Kiwiana: Revised!

Kiwiana is a regular post on New Zealand customs, habits, and other miscellany from an expat perspective, no doubt rife with offensive generalizations and significant lapses in judgement.

Remember when I said that New Zealanders basically have no sense of humor? In the intervening eight (gah!) months, I’ve come to rethink my position on this matter, along with some other things, like the name of this feature. Kiwi Kulture seems a little, uh, Kondescending, and I really, really hate the deliberate misspelling of words for effect. Why not be part of the solution instead of the problem? Kiwiana doesn’t quite capture the bemused outsider perspective I’m after, but whatever, more revisions, I’m sure, t/k.

As far as rethinking positions goes: after way too many awkward interactions to count, I realized it’s not precisely that Kiwis aren’t funny, or even that in general New Zealanders tend towards the dryer, more subtle, situational sorts of humor (which, from an American perspective, they do). What I discovered was that Americans, and myself especially, use humor as a social lubricant. When I’m feeling stressed or nervous in a group situation, I make a joke. If I’m meeting new people and want them to like me, I try to make them laugh. When I screw something up and want people to forget about it? Witty remark, sarcasm. You get the idea. New Zealanders, however, do not do this, not at all. Instead, they use small talk as social glue — chat about the weather, how your day’s going, what your plans are for the weekend, what you thought of the rugby/cricket/footie. So, when I was supposed to be asking about so and so’s kids, I was telling the story about the time I found out, mid-forward bend, that my new yoga shorts were too short.

No wonder I got such odd looks.

I’ve adopted a more lenient stance on this sense of humor thing for several other reasons, too. One, my boss, to whom I gave my URL in a moment of weakness. Hi, Shell! You crack my shit up on a regular basis. And I’m not just saying that because you pay me. But I will say that you spent five years in the U. S., so maybe you don’t count. . . two, Flight of the Conchords. Yeah, everyone loves these guys right now, and you know why? Because they’re funny! (As a sidenote, I love that the elements of the show the American commentators find weak are the very elements that are really Kiwi — two dry straight men as leads, the lack of plot, “staring blankly at people for long periods.” Thanks for indirectly proving my point!)

Reason three is this note, solecisms and all, which I found prefacing the movie selection at a hostel on the West Coast.
(The P.S. says “Please treat this like a Chinese takeaway and order by number thank you.”)

Reason 3.1: This review of Pulp Fiction from the above. Verbatim transcription (all sic of course) follows.

“I make no apologise I hate this movie the dance scene is magic, but if you have had to listen to this movie as often as I have you know were you would stick you’re Royale burger. My Rating 4“

I’ve said this before, but – Classic.

 

New Zealand Photo of the Week

So many things going on in this picture! Here we have a veritable Photo of the Week/Kiwiana collision, so let me just break it down for you.

1. These guys, while not quite 100% true to the Southern Man stereotype, are definitely gesturing towards it in several ways. They’re laconic and matter-of-fact. They’re not into “city life.” Perhaps one of them has sheared a sheep at some point. Or not. Anyway, they definitely drink Speight’s.
1a. Would you like to learn more about the Southern Man? Of course you would. Check out this chart, or, if you’re a more visual sort, the following video. And oh yes, there is a song, too. Sorry I can’t offer any crackers to go with this.

2. The yachting referred to is the America’s Cup. Despite its name, I didn’t know what the America’s Cup was until recently. This is how I found out:
Boss: “I’m so tired. Matthew got up at 3 AM to watch the America’s Cup last night and he was shouting and screaming until six in the morning.”
Ruth: “Is that a rugby thing?”
Boss: (riotous laughter)
Ruth: “God, rugby is usually such a good guess. . . “
Unlike the States, where yachting is a sport for the thinnest layer of the upper crust, most everyone gets into yachting in New Zealand. Even/especially no-nonsense welders and carpenters. Oops, I mean chippies.

3. “. . .as well”: New Zealand recently lost a major world sporting tournament. I think it involved cricket? Um, yeah, I’m not really from here. . . .

4. Periodically, Perry’s Cafe changes what the guys are saying to each other. This one, while good, doesn’t quite equal its predecessor.
Guy A: “What’s going in next door?”
Guy B: “I don’t care.”

Classic.

 

Kiwiana: Me Talk Pretty One Day

Kiwiana is a regular post on New Zealand customs, habits, and other miscellany from an expat perspective, no doubt rife with offensive generalizations and significant lapses in judgement.

