I need to address an issue here. I’ve been called out. A lot of talk on social media, a lot of haters hating. Critics have suggested a hint of Hemisphereism on my part in my travels. ‘Why do you only visit pubs in the Northern Hemisphere Colm?’ they accuse, accusingly. I can assure you that I am the least anti-Southern Hemisphere person I know. For me, the Southern Hemisphere is one of the best hemispheres. Top two at least. Some of my best friends are from the Southern Hemisphere, for Frick sake! …they moved, obviously but the point still stands .
So with this journey, it’s time to take it to the next level: like Bob Dylan when he decided to introduce the electric spoons into his oeuvre, or when Michelangelo started painting church roofs with lads with their mickeys hanging out; pushing the boundaries in an act which is both iconoclastic and imbecilic. For though I travel far from fair old Erin’s Isle (and one location is the largest Muslim country in the world), I will surely find pubs, each more exotic than the last, all wooden and dank and incongruous amongst the spices and silks of the Orient. On this voyage, I aim to follow in the footsteps of the first Irishman to travel eastward, Mark O’ Polo as I take in 3 pubs: one in the chewing-gum-banning- futuristic wonder city of Singapore, one in the sprawling megalopolis of Jakarta and finally one in the Australian state of Bali.
First stop , Singapore. Singapore is an interesting little nugget, a tiny city-state tucked away at the foot of Malaysia. Like Ireland, it was colonised by the British; founded by Sir Stanley raffles in 1820. I know next to nothing about Sir Stanley Raffles but I cannot shake the image of him being some sort of dandy / bounder/ cad of the highest order engaging in various acts of piracy and debauchery, shooting cuckolded husbands in the back with his duelling pistols before swinging to safety out of windows on a length of curtains kind of guy. The swine! There are squares, schools and famously a hotel all named after him, with the Singapore Sling his associated cocktail. But I have other fish to fry , alcoholically speaking.
They say that Singapore is the Switzerland of Asia, and it is pretty in order here. During WW2, the Japs kicked out the British, but come the end of the war the Singaporeans decided that their former British colonisers weren’t all they had cracked up to be and decided to go it alone. An economic miracle kicked in, and the country now stands as one of the most well-off in the world, albeit one where you can get welted across the arse with a cane for a variety of misdemeanours (a possible remnant of the British Public school system?). Look at the underground for flips sake. Just leave your Durians at home.
In the midst of this Chinese, Indian, Malay, ex colonial hot-pot, we find our pub of choice, Molly Malones! Molly’s is the oldest Irish pub in Singapore, (that includes the short-lived ‘O’ Bama’s Irish Pub: ‘change you can drink to‘ goes their sign). According to the blurb, the whole pub was moved piece by piece from Ireland (I imagine not literally individually as that would have cost them loads in stamps). Then, to my great amusement, after transporting it in its entirety from Ireland, they then moved it across the road to a new location where it now resides in the CBD, across from the headquarters of Amazon and a whole load of other multinationals, leering down on it, goading it with their non-committal tax polices in a cruel structural metaphor.
Molly’s now holds the dubious honour of ‘Most expensive pint I have ever had in my life’ and at £10.50 stands a good chance of never being topped. I ordered the local beer too, (Tiger!) as I thought it would be cheaper. Lord knows what the Guinness costs. Molly’s is pleasant enough and has some stand out authentic wall tat including a Wolfe-Tones Bodhran and a faded Dubliners LP. As I arrive on a Monday, it’s relatively quiet and given the surroundings it’s not the maddest place in the world, so there’ll be no ‘caning’ it tonight as we move on to the next leg.
2. For stage two , I head to Jakarta – ‘The Big Durian’, not the most flattering nickname if you consider both the taste and smell of the durian, ‘the king of fruits’ (king, perhaps in the same way Henry VIII was king – a fat, rotten piece of shite). Whilst Singapore and neighbouring Malaysia fell under the Brits influence, Indonesia was colonised by the pesky Netherlanders as the two superpowers appropriately decided to go dutch over the whole archipelago.
Jakarta has a population of about 14-30 million, no one really knows how many exactly and every one of those appears to be on a motor bike at the same time and proceeds to ride it 24 /7 in circles around the Megacity. Now, I may be a simple country boy, but I’ve been to some of the more ‘savoury’ enclaves of this world: Sao Paulo, Naples, Marseille, Bray, but nothing could prepare you for Jakarta, where every day activities like crossing the road and eating out become life or death decisions. Jakarta has a Bladerunner-esque vibe, sprawling in all directions, roads thronged with a variety of fantastical vehicles with varying amounts of wheels, illuminated signs shrouded in a permanent soft haze of pollution, sex robots and a hyper-abundance of roadside eateries. Except for the sex robots. Indonesia is the largest Muslim country in the world not that it is the country with the largest Muslims, that’d be mad, but the largest Muslim population of course. They still do drink, albeit at prohibitive prices for most locals and relatively out of sight. Similarly, it seems pretty open as a society – teenage couples hold hands, mingle and in the evenings if you have a guitar, just like Shop Street in Galway you can wander around playing the latest Indonesian Soft Rock hits in a kind of busking / karaoke hybrid and wow the ladies. They’re Islam-ish I suppose. The local beer is Bintang, which looks and tastes like Heineken thanks to the Dutch and there is also some sort of homemade spirit made in bath tubs that makes you go blind. In this case I’ll try stick with the Heineken-lite. There aren’t many pubs as a result, so to find one here will require an almighty trek across town.
