Irish Backpackers Go Home

"That will kill you..."

Jim has a St. Andrew's spider living in his porch and as far as I knew he was right. (Of course he wasn't.) But when you're just finished about thirty hours of airport-airplane-airport-airplane living you just want bed.

It's also Australia of course, home to some of the world's most venomous critters, so that whole look at every corner of the room is most definitely going on. But you ease into it quick enough.

For this is also the land of "manana" and "no worries". And the relaxed attitude of the locals extends to such complications.

But there is a creeping tension here. Red, Jim's Australian housemate warns of a backlash and a growing resentment to Backpackers, Irish in particular, who are all pervasive in Sydney on their constant search for "kicks".

True enough on a stroll through Bondi with Jim on Sunday, "County Bondi" as it's affectionately and somewhat self-deprecatingly referred to, we encountered a sign professionally rendered advising the community to organise against the Backpacker's invasion.

Bizarre considering alot of the Australian economy is built around the backpacking phenemenon but the growing resentment is given force by the recent incidents between Australians and Lebanese immigrants on Bondi beach itself.

So clearly some people are pissed off.

There is a certain tendency for these ex-pat communities to become closed circles and this doesn't aid the situation. Indeed, the identity craze is such that my being the only Dubliner amongst a group that featured Waterford, Cork, Mayo and Sligo was a source of much remark. If people take on that siege mentality in such a closeted space as Ireland and transfer it direct to Australia then one can only wonder at the impact on the locals.

But these were good people and they are a good group. And that's why a good time was had. Too damn good.

I can't divulge details for fear of damage to people's personal and professional reputations but on our search for "kicks" like Kerouac's "On the Road", we were Dean Moriarty bar-hopping across San Francisco, running from cafe to cafe looking for cats blowing jazz, but in this instance we swapped the jazz for techno and old skool hip-hop.

This was a bad thing and a terrible example to children.

For it lead to me skate-boarding down King's Cross, Sydney at 8:30am in the morning in the company of Nathan, an Australian who was spinning hip-hop the night beforehand and who had then taken an ever-decreasing circle on a tour of Newtown, King's Cross and it's assorted delights.

Finally having dealt with the aftermath of the day, we retreated to Bondi for the evening whereupon Jim proceeded to breakout the decks to treat the neighbours to some quality mixing featuring New Order and Faith No More.

So all in all, not much TOURISM took place at all in Sydney. I mentally calculated that it would be absolutely impossible to hit the Bridge Climb because my blood alcohol levels would never reach the point where such a thing could be legally permitted. General impressions were the Opera House is a distinctly unimpressive structure up close but Manly Cove and Bondi sport excellent beaches. I finally settled for a trip out to Taronga Zoo, a trip across the Harbour Bridge and up one of the towers. Good enough.

Say goodbye Sydney.

Good morning Cairns.