi (Norway) and I, as the other five DMTs have all completed the course and moved on. Time flies and it's strange not to have the likes of Chris and Jane, Aude and Sabrina, around the office, even though Emma is still on the island. I'll do a full post on the DM course when it's done and dusted1

A WEEK IN LANGKAWI

2010-03-16T04:11:00.000-07:00

Typical Paddy, really. I had to go to Malaysia for a Thai 'visa run' and was completely oblivious to the fact that my seven day visit would tie in with a ten day Malaysian school holiday. Hence, accommodation was almost impossible to come by, and it reminded me of the scorn on the faces of the Germans I met in January who were only too aware that they needed to climb over 1,200 steps to reach the Tiger Cave Temple in Krabi.

Sometimes it pays to be a little German, as in to do some research in advance! But us Irish never learn. I once went to the famous cave in Koh Lanta wearing flip-flops, with Keith Carty, during a motorbike tour of the island. Needless to say, my flip-flops disintegrated within the cave and I had to drive home barefoot, to the bemusement to the two Germans who were doing the tour with us impeccably dressed for the adventure. But I digress!

Following an overnight stay at the Sri Trang Hotel in Trang City (population over 60,000), I was on my way by minibus to Satun and the ferry to Langkawi. Trang was bliss, it has little to attract the traveller, but the night market boasts extremely cheap eats and you can count the number of foreigners on one hand. My hotel room had wi-fi, satellite TV, and aircon, none of which I'd had for two months at Koh Lanta.

I had been recommended a B&B in Langkawi by a lovely couple, Ryan (London) and Oonagh (Tyrone), who had been my neighbours on Koh Lanta. Unfortunately, it was booked out, so I opted for an expensive 'boutique style' place called The Cabin, which was only three months old. It was good to have booked a place in advance, but a charge of 150 ringit per night (about 33 euros) seemed extortionate in comparison to Thai prices.

But that's the thing about Langkawi, it's so near to Thailand you can't help compare the two ... and I definitely don't claim to know much about Malaysia after spending a week on what is essentially a holiday island. But it's big, and I was able to hire a motorbike for about five euros a day to take in all the sights.

The views from the newish cable car, which climbs to 750 metres, were stunning and I relished a sunset swim at Seven Wells after a sweltering day on the bike. A trip to Kuah, the island's capital, proved pretty uneventful . . . it reminded me of one of those nondescript small towns you tend to come across when touring Queensland, Australia, although it boasts a host of duty free shops in accordance with the island's special status.

Pantai Cenang (the main beach, where I stayed) and Tengah were excellent beaches for swimming, although the former has been ruined a bit by all the jet-skis, banana boats, etc, even if the parasailers looked sublime at dush. And the sunsets were spectacular.

I had planned to go to Penang, and the city of Georgetown, but the ferries were full due to the school holidays. Thinking that the Cabin, for all its comfort, was too expensive, I decided to move out on the fourth day. I checked eight different places on Pantai Cenang (all full) before opting to move into the Delta Motel at the top of the beach. What a mistake that was ... along with the musty smell, my room looked filthy, and it was right beside a building site where the cement mixers commenced action at 9 a.m. each morning. Definitely not enjoyable after watching Ireland beat Wales, along with three other Irish, in Debbie's Place, where they had Guinness on tap (I stuck to the Tiger) and even the RTE commentary. George Hook still sounded like a tosser, even 9,000 miles from home!

My nightly bill for the Delta was 80 ringit, compared to 150 for the first three nights, but it just didn't feel like home and I'm even blaming the aircon in the room for an eye infection which ensured I was bloodshot (appearing almost in tears!) for my return to Thailand this morning. God knows what the Thai customs woman made of the big Irishman with blood red eyes!

Datai, one of the island's most famous beaches, proved to be an 'exclusive' private resort and I was politely asked to leave when I turned up, alone, on my motoribke one morning. Made me wonder why they include it in the maps and brochures, although I enjoyed the winding road up to Gunung Raya (800 metres) and the absolutely idyllic beach at Tanjung Rhu in the north-east of the island, which leads to a river, caves, and mangroves.

One of the most amazing things about Langkawi is the amount of wild monkeys on the roads and beaches. One of them even robbed some tablets from an English girl beside me on the beach when I was lounging in the sun, reading Hemmingway's 'Fiesta... The Sun Also Rises', at Pantai Pasir Tengkorak, where a host of Muslim children got great value out of truck tyre tubes, using them as floating devices. The English girl and I watched in amusement as the monkey opened the wrappers and devoured her medicines ... and she wouldn't tell me what the pills were for!

Langkawi is definitely a lot more expensive than Thailand, but there is also a huge contrast in prices, as I found a delightful burger bar and dined almost daily on the legendary omlettes at the Breakfast Bar, which is something of an institution around these parts. The bill barely came to two euros.