And the one in mind is called, with great originality ‘Molly Malones’. I suppose the image of Molly Malone is quite apt for Asia, given the preponderance of wandering street vendors, but were the Molly to have lived in modern-day Jakarta she would have poisoned the entire place with her Mollusca withering in the baking equatorial sun. Molly’s Jakarta is just in the neighbourhood too, a mere 2 hours away by car, so I really hope you appreciate the lengths I go to for your entertainment. I start by trying to walk it, and after 7km I arrive at the half way point of the Monument Nasional, a huge erection in the largest square public in the world, at the top of which there are panoramic views and a Sky bar serving Jakarta’s best pint of Guinness. No there isn’t, just loads of school kids wanting to take pictures of me and call me ‘Mister’ which is nice. I end up having to save a picture of Ireland on my phone to save time trying to explain where and what Ireland is.
After the brief detour, I continue to try find one Irish pub in a city of 15 Million and no underground. More walking shows that I remain 1hr away from the destination, so in the tropical heat, desperation sets in so I commandeer a Tuk tuk, or Bajay as they are known. Unfortunately it is now rush hour , so the traffic that was pretty constant becomes a flood, and the poor Tuk tuk is having trouble making it further. After essentially driving around in circles for 30 minutes, the poor Tuk tuk man gives up and announces it’s too far and too busy so he beckons us to jump out. Let it not be said that Jakarta is an easy city, but with a goal in mind we persevere.
After an eternity in a air-conditioned cab back seat, I finally arrive where the pub should be. Panic sets in as all that stands before me is some soulless shopping mall, bland and sterile. Irish pubs are an ephemeral thing, chopping and changing like the tides, pubs open and close with regularity here so it is very plausible that Molly’s Jakarta no longer exists. The thought fills me with despair, gingerly I leave the cocoon-like safety of the cab to search for the elusive only Irish pub in Jakarta.
Inside the Arcadia Shopping centre, past the Japanese Restaurant and opposite the men’s designer shoe shop, there lies a sight to behold – Molly’s in all it’s splendour. Happy to have made it here alive (alive-o), the below images provide but a snapshot of my overwhelming relief. At this stage, Molly’s could be the biggest pile of shite ever and I would be glad, seeing as there is no other pub in about a 50 mile radius. That said, Molly’s is quite accommodating, despite its extraneous setting. After having the most expensive pint of my life, Molly’s obliges by providing the cheapest pint, coming in at under £1.50, or 35,000 rupiahs which I devour greedily. No better pint than the one earned. Now, even for a capital, Jakarta is fairly cheap, nonetheless a strange thing happens to you with their weirdly devalued currency of denominations running into the millions. A day ago you were paying £10 for a pint, today you now mentally start to shirk at paying £2 for a Guinness as if it’s some sort of luxury and all semblance of financial proportion goes out the window. I enjoy Molly’s and stay for a few, reluctant to face the arduous trip back. They have a lot of live music, and the clientele contains a lot of locals, as well as the bar staff who are proper g’s with their t-shirts saying Slainte on the back. Full marks for their menu too: see below.
After Jakarta, I take a quick detour to the centre of Java, the cultural capital of Yogyakarta: a beautiful region of lovely temples but no bars. Here’s a pic:
3. The final leg of this odyssey takes me to the island state of Bali. Now, Bali is part of Indonesia, but it’s Hindu, so there’s a slightly different vibe: they have dogs, the local speciality is baby pig, and pubs abound, as well as loads more tourists. ‘Don’t worry Irishman’, a Frenchman inYogyakarta reassures me ‘you can drink everywhere there’. To prepare for the revelry to come, I take a day trip to Ubud in central Bali, the centre of Balian culture. Ubud was made famous by the hit novel / movie ‘Eat, Pray, Love’, which I haven’t seen / read but I’m assuming is awful horseshit, so it has a kind of corporate hippy vibe: temples, artisan coffee, yoga retreats and the unmissable SACRED MONKEY FOREST TEMPLE. The sacred monkey forest temple is, as the name suggests, a sacred temple, in a forest, with monkeys. Legend has it that the monkeys are custodians / guardians of the temple, and they proceed to guard it in their own inimitable way: by playing with their balls and jumping on tourists’ backs trying to rob them. In a way, they are protecting the temple by bringing in loads of tourist dollars, so fair play to them. One monkey steals a tourist’s knife from his backpack, rumours emerge that there is a monkey wandering around and he’s armed; the innate hilarity of the monkeys somewhat tempered by the fact that they could stab the bejaysus out of you. I try to sneak up on one for a perfect photo-op, but he turns around and chases after me, one fifth my size but I end up whopping like Dr Zoidberg in an unedifying manner.