Dear Kiwi friend/co-worker/grocery store checkout person:

I have a confession to make.

Sometimes I still find your accent absolutely impenetrable.

I smile and nod and pray with my eyes that you will repeat yourself. It’s just that you talk so quickly — and so quietly — and you kinda mumble too, did you know that? Not that it’s a bad thing! Believe me, after a year here, I much prefer your manner of speaking to loud-as-a-bullhorn, overly-enunciated American English. God, we sure sound annoying, eh? But the fact of the matter is, my ears trail about fifteen seconds behind anything you say. That’s why I ask you “Say that again?” three times, to our mutual embarrassment, only to find you’ve said something like, “Still sunny out there?” That’s also why I do things like bring you a toothpick when you’ve asked for a teaspoon. I hope you understand that I am trying. I can even pick out Australians now. Most of the time.

Sorry about the teaspoon.

For the rest of you, some Kiwi slang:
manky: musty, grody or gross munted: messed up, worn out, ruined cuzzie: cousin Oz: Australia mate: friend, also used where Americans would use “dude,” as in: “Did you see Pop Idol last night, mate? That was wicked!” wicked: used unironically to indicate Great! or Awesome! chippie: carpenter sparkie: electrician brickie: bricklayer Gazza: Gary Bazza: Barry Muzzer: Murray sweet as, good as gold, pretty much sweet: OK, alright, good, yes prezzie: present mozzie: mosquito you’re a legend, cheers ears: Thanks ta: Thanks good on ya: Good for you, nice work, good job sorted: settled, OK, as in “Well, that’s sorted then.” septic: American gumboot(s): rubber rain boots (aka Wellies); also, generic tea, as in, “Just a cuppa gumboot, ta.” loser cruiser: bus dodgy:unreliable, suspect, bad take the piss: make fun of someone on the dole: on welfare bloody: expletive used much like “fucking” but less crude jandals: flip-flops or thongs pakeha: non-Maori New Zealander iwi: people whakapapa: reciting one’s lineage or heritage bach: summer or holiday cottage (pronounced “batch”) stuffed: messed up, ruined, similar to “fucked” but less offensive biscuit: cookie POM: Prisoner of Her Majesty; a UK citizen or expat, sometimes derogatory JAFA: Just Another Fucking Aucklander telly: television hoon, boy racer: young person driving a fast car with a loud stereo knackered:exhausted full on: intense, all-out on the piss, getting on the diesel:getting drunk plonk: cheap booze on the pull: looking to hook up entree: appetizer main: entree chocka: very full up the duff: pregnant whinge: whine yonks: ages, a long time rubbish: garbage, trash shout: to buy a round of drinks or pick up a check tramping: hiking trundler: shopping cart OE: Overseas Experience, a Kiwi rite of passage which usually involves spending a year or more abroad after college (“uni”), most often in London

 

Kiwiana: The Weather

Kiwiana is a regular post on New Zealand customs, habits, and other miscellany from an expat perspective, no doubt rife with offensive generalizations and significant lapses in judgement.

When I was getting ready to move to New Zealand, I actually was excited about, among other things, the weather. Ha! Let us take a minute to laugh at my folly. In my defense, I was coming from New York, and before that, from four years in Minnesota, both boasting weather along the lines of COLDCOLDCOLDSOCOLDYOUMIGHTDIECOLDCOLD(three weeks of spring)HOTHOTHOTHOTREALLYDAMNHOTHOT(four weeks of fall)REPEAT. S0 after 7 years of this garbage, I was ready for what is often described as a mild, cool-temperate to warm-temperate climate. And I suppose it is somewhat like that — at least for about five minutes out of the day.

I arrived in New Zealand in the middle of the coldest winter in 30 years. It was then followed by the windiest spring and the coolest summer in the same period of time . I know this because everyone I spoke to everywhere told me so within seconds of meeting me. At first I found this really annoying, because in the States, talking about the weather is a brush-off, evidence that a real conversation is neither desired nor necessary. –You say it’s a hot one today? What a compelling observation, considering it’s been hot every day for going on two weeks now. Thank you for using air to share that with me. –In New Zealand, however, the weather is legitimate grounds for meaningful conversation, as it changes constantly. “Four seasons in one day!” people often trumpet, and while I have certainly heard that expression enough to last me, oh, forever, there is much truth to it. Today when I woke up, it was sunny with a strong wind blowing. Then some cloud came in and it rained for a while. A few hours later it cleared briefly. Now it is hailing but the sun is still shining. Pretty typical. And while this makes dressing in the morning a hassle (a windbreaker? an umbrella? rain boots? sunglasses? You’ll probably need all of them.), it means you are never at a loss for conversational fodder. I am very ignorant of meteorology – I don’t even know if a northwest wind COMES from the northwest or blows TOWARDS the northwest. Nevertheless I can nod along when people animatedly discuss how warm it was this morning but you wouldn’t know it now! And how about that wind? Sometimes I even say something like, “Supposed to turn around tonight, though” and add a Kiwi-style upward-inflicted “eh?” at the end, and I can see people thinking, That American girl, she’s alright.