The dirty room, the builiding site, and the dodgy eyes put a bit of a downer on the trip, but I had seen enough of Langkawi over three days on the motorbike to realise what a stunning island it is and why people return there year after year. It's probably not as 'crazy' as Thailand, but there was as much of a 'party' vibe at the Sunkarma retro bar on Saturday night as you'd find in Ibiza or Phi Phi. The sounds were excellent and the scenery was pretty phenomenal too!

So, lessons learned. Make sure the whole country isn't on holidays when you go to a place (!), don't trade in a nice place for a cheaper one if it's too grotty to feel like home, and shop around for bargains in Malaysia because there are gems to be had. After a week it was time to get back on the road, though, and head back up to Lanta to have a right go at finishing the Divemaster course . . . Well, once I've got through the Paddy's Day celebrations with the boys at the Irish Embassy of course!

THOUGHTS ON TRAVELS

2010-03-10T07:41:00.000-08:00

It struck me last week that people can be far too quick to generalise about places. They breeze in with their backpacks, stay for a day or five, lie on the beach, and suddenly they are experts on the place. I met a lovely Irish-English couple two weeks ago who dismissed Koh Lanta after five days as a hell-hole, which had been spoilt by tourism.

If they had stayed around for another week, and left the beach on the extremely 'touristy' side of the island where I met them, they might have got to sample the absolute delights of the Laanta Lanta festival. Basically, this is a three day event which transforms the town on the east side of the island which used to be the old fishing port, but now plays second fiddle to the rapidly developing Saladan.

In Lanta Old Town, the residents should be rightly proud that Chao Ley (sea gypsies), ethnic Chinese, and Thai (both Muslim and Buddhist) have lived together in harmony for centuries, to be joined by an influx of 'farang' (western foreigners) in recent years. The result is a brilliant blend of cultures in a place which is tranquil for most of the year, but boy did it come alive last weekend!

There were thousands in the town, a place which didn't even have electricity until 1997.

There were two stages featuring music and culture from all over Thailand, the whole town was pedestrianised, and both Thais and foreigners came from all over the island - and even from the mainland and Lanta Noi - to sample the huge selection of music on offer. It was a wonderful experience to see contrasting cultures and traditions come together in a real spirit of peace and harmony.

The people of Lanta Town, foreigners included, should be rightly proud of their festival. The place hardly seems to have a beat when you visit it on your motorcycle on a sunny afternoon, and yet here were the local sea gypsies performing a 'spirit dance' around a magic circle just 15 minutes away from their sleepy village which is rarely visited by the package tourists on their trips to Lanta.

It's amazing how little we know about each other's traditions, and yet also how much we all have in common.

It was great to see a ska band from Chang Mai getting the crowd going down by the port, the only worry was the 30 minute motorbike back through the jungle to the 'tourist trap' where virtually all the 'farang' live and stay.

By all means, go and visit places. But don't just lie on a beach and then presume to sum them up after just a few days. Lanta, with a population of just 20,000, has a rich variety of cultures and traditions but you won't find them in the beach front bars. But, for some people, getting out to explore the hidden island is too much of an effort ... and yet they feel they are entitled to cast judgements on places they have barely scratched at the surface.

After two months on Lanta, I don't claim to have unearthed too many of its gems and (given the language barrier) to have a real insight into its people. But after a weekend of wonderful cultural highs and the VIP treatment I received at my first Muslim wedding, I certainly would never categorise it as an over-developed tourist trap along the lines of Phi Phi or Phuket.

For all its massive growth (and it has changed massively in the four years since my last visit) it's the friendly, cosmopolitan atmosphere of this laid-back slice of paradise which draws the same people back time after time.

Greetings

2010-03-10T07:03:00.000-08:00

Well, I have finally succumbed. Seeing as how I am, after all, a journalist, and I am on a gap year away from reality I've decided to put a few thoughts together from time to time. At the moment I am in Malaysia, doing a one week visa run on the beautiful island of Langkawi, but since I left home in the snow and chaos of early January I have spent most of my time pursuing the Divemaster course (or partying, or sight-seeing) with Blue Planet Divers on the Thai island of Koh Lanta.

It was a bit of a mad step to take at this stage in my life, over 40 and 18 years into my career at the Tribune, but I can't say I have regretted it at all. Well, maybe just for a few days when my lovely Irish bank decided to cancel my credit card, but otherwise it's been fab.

In no particular order, I've been a guest of honour at a Muslim wedding, featured on Thai TV getting a traditional massage, been 'forced' to pose naked (but hidden behind a dive tank) for a charity calendar, had a private chanting session with four Buddhist monks in Trang, had five articles published in Asian magazines and websites, danced until dawn at Ozone or The Korner Bar . . . and to think I wasn't sure about leaving wet and windy Galway!