On The Road Again

This is the first post for a long time. And, like the first post in this blog, it is being written in Kathmandu. This time around I am travelling with my brother Kirk, and my friend of too-many years/partner in crime Jamie. We are in Nepal for a month to do some trekking, then Jamie and I will be going to India where I plan to do lots of climbing in Hampi and eat a lot of curry (two of my favorite things.)

We flew out of Brisbane on the first at midnight. More often than not, flights involve some sort of cock-up for me, and this one was no different. At least in wasn't my fault. Kirk and I had adjacent seats because we have the same last name, but Jamie was down the front of the plane. When we got off for our stop over in Singapore he wasn't waiting at the gate. We waited half an hour, checked the sick bays and had him paged, because we had to be sure he was OK. It turned out that he had just wandered off to do some shopping without touching base as would be reasonably expected. We didn't see him until just before boarding of our flight four hours later.

You couldn't pick two more different international airports than Singapore and Kathmandu. One has automated everything (there are multicoloured LEDs above each urinal in Singapore that alert the user as the the status of the loo), the other has a chalk boards above the luggage carousels that are meant to have the appropriate flight number for the luggage written on them (the luggage seems to come out at random, with a head wobble the most detailed information that the staff can give you.)

We did quite well getting out of the airport and into a reasonably-priced taxi with a minimum of fuss. We got railroaded into a hotel run by some an annoying bunch of gentlemen by the smooth co-driver of the the tourist taxi. They turned each transaction, such as filling out the check-in forms, into a tag team operation to try and sell us tours, get us trekking permits or ask if we had ever heard of Nepalese "chocolate". But it was a clean room that took no effort to find.

Getting Ready

The next day we left the hotel with a minimum of fuss, and located The Hotel Red Planet which I remembered from my last stay. This was no mean feat, given that Thamel - the travellers' district in Kathmandu - is a rat's nest of twisting lanes, buildings on buildings, and every type of transport jostling and trying to sell you Nepalese chocolate.

Once installed in our more pleasant digs we spent a day organising our trekking permits, which has become slightly more complex than last time I was here. Which is to say, it took a lot of vigorous debate and research just to to determine exactly where we had to go to get the permits. We guessed correctly and got the permits after trekking across town and filling out a bunch of forms and dealing with a few grinning, head-wobbling clerks.

The next challenge was to determine which bus station our bus left from the next morning. Once that was done we celebrated with lots of Everest beer, which gave us hang-overs from hell. They put something in the beer over here, and it isn't healthy.

The bus ride from Kathmandu to Siabhru Besi was long and painful, and took all day. Things started well, with the first part of the 70 kilometre journey going smoothly, but the distance covered started to resemble some logarithmic curve from hell as the road surface deteriorated and the number of treacherous switch backs increased. With an hour left on the eight-hour journey, a young lady lost her curry lunch all over Kirk's pants, which made everyone except us laugh.

A Short Walk In The Langtang Valley

The first of two treks that we were planning was the so-called Langtang walk that starts at the bottom of the Langtang valley which is steep, narrow and formed by a river, and follows the valley up to the top where it is wide and flat-bottomed because it was formed by a glacier.

The first couple of days were walking through thick sub-tropical forests in the lower part of the valley, and as we climbed higher the vegetation started to thin out. None of us were very fit, so the constant uphill gradient combined with thinning air as we gained altitude had us working fairly hard. It was considerably harder for Jamie, because he got very bad blisters on his heels that deteriorated each day. By the time we were in Kyangin Gompa at the head of the valley he had been reduced to Teevas.

There were plenty of great views, and friendly people along the way, but the highlight for me was when Kirk accepted my idle dare to jump the largest Yak in Langtang Village (that is yak with a capital Y). Watch this space for video evidence on Youtube.

While Jamie was resting his feet, Kirk and I made a couple of day trips. The first was to walk right up to the end of the valley for a great view from the base of the mountains that extended into Tibet. The second was to climb the 5000 metre high peak of Tserko Ri (well, actually 4984m, but you always round these things up) for a great view of the tops of the same mountains.