On conclusion of the monkey business, it’s now time for debauchery! After mild-mannered temperance in respectful mainland Indonesia, it’s time to head to the notorious Kuta area of Bali; Magaluf for Antipodeans where the uniform de jour is a vest (or ‘singlet’) and tribal tattoos, where the souvenirs change from tasteful replica temples and Batick shirts of Ubud to miniature Surfboards that say ‘Shit Cunt’ and wooden penis-bottle openers. Instead of whimsically asking you for a photo, the hangers-on in the street offer weed and 12 for 1 Jagerbomb offers. A giant Prawn beckons me in to partake the local delicacies of the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co, and cover bands thrash out Indonesian versions of Bon Jovi songs. I come across ‘Paddy’s Bar’ which despite the name, is a neon monstrosity that I can’t even contemplate entering, so instead I head for ‘Gracie O’ Reilly’s’ just down the way.
Paddy’s ‘Bar’
It’s a long way to etc…
Gracies
Gracie’s proves elusive, but after poking about I find it, hidden in some sort of compound; beyond security guards and alongside some sort of street market. Judging by the rest of the area, this place is going to be wild, bacchanalian last days of Rome style debauchery. Steeling myself, I push open the double doors to find …a huge empty pub floor with a couple of groups of elderly Australian retirees huddled in various nooks. Gracie’s looks the real deal, it’s huge, it’s got a centre stage and a huge wooden Irish style bar with taps a plenty, so it’s a bit of waste. I sit down and am informed tonight is Bingo night, should I wish to join. What I wouldn’t give for a knife-wielding Simian to break up the monotony. Suddenly, as I take a photo of the classic Indoor road sign, my camera catches a short green blob in the background. As I strain to make it out, the character comes into focus, but even then it takes my eyes and brain a few seconds to process it… Walking toward me, strolling, ambling , gayly, is Indonesia’s first and most famous leprechaun, decked out head to toe in green but boasting a tan beyond the realm of any Irishman I know, supernatural or not… ‘Top of the morning to yaaaaaaaa’ he screams in a gravelly, 40 cigarette a day croak, and proceeds to take me by the hand and bring me over to the centre of the pub for a quick photo session as he learns that I am ‘also’ Irish .
‘What’s your name young fella’ he asks.‘Colm’ I tell him ‘What’s yours? ‘‘Sure, I’m Paddy to be sure, to be sure.’‘Is that your real name?’‘I swear on me mudder.’
Paddy, who is deep in his method acting, then proceeds to conduct the Bingo in a faultless Northsider Dublin accent; particularly relishing his pronunciation of number, or ‘Noomba’ as he himself puts it.
I don’t know if any of you have ever been in a bingo completion organised by a Balinese dwarf dressed in a leprechaun outfit before, I can tell you it is not a wholly unpleasant experience . Overall, Gracie O Reilly’s is still a weird place, so I slip out while Paddy is informing Doris from Wagga Wagga what she’s just won.
So thus concludes my trip to the Orient: three Irish pubs in places that couldn’t be more different, but each with their charms. If I had to choose a favourite, I’d probably go for Molly’s Jakarta, as forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest. Overall, I have seen some things… I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. …Monkey Attacks in the temples of Ubud. …I watched Tree-beams glitter in the dark near Singapore Bay. I also was on a bus that had a pet chicken tied to the back! But all these moments will be lost in time…like my tan…. in the rain.
The end
* The food in Singapore is great, but my one regret is that I don’t have the chance to visit the Jakarta Branch of ‘KENNY ROGERS ROASTERS’, the only fried chicken emporium endorsed by botox-faced country music sensation Kenny Rodgers. I make up for not going by amusing myself on what his menu may contain:
‘Kenny Rodgers Roasters rules of acceptable napkin use; you have to know (a) how to hold them (b) know how to fold them.
Menu: Ruby, don’t take your Spuds to town / desserts ‘Islands in the Cream, that is what we are’.
Special thanks to ‘Maria’ , as all Indonesians called her , who assisted me photos, directions, suncream and emergency immodium xx
KERRYMAN ATTEMPTS TO VISIT EVERY IRISH PUB ON EARTH : Psycho-geography, Anthropology, Pints. 
Colm- lying in bed laughing aloud for the first time today! Great stuff- please go away again! Paddy
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