In my limited understanding, the reason the weather is so changeable here has to do with the Southern Alps (the mountains that run down the middle of the South Island) and our location in the Roaring 40’s airstream. The prevailing winds come from Australia and then blow over the Southern Alps. When the air is pushed up over the mountains, it expands and cools, which causes condensation and precipitation on the West Coast and warm dry winds on the plains. But the winds often change direction, which, together with New Zealand’s small size, means that weather changes quickly and doesn’t have the opportunity to moderate itself over a large landmass. A sign of an approaching change in the weather is the Nor’west Arch (pictured above), which means the winds will die down and cooler temperatures are on the way.

A lot of people find the totally unpredictable weather to be a drag. It’s rarely sunny for long, and when it is (due to a large hole in the ozone directly above us), the sun is so strong it causes burns in minutes. And in a country where so many of the good things are to be found outdoors, it’s frustrating to have to fight through lots of rain or wind to enjoy them. Plus, even though the temperature routinely drops below freezing in the winter, houses aren’t heated or insulated! Crazy! Apparently, Immigration New Zealand asks emigrants to complete a questionnaire upon leaving the country, and the number one reason people leave is the weather. My favorite, though, is the assessment of a Zimbabwean family who immigrated to New Zealand and were featured in this exhibit at the Canterbury Museum. After an extended explanation of their decision to move to New Zealand, their love of their homeland, and the difficulties they encountered here, they conclude: “The opportunities for studying and the lifestyle for our children are great and we are slowly getting used to the weather.”

 

Kiwiana (Yes, I’m Still Doing This)

Kiwiana is a regular post on New Zealand customs, habits, and other miscellany from an expat perspective, no doubt rife with offensive generalizations and significant lapses in judgement.

Of course there are low-level annoyances associated with living just about anywhere. New York boasts more than the average American city — in New York, a regular day can potentially include but not be limited to:

-being spat, vomited, or bled upon
-travel in a public transportation conveyance containing human feces*
-harassment/life assessment from the homeless
-3 AM serenades from the upstairs neighbors, Ms. Drunk Clompy Shoes and Mr. My Band Is Looking For A Label
-etc.

In contrast, the most loathed minor irritant afflicting daily life in New Zealand is boy racers.

Boy racers, also known as “hoons” or sometimes (incorrectly) as “bogans,” are a street cultural phenomenon stemming from a low driving age, the plentitude of extremely cheap automobiles in New Zealand, and a road code that does not require auto insurance. Basically, what this means is that any barely-pubescent asshat can own an automobile, and fully all of them do. The first thing a young boy racer does upon acquiring his very own Honda Civic is to trick it out with a supercharged exhaust system, ginormous spoiler, specialty paint job, custom speaker system, scary tires. . . . the list goes on. And on. Some of them sort of discharge these pellets at stoplights that burst into smoke. Of course the prestige and sophistication associated with the ownership of such a fine machine goes straight to the driver’s head, rendering normal acceleration, braking, turning, and general road usage impossible — these things are done at high speed and top volume, preferrably while harrassing fellow drivers or innocent pedestrians. When a boy racer is not attempting to drag race down a residential street or doing burnouts in a deserted lot, he’s navigating the city’s major thoroughfares in a roughly circular route, stopping now and again to stand in a parking lot with a mate and pound a beer. Boy racers usually sport a group of female hangers-on for which there is no readily available slang term. I can only tell you that listening to a boy racer and his lady friend converse is like overhearing a conversation in a dive bar bathroom at 2 AM between people who have been drinking since lunchtime. Two or three word sentences predominate, and you get the sense that unavailable braincells are being sacrificed to an unworthy cause.