We had planned to return back to Syabhru Besi where we started the walk, and then head to the Annapurna region to to the Annapurna Base Camp walk, however we figured that would be pushed for time. Instead, we decided to extend our Langtang walk by crossing the high passes at the holy lake (for Hindus) of Gosankund into the Helambu region.

Jamie's feet were not getting any better, so he finished the walk at Syabhru Besi, and Kirk and I headed for Gosankund. We got laid-up by bad weather in the village Syabhru, which is balanced along a steep ridge. We saw the snow line drop by 1000 metres over the coarse of an hour while we ate our lunch - the clouds descended to cover the tops of the hills, and they left snow behind when they lifted.

The walk up to Gosankund was much easier after our earlier acclimatisation walks, with a beautiful day spent climbing 1700 metres through rhododendron then alpine forests to the high, windy ridge of Laurabina. From there we had uninterrupted views of the Himalaya from the length of the Annapurnas, the Himal Ganesh, into Tibet and to the Langtang peaks.

From Lauribina we had a short climb to the first 4100 metre pass. After the pass the trail was very narrow, carved into a steep slope, with snow on the trail and views over the first lakes below us. Just as we got to the snow line proper, we saw the lake of Gosankund. Hindu mythology holds that the body of Siva can be seen as some stones sticking out of the water where he threw himself for relief after drinking poison. The water was very cold, which would explain why pilgrims come here for ceremonial bathing in the middle of summer. I decided that to wash my face and make a small coin donation to the lake was as far as I was prepared to go.

To get to Helambu we had to cross a second pass of 4600 metres in the snow, which we did in our shorts with big grins after two days of fantastic walking. From there it was a tiring and long descent to Gopte where we were kept awake by a Dutch lady who was a prodigious snorer (thankfully she wasn't as bad as "Our Latvian Friend"). We finished the walk through Helambu to Sundarijal on the outskirts of Kathmandu in a couple of days, with some wonderful views of the Himalaya from the east to the west and changing landscape as high-mountain slopes gave way to well-tended terraces around villages.

We are now back in Kathmandu. We had planned to go to Royal Chitwan National Park for some wildlife spotting, but have postponed that for a day while Jamie recovers from a tummy upset (for once I am not the first to fall!) The bakeries of Kathmand keep us well fed and we import beer for more tolerable hangovers. Life is good.

Cadiz

Camping

Last week I packed my camping gear and took the four-hour bus ride to Tarifa, on the southern tipof Spain at the mouth of the Mediteranian. I stocked up on supplies in the supermercado (Eroski, my fave cheapo European supermarket), and started walking north along the beach.

There is a long ten kilometer stretch of beach before one gets to the headland at Punta Pampàloma, from there another four kilometers around the coast is El Chorrito, the beach where I spent the summer camping.

This time it was almost deserted, with a small group of people I didn´t know camping near the beach. I had the pick of the camping spots, and plenty of firewood. I chose a well hidden site high above the beach where the police would never find me. There might not have been many people around, but they still had a helicopter going back and forward along the coast, just to make people nervous.

I got to thinking about the summer that I spent on El Chorrito, and remembered that there were lots of stories from that time that I never wrote about in the blog...

Football

One lazy afternoon everybody was lying on the beach, enjoying the cooling of the air as the sun got lower. Bored. Probably stoned. Wondering what to do. Maybe something would come along?

A bright, round object was spotted floating out at sea.
¨probably a buoy¨
¨or a skin diver¨ (they have a bright floater attatched to them so that boats can see where they are and not run over them)

The object got closer, and closer...
¨coño, it´s a football!¨

While one hippy ran hollering into the surf to fetch the prize everybody else scrambled to sort out a pitch on the beach. Sticks marked the goals, and two teams were organised. The result was a no-holds-barred five-aside game of nude football.

