Fun in Nu Zulland
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
Grittings fillow Seth Estrilians. I bring you fair tidings from the
land of the long white cloud. Last week's holiday in New Zealand
(pronounced Nu Zulland) took me back to my childhood.
I was a lass of only nine years when my family jumped the ditch to Oz for good. So my only leftover traces of Kiwi come from an inability to articulate any verbal difference between the words “hair” and “here” and
“dare” and “deer”.
It is my secret shame.
This may not seem like much to you, but think of the worst-case
scenario: one day, the fate of the Western world could, quite
reasonably, rest in my hands and I might, naturally, be expected to
give the password: “Here's a deer's hair” to stand down all
weapons.
But after listening to my mangled attempt at this, all sides would
promptly launch their missiles just to put me out of my misery. Then
I'd have that on my conscience for the remaining six seconds we were
all alive. And you wouldn't be laughing then.
As I haven't visited Nu Zulland for more than a decade, I was
unprepared for the changes wrought by the Government. For instance,
they've introduced a G-Us-T. It works much the same way our GST will
except that many Nu Zullanders think it six. Whereas in Australia
many people think it sucks.
Come to think of it, the most educational part of my stay was in learning to speak Nu Zullandish - a highly complex language that involves reshaping syntax so sentences all end in an upward inflection as though asking a question. The word “eh” is added to the end.
Therefore, the correct response to being told someone has just
torched your car and pushed it off a cliff while your Tim Tams are still in
the glove box is: “Thet's jist tirrible, eh?”
Further, though the local TV watchdog may have banned the Toyota
“bugger” advert from screens until after 9.30pm there, I can
assure you the word is alive and well in NZ ... on T-shirts and coffee
mugs. A whole cottage industry has been spawned by it. A
non-English-speaking tourist could quite possibly come to the
conclusion Bugger was the capital of New Zealand or at least the
people's preferred political party.
Then there are Nu Zulland's sheep laws. Clearly, leaving this
country is dependent on purchasing a stuffed sheep, as every store is
insistent on selling you one.
Not wanting to have any problems with Customs by being caught sheepless, I settled on a bungee-jumping variety. It attaches to a window with a suction cap and a bit of elastic and baas mournfully all the way down ... and up ... and down ...
Much to my abject humiliation, it chose the moment it was
going through the airport X-ray machine to start baaing balefully,
to the consternation of officials. Clearly, they're not fond of live
sheep exports via carry-on luggage.
All told, I have to say I had a magnificent time in NZ. The scenery
was as green as I remembered, the people as friendly and the TV just
as bad. Well, as a thankyou, I say we export them Ray Martin.
Hey, that's what “frinds” are for, eh.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 15 JUN 1999