It's been a while...

I'm currently struggling to put an article together for a magazine. 250 words by tonight and I can think of about eight. Always the way isn't it? My last entry here seems shamefully distant too. I've managed to move my life from Dublin to London in the meantime which is nice though. I've met some incredible people, seen some brilliant sights and said incredibly inappropriate things of late.

I should be able to wax lyrical about our new London lifestyle far more than this of course but its been a crazy month. Moments escape me. The combination of English bureaucracy, cheap booze and map reading has created a shiny, fuzzy mess where my brain used to be. Stories are attempting to free themselves from this and soon they will. But despite my inability to remember any details of this momentous change for now, here's what it sounds and looks like in my head...

We'll see how long this lasts due to my current debilitating case of unemployment but as the summer breaks over London Fields, I can't see myself anywhere else anytime soon.

The Gili Islands

There are no cars on the Gilis, no motorbikes and no touts screaming "transport, transport". Horses clip-clop up and down the one street on the island and bike bells tinkle as locals and tourists go about doing as little as possible. This is the kind of paradise that books are written about and films try to capture.

As for our time here, we spend the days swimming in crystalline turquoise water or watching movies in little beach huts when the rain comes. At night, the smell of fresh fish and satay grilling entices everyone to the strip of bars and restaurants that line the beach. Groups form to create a sort of alcohol fuelled U.N. at the various raves; Blue Marlin in a loft, Tir Na Nog on the street and Rudy's in Rudy's very ownpot-hole covered bar. Every bar advertises magic mushroom smoothies with eye-catching signs like:

We have bloody fucking fresh muchrooms
Take you to the Moon and back
No Transport Needed

Rudy's staff are particular advocates of mind expansion and eat a few shrooms before each shift.

Somehow it all works to create an amazing harmony of cultures. This is not Kuta. There are no 'Bintang' laden morons, no groups of Australian clones trying to see who can be the biggest dick. Leonardo DiCaprio went looking for an idyllic paradise in 'The Beach", he went to the wrong island.

After a week spent with our favourite Swedes, Jax strolled through our door on a sunny Sunday morning. Cue a day, no, wait, make that week, of dancing, drinking and myself and Jax's own brand of unintelligible humour. We're now known on the Irish as either "crazy Irish" or "double whiskey" by the locals. We have actually tried to leave the island twice now but winds and swells of up to 6m have meant that no boats can come or go. It's like theres a bubble around the island and we're stuck at the center. So for now, all we can do is sit back and enjoy all that the island has to offer. Not a bad problem to have really.

Half-time...

4Am and we're standing at the base of Mt Bromo wrapped in Jeans, jumpers, woolly hats and scarves. We've been waiting for the jeep for an huor in the freezing cold at 1500m. The jeep finally arrives to take us the further 1500m to the sunrise view point. We bounce up and down, clinging onto bits of the jeep, each other and anything in sight to stay in. It's pitch black and we're in the clouds so when our lights decide to retire early, what can you do but laugh? Our maniac driver does anyway so we chuckle along and prepare for our deaths.

Surprisingly we make it above the clouds and find ourselves peeling layers off as the sun rises over Bromo and 3 more very active volcanoes. We take phots of the spectacle as everyone else takes photos of us. Still not used to that particular Asian custom. Some do it on the sly, some ask but no-one ever explains why they do it...weird.

We hurtle down the hill and the driver decides to get involved in a race that exists only in his head.Swerving around jeeps, cars and motorbikes we get to the bottom only to be put on horses to go back up.

"Ah, we go fast, yes?"

the horseman asks and without waiting for a response, takes off at a sprint beside the horse. We bounce up to the 253 steps and begin our assault on the crater. Thankfully the horse doesn't attempt the steps too. We climb up to witness an active volcano spit smoke into the sky meters from where we stand. A nice pay-off for what was a fairly blurry start to the day.

A few days later, we climb Ijen Plateau which was a far more arduous task and continued our Javan fitness regime until we realised that we were headed towards Lovina with two sets of French folk.

"Ah, sure look" we exclaim, "we should all go together. And we have Arak!"

"Super" the French reply, " we have Calvados!"

So Yann, Bernard, Dewi, Sophie, Alex and ourselves end up celebrating Laurant's birthday on a beach in North Bali. Nice.