Everybody turned out to be quite handy, which isn´t such a surprise in Europe. The girls watched as teams comprised of idle, stoned hippies, backpackers, criminals and musicians enthusiastically threw themselves into the game. It was a sight to see Carlos, a live-and-let-live hippy type sprint ten meters to shove somebody off the ball, then fight tooth and nail to retain it.

In the end everybody jumped into the sea to clean up, and set about cooking dinner.

Close Shave

I had spotted two police cars at the end of the road after the military checkpoint. It was unusual to see them in the area in the afternoon - they always came to raid us at sunup so that they could catch us while we slept. It is very unpleasant being woken by a scowling policeman (advice - pretend not to speak Spanish and act really stupid).

I dashed to the campsites to warn everybody that there might be some trouble on the way. But there was no sign of the police, and after an hour it was assumed that they were in the carpark for some other reason.

Everyone relaxed, and went back to their sites. I put on my pack and walked over to Fred´s site, a little ledge on top of the cliff overlooking the beach. I had my eyes on my feet and my head in dreamland as I wandered along, and I didn´t see the Policewoman talking to Fred until I looked up about ten meters from his site. She was standing side-on to me, and I thought that she would certainly see me out of the corner of her eye. Fred certainly saw me.

After a couple of seconds I started to back away slowly, I turned and walked quickly. I was waiting for the call, but it didn´t come and I ran to the little clearing where most of us were staying. There were eight guys sitting around the fire, with all of their possesions in various stages of unpacked. It took ten seconds after I said ¨Policia! Muy circa!¨, for everything to be packed and for us to be madly scrambling up the slope into the scrub where the police couldn´t find us.

Fred got a fine in the post, but he was asked to sign for it. He refused to sign, so he was never given the ticket, so he never had to pay.

A Surprise

Autostop

Last time I was leaving San Pedro I got a lift to Campohermoso with a German guy. From Campohermoso I somehow got a ride all the way to Granada, a two-hour ride that saved me many hours mucking around with buses and waiting in Spanish bars. The fog was so thick we could only see ten meters as we climbed from sea level to Granada which lies at around 700 meters altutitude. Then we drove out of the wall of cloud and to our left was the wonderful sight of the snow-capped Sierra to our left, and the cave-town of Guadix up ahead.

Campofeo

Campohermoso is the nearest main-road town to San Pedro, and it is a hell of a misnomer. Campohermoso means beautiful field in Spanish. Nothing could be further from the truth. The area is semi-arid, and may well have once been a beautiful stark landscape had the locals not struck tomato gold. A few years ago somebody realised that tomatoes could be grown all year round under plastic in large, ugly greenhouses that stretch as far as the eye can see.

The dusty mainstreet has a few Mercedes belonging to farmers who suddenly became very rich when they could see their tomatoes at three euros a kilo in Germany during winter. And there are the ugly "marble houses" built with such funds. Apparently in this part of the world many people keep an immaculate living room that nobody is able to use, it was purely for show. Now that some have a lot more money this idea has been scaled up to an entire marble house, with the family living in the garage.

Killing Time

Now I am just whittling time away, waiting for March the 13th when I have a flight from Valencia to England. I am waiting on a refund of my Irish tax money, without which I am not able to go too crazy in the last couple of weeks here.

But at least I will have to tax money for when I get home, though it does feel a little bit wrong to return from a long journey and not be broke. From Valencia I am flying to Stanstead near London, then I will be getting a train to Heathrow (well, actually, a couple of trains). Then on to Singapore, Melbourne and Brisbane. I am not looking forward to the journey, it always tires me out... but I am looking forward to getting home!

I was just going to turn up and surprise everybody, but that was going to be a little tricky to organise -- I can imagine getting home and finding that everybody was off camping, washing their hair or baking. So instead I have put it in my blog, and we will see how long it takes people to find out. Krys reckons 5.6 hours, I think more like three days. First reply gets a jelly frog when I get home.

Update : Jelly frog goes to Briana, my darling sister. My parents had also guessed by reading my mail. My flight QF610 arrives in Brisbane on March 15 at 10:10am. And Cully also gets a frog.

