The last flight of my long journey finally touched down, and at last – after stopping off in England, Thailand, Cambodia and Singapore – I was in Australia.
Despite the fact that the first Irish to set foot on this land had to be shackled and dragged kicking and screaming onto the shores of Botany Bay by our then colonial masters, Oz has been a voluntary target of our emigrating masses ever since.
The Irish played the same role here as they did in the other ‘new’ countries – battling their way onto the building sites, docks and farms, working their arses off and playing a major role in creating a nation out of the wilderness.
But more recently, with a trip Down Under much less the life sentence it once was, and Australia’s immigration laws tightened significantly, the profile of the average Irish arrival changed. A young Corkonian or Galwegian travelling to Oz once did so for an extended holiday on a one-year visa funded at home and subsidised by as little casual employment as possible. But with our little economic miracle now over, things are slowly creaking into reverse.
About four years ago I travelled to Australia for a three-week holiday, flying into Sydney and heading straight for the infamous Bondi Road where a mate of mine was living at the time. Bondi had been home to the city’s Orthodox Jewish community for decades, but they were in the process of being ousted by a partying hoard of gap-year Irish aiming to transform the area into Ireland’s 33rd county. I was stunned by the number of GAA jerseys on display, and struck dumb when I saw a game of beach hurling in full swing on my first trip to the beach.
The Irish I came across were there mostly for a good time, and they knew exactly how to go about getting it. However this time around, the Irish I’ve met have been pushed out of Ireland by a lack of work rather than pulled to Oz by the promise of a year-long session. Many are riding out the storm – more still are planning to stay, if they can.
Unfortunately, Australia has been equally hit by the economic crisis, and work is nowhere near as plentiful as it was in years past. A lot of Irish who used up savings, redundancy or bank loans to come here in the hope of getting work and putting aside a few quid have been forced home to dole queues and debts. There are of course a few wealthy exceptions, but for the most part, the party is over.
I had booked a bed at a backpacker hostel in Perth’s traveller mecca of Northbridge, and I made it there some time around midnight. I smiled hello at a small gathering of backpackers stoically working their way through a bottle of vodka and walked up to reception. I was beat after my trip and ached for a bed. I paid for the night, and was shown to the dorm where I would be staying.
Now, I’ve put my head down in some dodgy spots over the years, but this one took the biscuit. The room looked like someone had pilled a dozen backpacks onto a hand grenade and then pulled the pin. It stank of a mixture of sweat, cigarette butts in stale beer and the socks of someone suffering with late-stage trench foot.
I dropped my bag onto the ground and glared at the guy from reception who had escorted me to this midden. “Are you serious, mate?” I said, hoping he had another room reserved for people who weren’t filthy.
“What do you mean?” he asked, fully aware of exactly what I meant.
“I mean I wouldn’t put a dog in here!”
The argument went back and forth for a while, with me hamstrung by the fact that it was too late to go wandering a city I didn’t know looking for another place to stay. I knew it wasn’t a battle I was going to win so I bit the bullet, called the guy a dirt-bag and climbed into one of the free beds.
I pulled a t-shirt over my face in a forlorn attempt to block out the stench, but no joy. I tossed and turned, and through my disgust, fatigue and discomfort began to convince myself that there was something crawling on me. I shook it off eventually and passed out, but when I woke the next morning I was head to toe in swollen, red bites. The place was infested with bedbugs!
The only thing that saved the bloke at reception that morning was the fact that he’d been replaced by some other clown. It wasn’t the start I’d been hoping for.
To be continued...