After a few days of speaking bad French and eating good food it's off to Ubud with Sophie and Alex before heading Eastwhere Christmas flies past in a flurry of Arak, phonecalls and photographs. Next it's Kuta's turn to welcome us and it does so to a soundtrack of shit music and drunken "schoolies". After managing to rope some Swedes into song-writing, drinking and general Kuta banter we've reached New Year's Eve and the halfway point of the trip so far.

Some particularly brilliant moments stick out and last night's very Irish conversation about our fine army is up there.

Alan: He was a sniper, did mad shit
Eoin: What the fuck was he sniping though?
Alan: I don't know..........Bosnians.

Classic stuff Duffman.

Recent Highlights...

Going on my admittedly limited boating experience, I assumed that a 24 hour boat to Borneo would be somewhat enjoyable. Wrong. It is not. We arrived at the port in Semarang, Java, to a throng of Indonesian families trying to find space to camp before we board. We make our way past stacked boxes of indeterminable cargo until a guard, sensing our confusion offers assistance. Ah, yeah, this will be great we chime. Stepping onto the boat provides a different outlook. A big, open room greets us. Eh, is this a...cabin? For 70 people? Unsure of what to do, we quarter off a section of the floor with our bags and sit in our seats for the next 24 hour...on the floor. So where do we sleep? You guessed it, the floor. We quickly requisition some leather mats for the journey. Seriously, leather, in 40 degree heat, with no AC and 70 Indonesians surrounding us staring. It's going to be hot.

"Maybe we'll see some dolphins or a whale or something, guys!" I enthusiastically offer.

Jen and Alan flash me looks that scream "Shut up Eoin" so I hunker down and prepare for a journey for what could actually constitute torture in some countries. We're obviously the only Westeners on board which confirms that no-one else is as stupid as us and we therefore are the focus of intense staring and laughing throughout the trip. I try to watch Rambo 4 on the amazingly annoying TV situated in the middle of the room but its a Muslim censored version (not joking) so its over after, oh, about 18 minutes. I have never seen Stallone kick so little ass in such a short time.

The following morning I inquire into how the others slept. Those looks shut me up again and we eventually tramp off the boat having seen no dolphins, no whales and no-one's throat torn out by Sylvester Stallone.

Why would we subject ourselves to this? To get to Tanjung Puting in Borneo. I'm writing this 2 days later on another bloody boat. This time though, its different. I feel like Martin Sheen, sat on a little, chugging boat, cigarette in hand and jungle on both sides closing in on us. Instead if searching for Marlon Brando however, we're searching for a similarly proportioned but altogether different beast. The Orang-Utan is our Kurtz. Feeding time is at 2 apparently. We're headed towards the brilliantly named Camp Leakey research center. Instead of being a level in Super Mario though, it's the launch point for our quest to make friends with our hairy cousins. Alan's playing guitar on the bow, Jen is engrossed in a novel and Apocolypse Now this definitely isn't. It's way more fun.

When we step off the boat and make our way through the jungle, nothing prepares us for our first sighting. Our guide suddenly stops and then we see whats he's heard. A mother Orang-Utan, child clinging to her back stares at us and then nonchalantly turns her attention back to the sugar cane she's munching on. They are heart-stoppingly beautiful creatures. So human in everything they do but managing to make the most mundane actions clumsily graceful. As we venture further into the dense foliage, more cross our paths, literally. One is following our trail, about 2 metres ahead of us, stopping every so often to make sure we're still there. It's like she's leading us. Gibbons, proboscis monkeys and wild boars just add to the menagerie we have come across.

Back to the boat and it's time to grab some z's ahead of our trip back. We sleep on the deck of the boat with just mosquito nets between us and the two moons I can see through it. Wait, two moons? I stick my head out and shout to Jen and Alan to get outside quickly. It turns out that neither of the lights I saw were moons but the biggest, brightest stars that I have ever seen. Millions more joined the celestial light show to create the most incredible sight I seen in my short life. We are on the equater which is as close to the stars as you can get while standing on the earth but no words I can write here can describe what this looks like. It's a perfect moment to end our jungle experience with and having forgot about the safety zone of the mosquito nets, the best 150 bites I have ever received.

Next up for us is Banjarmarsin (cheeky preview: first messy session in weeks) and then back to Java before Bali, Lombok, Komodo and KL again. More soon...

Asia, first encounters

We're handed umbrellas as we leave the plane. Are you kidding? But as we breeze through customs, baggage and into the heat of the KL night something else is amiss. Nothing went wrong. The Petrona towers come into view as Strobe hits its crescendo. Hang on, this is too good to possibly be true. Where are the lost bags? The touts ripping us off? The sense of dread as we check into a shitty hostel? Nope, nothing doing as everything goes to plan and we get a good nights sleep in a wicked little part of town called Bukit Bintang. Breakfast the following morning is in a mall that is so Christmassy I half expected it to be served by Shane McGowen.