San Pedro

Waiting For The Bus

We had one of those days the other day. One of those days where you misstime your arrival so that you have to wait the maximum amount of time before catching the next bus.

The objective of the day´s travel was to get from San Pedro to Granada. The walk from San Pedro to Las Negras took about an hour, and we took no time at all to hitch-hike from Las Negras (Litterally ¨The Black Women¨, a fishing village so named after most of the men from the village died at sea sometime around 1900 and all the women in town wore black in mourning) to Campo Hermoso.

From there it all went wrong. A three hour wait for the hour-long bus ride to Almeria. Then it was another two hour wait for a bus to Granada. We then had to waste an hour waiting for the bus to Monachil where Fred lives. In all we were travelling for 11 hours, and I was a bit grumpy by the time that we got home.

Paridise Without Shade

It was all worth it for the four nights that we spent in San Pedro, an abandoned fishing village on the desert coast of Cabo De Gata (Cape Cat). The decline of the village began with the aforementioned boat disaster, when the majority of the population moved to the village of Las Negras which had just been given road access.

By the 1950s the only inhabitants in town were the Garda Civil, Franco´s right-hand police. When the Garda Civil left hippies slowly started to move into town to have a go at building their own little paradise(Garda Civil and hippies are not compatable, not by a long shot).

The coast of Cabo De Gata is the driest place in Europe, and one of the hottest. The village exists due to two fresh water springs that pop up in a little valley the ends in a small beach. They flow all year around, and provide a little oasis in the middle of the dry rolling hills with nothing taller than your hips growing on them.

It was hot enough when we were there, and that was the middle of winter. In summer it must be very difficult to get through some of the days. There is a little bit of shade, but not much. Certainly staying in one´s tent would be impossible any time after sunrise. In fact, I didn´t sleep in the tent, preferring to roll my sleeping mat out on the ground so that I could enjoy the perfect startscape in the desert.

Where Is The Community?

Of course a bunch of hippies building a little town basically translates into a bunch of folk doing their own things with a minimal amount of coordination or communication. One thing I have learnt from living in such places, it is that community can be a euphimism. More like squatter´s rights, and a great place for prison leavers, mental patients and drug addicts to hide from the greater world.

That said, there is always a core group of interesting folk who have a different take on life. Unlike El Chorrito where I spent a month during the summer, the police have very little interest in what goes on in San Pedro. In El Chorrito the police came by every couple of days to kick out anybody who was camping in the forest above the beach. This made it impossible to set up even any semi-permentant dwellings.

In San Pedro people are left to create whatever structures they please, and they also have the skeletons of the original town buildings to work with. As a result there is all manner of dwellings, and also a panaderia (bread shop), and bars serving cold beer (solar panels and generators provide the power).

The most impressive place that I saw was by far the cave house built by a German guy named Tilo. He had lived in San Pedro eight years, and had spent the last two years constructing his cave. It was a three minute scrample up a very steep rocky slope halfway up a cliff overlooking the bay. If the rock face he had carved out a cave using a chisel. He had built terraces, and steps chiseled into the rock lead from one level to another. The crowing touch was a stone BBQ that had probably the best view from a kitchen anywhere in the world. To top it off the house was completely invisible from below and one would only know about it if they were invited up.

Another character named Rubin, had recently left jail, where he had spent the last eight years. He was twenty eight, but he told me when I met him that in fact he was twenty years old as far as he was concerned. Krys and I enjoyed many a cup of coffee in his little hut, and grew to be good friends. Krys is a tattooist by trade, and has an impressive collection of tattoos on herself. Rubin revealed that he was a tattooist in jail, and told us how he made his own tattoo machines from pens and walkman batteries.

Characters like Rubin and Tilo are a highlite of places like San Pedro. But there are also people who keep you on your toes (I have met some jail-leavers and the like in such places that I would run a mile to avoid). Whoever you meet, it is bound to be interesting and educational.

Hola!