Of the many depressing sights Christchurch has to offer, one of the most so is Colombo Street — which is the main street — around 9 o’clock on a Friday night. The street has been completely abandoned by normal traffic; blocks and blocks are filled with small imported cars sporting huge spoilers, poorly-installed stereos, and neon undercarriage lighting. These vehicles are packed with half-pissed 13-20 year olds who will taunt each other and drive in big circles for the next four or five hours. Up in Auckland, it’s no different. I was there a few months back, and walked down Queen Street late-ish on a Friday evening. The street was packed with heavily-modified cars blaring rap-metal, driven by surly teenagers shouting menacing half-threats to fellow boy racers and to curious pedestrians. For a minute I felt kind of uneasy. I was alone in a strange city, in a neighborhood of dubious safety, the bus had stopped running, and I was on foot surrounded by cars. While I was thinking about this, one guy leaned way out of his car window, looked right at me and started making faces and yelling something, clearly with the intent to intimidate. I couldn’t make out what he was screaming, until I recognized the music that was coming out of his tinny speakers. He was asking me if I was “down with the sickness.” Then I had to laugh — a lot. Because not only did I live in New York for three years, I was once in high school. A small high school in the Midwest, where all there was to do was cruise, at the height of the nu metal craze. You think I’m scared? It takes a lot more than a Disturbed song blasting from a low rider to freak me out, buddy. I seriously have seen all your shit before. Like, 10 years ago.

*this has happened to me, for the record.

 

Kiwiana

Kiwiana is a regular post on New Zealand customs, habits, and other miscellany from an expat perspective, no doubt rife with offensive generalizations and significant lapses in judgement.

Sheep

New Zealand has 56 million sheep, but just 4 million people. That is a ratio of 16:1. I suppose there are probably a lot of clever and interesting sociocultural conclusions one could draw from those figures, but I think the most compelling evidence of the importance of sheep in New Zealand life is presented by this article and the many like it that ran last week. I especially like how once it was decided to shear the sheep on the iceberg (of course! why hasn’t someone done this before?), an ordinary hero jumped right in to make special crampons (ice shoes) for the sheep.

Crampons for people

Crampons for sheep

 

Kiwiana

Kiwiana is a regular post on New Zealand customs, habits, and other miscellany from an expat perspective, no doubt rife with offensive generalizations and significant lapses in judgement.

Sense of Humor

Apparently (read: I did a Google search), the Kiwi sense of humor is more wry and sarcastic than Americans may be accustomed to. Fair enough; popular New Zealand movies and TV shows certainly do have a drier bite than slap-sticky American comedy. However, lazy online research failed to account for the following, which aired on Radio New Zealand (much like NPR) recently in a piece on immigration:

(very much abridged and paraphrased)
Bubbly American emigre: “. . . . so, there were a lot of little things to get used to, like bringing a plate over to parties — the first time we actually brought plates!– and the Kiwi sense of humor, and”
Stern RadioNZ announcer, in the most humorless voice possible, which she had been using throughout the interview: “You mean that we don’t have one?” (Ed: That wasn’t paraphrased whatsoever.)
Ruth, listening in car: “Thank GOD it’s not just me.”

But sometimes I think it is. Last week, Maurice and I were waiting to meet a friend in front of the Cathedral in Christchurch when we ran into a Kiwi colleague of his from work. Here’s what happened:

Maurice: That’s Tony coming over here. Remember, I told you about him, the really passionate environmentalist dude. Hey, Tony! What’s going on? Have you met Ruthie? Ruthie, this is Tony. He works on environmental issues for the Council.
Tony: Yeah, I’m actually headed to a Sustainable City meeting in there (gestures towards the Cathedral). Sorry, you are. .
Ruth: It’s Ruth. Hi, nice to meet you.
Tony: Itzruth?
Ruth: No, Ruth (smiles).
Tony: Hi, nice to meet you. So, are you guys waiting for the meeting to start?
Maurice: No. . . we’re actually waiting to meet someone.
Ruth: Well, I’m waiting for a big load of Styrofoam that I arranged to be delivered here. Should be about 10 more minutes.
(Maurice laughs. Tony looks confused, then sniff-laughs. I try to explain. . . sustainability. . .styrofoam. . . but it’s just too late and we’re all embarrassed.)

I wish I could say this was an isolated incident, but ALL my dead baby jokes are falling flat too! Badum chiinggg. But seriously, folks. . . either my sense of humor has gotten much worse, or the dour RadioNZ lady speaks the truth. Or alternately, one shouldn’t joke about Styrofoam with devoted environmentalists.