KL has an incredible sense that its touristy and commercial but doesn't really give a shit. The locals smile and sit at stalls eating food you can't pronounce while the suits and tourists whizz around trying to spend every ringgit they can. Photos echoing Lost In Translation are taken and an American (I know, right?) called Aunnie is enlisted into the gang for vistas at the top of the city and impromptu, drunken sing-a-longs. In fairness, Aunnie is probably the only American I've met who actually suggested drinking and then (nearly) matched us. Despite the Indonesian Embassys best efforts, KL has got us. Hook, line and drinker. The 40 degree heat of the Batu Caves and a bottle stealing monkey attempt to dampen our spirits but wet season in Asia seems to continue to deliver.

Wet season is an odd one. It doesn't rain and its fucking hot. Wet season, in short, is brilliant. As Athlone disappears underwater like Atlantis without the pomp we disappear into a whiskey called Winner to cool down. It softens the blow of 7AM buses to the jungle the following morning. Oh, no, wait, it doesn't at all. After planning an early night, the indefatigable Aunnie has us drunk enough to get half an hours' sleep prior to our hellish journey. Its the first big night since London and we're a little worse for wear to the say the least. A room (that is all) greets us and our guide John grates on us during our night walk through the world's oldest rainforest but the creepy-crawlies and subsequent morning's hike up a great, big mountain make it well worth the pitiful sum we parted with. The least rapid rapids I've encountered offer stupidly good fun and our boat down the river back to the bus and KL was all the relaxation we needed but maybe hadn't deserved!

5am and Singapore customs welcomes us with a poster of a man with a gun against his head. Not just a gun, mind. The most unnecessary M16 I've seen since the days of gratuitous 80's action flicks. Singapore throws confusion and what I consider idiocy at us for 3 days. A highlight was watching football in a bar and being asked to move 2 feet away from the table to a yellow box for a cigarette. I was still standing beside the table. And we were outside. In fact, I almost think I could hear Alan better. We revel in our shared disposition towards this pulseless sham of a country and actually love our time there if not the setting. Anyway, after looking at stolen architecture and empty streets its off to Yogyakarta for something completely different. The start of a month around Java and the dark, heart trembling island of Borneo...



(Photos soon when the Internet stops being a brat. Check for updates!)

Old London Town

"Name 3 countries that start with A but don't end in A"

"Ok, ehhhh...Iran?"

Cut back 2 days and I'm giving Alan the last beating in Pro Evo he'll receive for a while. After inhaling a large and very full breakfast we find ourselves in the hands of Aer Lingus' finest for the first part of our journey across the hemisphere. Now, I don't know about you, but for me no trip of this nature would be complete without saying goodbye to a certain group of ex-Dubliners in old London town. A quick phone call upon arrival confirms that Karl and Tom are in the wrong train station. A good start. Rush Hour tube traffic shows us that a backpack do not make you the most appreciated of people. We left children, old women and one very small Chinese man reeling as we cut a swath through the depths of the city with our weighty pals on our backs.

The France match. That is all...

Hmm, drowning sorrows much? Sean gets the double house whiskeys in before we traipse across Camden to the much more cheeky borough of Angel. Botles of Morgan Spiced and cans of Red Stripe were the drinks of the night as Karl revealed his somewhat well meant racism. His imperious descriptions of red cabbage, 6 year old Jewish children and his confusion about rap kept us laughing until breakfast 5 hours later in the local grease factory. 4 still drunk Irish lads met for tea, toast and all the tasty trappings the poor staff could fit on their biggest plates before fulfilling a childhood dream of mine by checking out the wonderful dinosaurs in the NHM.

Thursday night provided more laughs as the night took a more smoke filled form in Sean's place. And that was the location for Tom's particularly idiotic "Iran" quote. Question Time with Alan Duffy revealed some incredible stupidity, a little brilliance at times and without doubt the funniest thing I've heard someone say in real life. Alan said it and you'll have to ask me when you see me to tell you what it was. No way I'm putting it on the Interwebs :)

The Tate took up Friday's time before we end up playing Black 5 in Stansted with Jen, who has been waiting as we negotiated the tube with our trusty load bearing bags again. Delay? Of sourse. Eventually, the clouds break to the sounds of Phoenix as Jen drifts off and Alan gets stuck into a book. I can't help but think that this trip is going to be fucking incredible.

