Not Quite the Same

Following the discovery of large amounts of copper amongst Stone Age strata, a special report was commissioned with the sole purpose of demonstrating that England was home to the only prehistoric copper-wire phone network. France, never one to be beaten by their Anglo neighbours, dredged up large amounts of plastic that may or may not have been buried under an old rubbish dump. The Gallic report concluded that France was home to none other than the world's only prehistoric fibre optic network. Finally, Ireland, wanting to cast their lot amongst ancient telecommunication giants, undertook an expensive series of excavations all over the countryside. After many thousands of pounds and man hours, nothing was uncovered. This, the final Irish report declared, was conclusive evidence that the Emerald Isle was home to the world's only prehistoric mobile network.

This was the first thought to pass my mind as I lay, half comatose, on the bus flying from Dublin to Belfast. Skipping away from Dublin for a few kilometres were a series of large power line towers, in various states of construction. Some were completely built and holding loose lines like ladies hitching their skirts, while others barely had their concrete foundations laid. Little did I know, but these constructions were a subtle hint of the changes taking place in Ireland.

My first few days in Ireland, mainly stationed in the Northern Irish city of Belfast, can be neatly summed up by the sentiment of "it's not quite the same, is it?"

For one, everyone's talking about the increased flow of "foreign nationals", mainly Polish, who are making their home in the fast-expanding city. This change has been met with a divided attitudes. A lot of folk think that this is a refreshing change, believing that the wealth of differences carried in by immigrants will finally reduce the Catholic-Protestant polarity to a minor matter of opinion. On the other hand, others are quick to point out that surly immigrants are taking all of the hospitality jobs, killing off the cheery ambience that have made Irish pubs a global cliche.

This must be cause for some concern across the country. When my bus was stopped by an official, my Sydney-bred instinct was to present my ticket for inspection. But, here in EU-opened Ireland, the inspector was more interested in scrutinizing my passport for immigration purposes. You'd think that open borders would've put such Iron Curtain-esque vignettes to rest, but I guess life and its nuances are never that simple.

Other shifts are coming along too: I ate lunch today at one of Belfast's first sushi trains, right in the heart of the student district of the Holylands. There are also a lot more buildings going up, including a major shopping center in the heart of Belfast. I took a trip to Victoria Square on my first day in Belfast (while incredibly jetlagged and yet to sleep after almost 48 hours of wakefulness), and found the place crawling with wide-eyed locals. Rumour had it that their first Apple store was opening in the centre soon, and once London-only boutique stores were seeing a bustling trade. It was, as you can imagine, a living nightmare for me.

As Northern Ireland wakes up, however, things don't seem to all be peachy. Crime is increasing, now that the paramilitary groups are no longer dealing "punishment beatings" to drug dealers in Belfast's west, and the US's subprime morgtage crisis is already winging its way to tear the beating heart from the Celtic Tiger.

Driving out into the rural homeland of County Fermanagh, I caught sight of neo-villages, all housing developments with "Phase 1 Selling Now" signs rotting away in front of them. It seems that there was quite an exciting property boom in Ireland, but this is now starting to wane.

All of these concerns melted away once I started moving from house to house, greeting a growing horde of cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws and neighbours. At first I just sat, slightly uncomfortably, only really answering questions about Australia when they were asked, but, house after house, and tea after tea, I fell into the swing of things. What was really fascinating about this tradition of house-visiting was its role as a speedy, communication network; the first house I arrived at received word of a relative's death earlier that day, and by the night everyone in the district was talking about the funeral arrangements. A lot of the time that news was delivered by the entourage I was part of. Perhaps that Irish study had some truth in it after all...

Irish hospitality does have its dark side at times, though. By early evening on my first day in Fermanagh, I felt like a hot water bottle. A cohort of biscuit-wielding relatives had seen fit to knock me into a sweet-riddled haze, and no matter how much of their kindness I gorged upon, there was still more to come. I politely refused some tea at my final house of the day, only to find a pint of cider in front of me, followed quickly by a shot of expensive whiskey. I cleared the whiskey, and it was quickly replenished, then again and again. I certainly wasn't quite the same by the end of that day.

I've now returned back to Belfast, in the welcome company of my uncle and cousins. Already I'm noticing that there's something not quite the same about me; a few hours ago I prepared tea for another visiting cousin, as if I were the host. I'm also already using words like "wee" and "grand", and soon I'll probably start going mad for Gaelic Football and talking about the "craic".

I suppose that I've been quite lucky so far, having been surrounded by family and all. In the next few weeks I'll be branching out into the wilds of Western Ireland, where I've never trod before, and far from friendly, tea-sipping faces. It'll be interesting to experience the unbiased Irish hospitality which, despite recent changes, I hope is still quite the same.