The English - A Definition

Sign spotted on the Chester-Liverpool Merseyrail train

Railway Bye-Laws : FEET ON SEETS

Feedback from our customers shows us that people putting their feet on train seats is a habit they find particularly annoying.

This also includes framework sections between, and either side of, the seat cushions.

Enforcement officers are on the Merseyrail network and may film and interview people who put their feet on seats, and any part of the seat structure, as evidence for prosecution.

Feet on seats falls within Merseyrail Electric 2002 Ltd. Railway Bye-Laws. Failure to comply with these instrucitons may lead to prosecution.

Which sums the English up quite neatly. I spent twenty minutes straining myself to resist an overwhelming urge to put my feet on the framework sections between, and either side of, the seat cushions.

The New Year

I spent New Year´s in Dublin. We had an Argentinian BBQ at my house, with my Argentine flatmate´s Argentian friends and guests. Some latin timing ensured that we were halfway between the house and the city centre when the fireworks went off. I had a quiet one, because I had to catch a ferry to Liverpool the next day.

Confusion

Well, I thought that I was getting the ferry to Liverpool. When I got off the ferry at Hollyhead I noticed that the signs in the terminal were in two languages, and that one of the languages looked particularly odd. I figured that it was an indictation of how many Polish people lived and worked in England these days.

Then I left the building and noticed styleised dragons everywhere. I checked the signs again and noticed the far-too-high ratio of constenants to vowels. Bugger, I was in Wales. Of course, if I hadn´t had to take a two hour train journey to Liverpool I would have missed out on seeing the aforementioned sign, which amused me more than you would reckon.

I was in town to watch Liverpool play at Anfield. To be honest, it was a poor display against Wigan, that ended in a draw and got some boos from the fans at the end of the game. But it was great to be in the stadium and watch the players I have always watched on the telly up close and personal.

Spain, Again

I have returned to Spain for a couple of months familiarising myself with the Spanish ways. My Spanish is improving all the time, but the more I learn the more it seems that I have to learn. Conversations are making more sense, and I don´t have any problems in shops, buses and with public transport. I now have to get the hang of the much subtle art of conversation... and making jokes.

I popped up to Portugal very briefly to see my buddy Krys (a girl´s name), though I can´t really say that I have been to Portugal. She was staying with some Irish friends in The Algarve, which is the Portugese equivilant of the Gold Coast. Lots of tourists, everybody spoke English, the beer was English, her Irish buddies just played pool in the pub all day, the beaches were cleaned daily by machines. Not exactly Portugal, though it was easy to find a half-decent English fry-up for brekkie!

This weekend Krys and I are going camping at Cabo De Gata (Cape Cat), on a beach that is surrounded by dessert. Then next weekend Fred (my buddy in Granada) and I will be going to the carnival in Cadiz, which promises to be over the top.

Busy Times

Come On, Say Please

Two Irish guys, around 50 years old, were sitting at one of the tables in the bar today. They ask me for a couple of pints of Guinness. I do the first pour on the pints (you pour Guinness in two steps, first pour about four fifths of the pint, wait for it to settle then pour the rest), and went out to get the money while waiting for it to settle.

"That'll be six Euros please"
"Don't we get our pints first?"
"Oh, I promise I will bring them out with the change... and if I don't you know where I work", I smile at my lame joke.
"Oh son, you haven't hear my reputation - I would just shoot you."
I do my best to smile while taking the money.

When I take the pints back out to them the guy decides to make me feel better by teasing me about getting beat by the English in the rugby world cup. I don't make any jokes about getting beat by the English for several hundred years.

Taking it Easy

Work is fairly slow at the moment - the calm before the storm of Christmas, when we are going to be silly busy. That is fine with me, because I have plenty of socialising to do, and that needs time (for the socialising and the hangovers).

There are two big parties over the next two nights, and then my old flatmate Julia from Brisneyland will be visiting on Sunday. We plan to get out of Dublin and have a look around, which will be great. I have been here for a fair while yet, and all I have seen is inner-city Dublin.

Can't Really Complain

"You see, it isn't actually that cold in winter. Not too hot in summer either. That's the problem isn't it?".
"How's that?"
"Well, the weather is shite, we all agree, but not so bad that you can complain about it."
"Fair enough."
"Fair enough all right, what you going to say? 'Aye! It's fierce mild today!'"
"Not without sounding like a gobshite."
"There you go."

Fair Enough

And the weather hasn't been worth complaining about so far. There has been a little rain, and one needs a jumper, but there has been plenty of sunshine and little wind, and no real bitter cold. Apparently it is going to get a lot wetter and more miserable, but not too cold. But I maintain my right to whinge. I know what good weather looks like, and this is not good weather. Sure, it isn't going to kill me, but that isn't the point.

One German friend said that she hadn't seen so many accidents on icy roads as she does in Ireland. "When the road freezes over the Irish don't know what to do. They should take the bus on such days."

I don't know about that - the buses in Dublin are shite. Slow, late, and paying for your ticket is comic gold. The drivers don't give change. You ask for your ticket, show the driver how much cash you have, then drop it into a chute that collects your coins. I always assumed that the coins were counted by a machine when you put them into the chute. But no, in a truly Irish touch no such thing happens. The driver counts the money as you drop it into the chute, then gives you a paper receipt for the change that you can redeem at the transport office.

My Portugese budy Pedro said "I love the look on the driver's face when you hold up a handful of 1 and 2-cent pieces and he knows he has no idea how much change you are giving him. You can get away with short-changing him 20 cents. Do that every day and you can save enough for a pint at the end of the week."
"Pedro, you need to get a job."

More Than a Roof

I finally have my own room! Well, I will come Friday. I am moving into a house with Pedro the aforementioned Portugese, an Argentinian and a Scot. All boys, with a fifty-fifty split between English and Spanish speakers.

After sleeping so long on couches I am hanging out for that room. My own space. Close the door and be along. Don't wait up until all hours waiting for others to go to bed. Don't get woken up early by others going to real jobs that require early rising. A kitchen of my own! And it has gas burners, not the horrible ceramic-electric stove tops that are all the rage over here (some people try to defend them, but you just have to ask "How many comercial kitchens use anything but gas for cooking?").

Brazilian BBQ

Guilliano held a Brazilian BBQ at his place last Sunday. There were the Brazilian lads, crowded around the BBQ throwing salt, oil and beer at the meat sizzling over the coals.
"The meat in Ireland is shit man."
"Yeah, in Brazil you have twenty different cuts, all quality."
A Basque guy pipes up
"I bring meat back with me whenever I return from home. Good Basque meat."

We stand around drinking German and American beer (Erdinger and Millers respectively), some wearing football jerseys for English teams, talking about surfing in Spain and how hot and crazy Brazilian women are (quite, according to the lads).

Froggy Chef

"Hey Frog, where are my fucking fries?"
"Sure you don't want onion reengs? I have nice creespy onion reengs!"
"Keep your goddam onion rings Frenchy, and fix me fries before I start breaking shit!"
"Hey convict son-of-bitch, why are you so rude to me and my onion reengs?"
"Rudeness is relative, and I am talking to a Frenchman"
"Fair point, the French are too rude. Sure you don't want some onion reengs?"
"Nah, onion rings remind me of disappointment. Many a time I have bitten into one thinking it is calamari only to find disappointing onion. Got any calamari?"
"No, but I have some creespy onion rings. Want some?"

Lost At Night

I woke up today, looked out the window and noted that the sun had set. Oh well, there is a first time for everything. It took me twenty eight years, but I finally succeeded in sleeping through an entire day. Last night/this morning was manic at work, and topped off a very busy weekend.

Last night was everybody's favourite night - gay night. A particularly special one, as it is a bank holiday today. An ideal chance to let your hair down, darling. I spent five hours chained to my bar, along with Guilliano the friendly Brazilian bartender (and ladies man par excellence), without a chance to scratch my bum with angry patrons squeeling "tsk, I have been waiting the longest". Jesus, we were overwhelmed. Glasses ran out, vodka ran out, Red Bull ran out (this disgusting shit is people's mixer of choice here), my patience ran out (more than one nasty patron copped a bit of articulate bile).

So, remember, when you are in a bar and it is really busy, take the time to look at how hard the bartender is working and realise how impossible it is for him to keep track of exactly who has been waiting the longest, or for him to pour fifty vodka redbulls a minute. Then avoid the following behaviour

• Yelling. You will be ignored, or told to shut up then ignored.
• Leaning over the bar. You will be told to get back on the right side of the bar, then ignored.
• Waving money. You will be laughed at, then ignored. That money isn't going into my pocket, and I assume that everybody who is lining up has money for their drinks.
• Touch the bartender to get their attention. He or she will get very angry, then make a point of not serving you.
  
• Do not, under any circumstances, try to walk behind the bar. You won't get served for the rest of the night... and you will probably be ignored next Sunday too.
• Don't ask for an Irish coffee, you muppet. And if I make you an Irish coffee on a busy night, I expect a tip.
  

If you want to get your drinks

• Wait patiently, then don't rush when giving your order.
• Give a tip, and you will be served first when you come back. We are not about equal opportunity, and we get minimum wage. Money talks.
  
• If you are an attractive woman, go to the bar that Guilliano is working on, he will make sure that you are well looked after, but beware, he might try to liberate you of your phone number (though he is a strapping lad and you might be well tempted to oblige).
  

Fancy a Drink?

I was waiting for traffic at the busy intersection on Aston Quay, where the bridge from O'Connell Street Crosses The Liffey. I admired the billboard for Cork Dry Gin on the building over the river, then noticed the 1970s style advert for Ireland's Own Baileys Liqueur above it. I recalled The Heineken Building directly behind me, and as I turned to look at it I noticed that the building next to it had huge letters announcing Irish Liver Assurance. A Guinness truck trundled past.

Show Me The Money

I got paid for the first time today. Hooray. It is a bit difficult getting that all important first pay in the bank - because before that can happen one has to organise a PPS number (like a TFN, SSN or whatever-your-country-calls-it number) and then get an account from the bank. Before that one needs a permanent address, but to get a permanent address it helps to get paid so that you can afford the rent.

A Roof

Lucky for me Rory, the wonderful Irish chap who "hosted" me on his couch when I first arrived, wrote a letter claiming that I was his new tennant, thus giving me a permanent address. When I first arrived in Spain I stayed on the couch of somebody that I met through the Couchsurfing website. I didn't need to use the site after that in Spain because Kiko and his friends did a wonderful job of accomodating me.

But arriving in Dublin without any local contacts I got back onto couchsurfing to line up some accomodation and open doors in the new city. I got in touch with Rory, AKA DublinGuy, who offered me a couch to sleep on for a couple of days. We got on great-guns, and I ended up staying for over a fortnight.

He is an ex-priest, now studying law and working as a lawyer. He has stacks of people, over four hundred a year, who stay in his place. When one arrives they get a map, as much local knowledge as they can absorb, and a feed. He is a fountain of information, knowing everything about from how to get a PPS number to finding a good live music venue (just don't ask him for any good vegetarian restaurants). We got on very well, and I just ended up staying until I found a place to stay. He was very busy with work and exams, so I started to take over some of his role as welcoming party to Dublin.

Now I am sleeping on another couch - that if Inez, a Swedish girl that I work with. She and her boyfriend have a great little apartment in Christchurch, just down the road from the Guinness brewery. When I first met her I thought that she was Irish - her Irish accent is perfect, and she understands the Irish vernacular far better than I do.

So, still without proper accomodation - but now I have funds with which to pay a deposit and get a room. Getting a room in Dublin is a nightmare, with far more punters looking for a place than there are places. A friend of mine has just found a place, and offered me a room, so we will see what happens. But it might be that I end up crashing from couch to couch until I finish my time in Dublin. That would certainly see me save lots more money.