Post Graduation Mess

We started the day within the hallowed walls of the RDS Concert Hall. Speeches were made, awards were bestowed upon those most worthy and flashes blinked around the room. So far, so Enid Blyton. Then the gowns came off and the wine came out. Oh dear. The Rubicon promptly obliged us with a few glasses of wine followed by One Pico followed by Spy followed by the Sugar Club followed by a nice stroll home in the rain. To say the least, I feel shite today.



For the desperately hungover out there, here's a kick ass trailer for, well, Kick-Ass. If you haven't read it, please do, it's a wicked little graphic novel. Movie should be nice and 18sy too ie. full of violence and swearing. Sweet.




While we're on the subject of comic books and general geekdom, here's what happens when the Japanese get their hands on Marvel's finest. If you can find Spiderman online (and you can), it is the perfect way to laugh off those post graduation hangover blues. Enjoy!

Ou est le swimming pool?

So today I have been mostly thinking "hmm, this is pretty fucking cool" to these 3 things:


A photo of Jessica Miller


Jacques Cousteau



And this




Wistful mood is it, yeah?

Anyway, I packed today. "Black Paddy", my affirmative action promoting rucksack, has managed to fit everything I need to get through the turn of the year in style. So far so good. He has, though, acquired a musty smell that was almost certainly the work of several hundred spiders in the shed. We all know the old equation "Equater + Irish = SWEAT" so I reckon, once a few months worth of sweet, sticky perspiration has run down its spine, only Asia's finest, hardiest larcenists will want it.

Packing, however frustrating the process is, makes a trip real. It's actually happening now. The little rituals you have, whether you roll or fold, splitting certain things up, trying to get the zip, you know the one, the one that just threatened to catch your finger AGAIN, trying to get it all the way closed only to look down in dismay at your towel laughing at you from the floor. Despite all that, once its done and you've checked your list (sometimes twice), you sit back and think "shit, I'm actually going aren't I?". The realisation hit today that I don't plan to come back for some time. (eh, reading Tolkien much?)

It's a week of beginnings and endings. Graduation tomorrow somewhat confirms that its about time to get a real job. Well, I say "real" but at least teach English after a few months of travel. And the weekend is goodbye (for a while, at least) to the family and friends that I love. Some, like Peter and Karl, abandoned me before I could beat them to it, and some, like Alan and Jen will have to put up with me for at least a few more months but for everyone else (and you know who you are), I will miss you dearly.

I don't even know where I'm going to end up yet. I have a rough plan but come February, I can't truly say what I will be doing and more importantly what I will want to do, but to me, that's pretty fucking exciting...

A thinly veiled attempt to show off...

So I'm making the DSLR leap. Now, some of you may think that this could be the beginning of the end, that I'm going to become a hipster douche and taking stupid photos like this one:





Obviously, I just did. But instead of it being some ridiculous, contrived attempt at "evoking the spirit of Jean Michel Jarre", I just thought the dowels that I've been slaving over looked like they were in a cinema. I have also been thinking about how if you repeat the word "apt" quickly, it soon sounds like you're repeating the word "tap". I think the fumes in the studio are getting to me...


Anyway, I'm off to War to take 250 overexposed photos and put them ALL on facebook. No, wait, I'm not becoming a fucking douche, I swear! I meant to say, I'm going back to work on my own in the studio where I can lock these feelings away and let them boil up and up and up and up and up and...

Here's a pretty picture I took of a leaf after it rained...

Halloween, the aftermath.

Crispy leaves on the ground, stupidly well-wrapped up children and a general feeling of wintery despair. You have to love those hungover Dublin Sundays. Already, the shops are hurriedly taking down the Halloween decorations in a bid to be be the first to have their festive Christmas branding adorn the street. If the Americans have managed to somehow get just one thing right, its that Thanksgiving manages to put preemptive Christmas excitement on hold until the absolute breaking point of cynical, snide commenting. That said, I have no inkling as to what Thanksgiving actually is. Oh well. I'll send you all a Christmas postcard from Bali...


Anyway, I'm just bitter because I'm stuck between being too warm and too cold. You know that uncomfortable "the 6th bottle of wine may have been a bad idea" feeling? I've managed to rectify this however, by wearing a big, comfy jumper aaand...shorts. Yeah. Its actually working. Don't be like me though, use this to warm you up on those beautiful, chilly evenings instead: