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by Douglas Sassaman
I’m an American. I’m an American living in New Zealand. I have
lived here for 612 days. I’ve eaten kiwi fruit, seen kiwis, I have
consumed enough lamb chops to stretch – chop to chop – from here
to America, I’ve drunken a sufficient amount of local beer to fill
the Pacific Basin, I have explored the far corners of this country,
I’ve canoed the Wanganui, climbed Mount Maunganui, tramped across
the Fox Glacier, almost drowned in the Tasman Sea, and dibbled my
toes at Cathedral Cove. I’ve added a citizen, worked in the labor
force, and complained about the taxes. I now say things like ‘Cheers,’
‘G’Day,’ ‘Good on you,’ ‘Bugger,’ ‘Bloody Hell,’ ‘Pissed,’ and ‘Good
as Gold.’ I have been infiltrated, compromised, de-capitalized,
and slightly – please don’t tell my congressman – un-Americanized.
BUT in my core, deep in the valves of my heart, I will always be
an American, which is to say; I maintain the rights to complain
about the lack of ice in my beverages and start sentences with the
words, ‘If this were America…’
I may never be at one with the pulse that runs beneath the green
fields, or down country lanes, I may not be made of part beach,
paddock, sea, and mirth, but I reckon I’m as close to the Kiwi consciousness
as I’ll ever be. My tourist garb has long since been lost in the
corner of my bedroom, and I finally feel competent to go public
with some personal observations about New Zealand. Mostly I just
plain love this place, but when you peel back the layers of cottony
sheep and velvety grass I found a puddle of sour milk in this land
of milk and honey.
On Beer: I had my first beer in the workplace ever on my third
day on the job in New Zealand. I felt guilty, irresponsible, delighted.
There was a departmental get-together going on, for what reason
I can’t recall. I slung my arms over the chest-high cube wall, took
a swig of my beer, and said to my co-worker, ‘If this was America,
I’d be summarily dismissed right now.’ and he said, ‘Then thank
God we’re not in America mate.’
You call that a pastry shop?: I’m sorry New Zealand, but you know
those little bar-dessert-things that they serve in cafés, you know
the ones I’m talking about, they’re flat, dense, and made to last,
well I’ve got news for you, those aren’t desserts. Desserts are
creamy, whippy, soft, and don’t require immediate dental attention
after you eat them. Those squares, slices, chews, or whatever you
label them, were better left in England. And those buns with the
pink icing on top, what’s up with that? If you took a hunk of bread,
put icing on top and turned it in for your final exam in cooking
school, you wouldn’t graduate past fry-guy. These oft-times desperate
attempts at sweets take up valuable space in pastry shops, room
that could be made for jelly donuts, cupcakes, and chocolate filled
croissants. Throw in a few twinkies under the display case and you’re
getting warmer.
I Love the lack of advanced weaponry: I love the fact that if I
T-bone someone when I’m driving on the road he won’t pull out a
gun and shoot me. Because in New Zealand there are no guns. Okay,
there are some guns, like on farms and stuff, but there are no handguns,
and certainly no 9mm Uzi’s with laser scopes. Now that’s not to
say my T-bone victim couldn’t pull out a big knife or samurai sword
and charge after me, but hey, I’ll take my chances.
Hell must be like the Auckland motorway system: What I find most
amazing about the design of the Auckland motorways is that people
with degrees behind their desks actually sat down and designed them.
Who builds two motorways, one on top of the other and, and doesn’t
link them together in any conceivable fashion? Have you ever tried
to get from the Northern Motorway to the Northwestern? Good luck.
If you’re a tourist you will get lost, simple as that, because there
are no signs. Oh, there is one sign for the Northwestern that will
lure you off the Northern motorway, and you’ll follow it with confidence,
but then you’ll soon find that the Land Transport Authority has
betrayed you, left you to wander downtown, sign-less and without
hope. Have you ever tried to figure out what road you’re on when
you’re lost? Have you ever wondered why when a road curves two degrees
it gets a new name? Well I have, I’ve pondered all these things,
and I have no answers for you…I doubt anyone does.
Breasts on TV: Oh the joys of living in a sexually liberated society.
Condom and genital herpes ads are a common occurrence on TV and
no one pickets, no one boycotts. Boobs appear on TV during a drama
and nobody flinches; I still do, ‘Did you see that! Is this normal
TV?!’ I particularly like how Kiwis refer to significant others
simply as partners. Husband, wife, homosexual lover, are all referred
to as partners, and if you’re gay, nobody gives a tinker’s turd.
When the Prime Minister rides on a float in the gay Hero Parade,
you know you’re living in an accepting society, and believe me,
it is a good thing.
My mailbox would be more useful as a birdhouse: And it’s not just
my mailbox, it’s most of the mailboxes I’ve seen. Ours, like most,
is a small box, with a slot in the front and a flap in the back.
Here’s a typical day’s activity in our mailbox: our mail arrives
in the morning delivered by a smiling postal worker on a bike. She
carefully inserts our letters through the slot, and anything larger
than a postcard drops out the back flap and onto the yard. Obviously
the postal worker is so engaged in her duties she fails to notice
this. The few letters that do manage to survive the plunge cling
perilously to the edges of the mailbox. In the early afternoon,
the first of many circulars [junk mail] arrives delivered by every
manner of school kid with pierced heads and low-slung shorts that
hang off fetid boxer shorts. Their method of delivery is one based
entirely on speed and when the first circular of the day is jammed
through the slot, the last few bits of mail drop out the back flap.
It rains. We arrive home, carefully dry the day’s mail, and like
archeologists, set about deciphering the arcane ink markings. Sure
I could have cobbled together a better mailbox, but please, I have
better things to do then spend time making willy-nilly improvements
to a rental home.
The mystery of central heating: I thought it a peculiar comment
when a guy from Norway we met at a party back in the States said
to us, ‘I’ve never been so cold as the winter I spent in New Zealand.’
When someone from Norway speaks of cold I lend him an ear, but New
Zealand colder than Norway? I asked for clarification. ‘The homes
aren’t heated there. I froze all winter long.’ We moved to New Zealand
in the middle of a wet winter in July and I recalled his comments
on our first night buried beneath piles of blankets in our bed.
Our home was not only lacking heat, but also insulation. Most folks
get by with portable heaters plugged into wall sockets, and we soon
joined the ranks. We layer in our house, at ten degrees Celsius
the woolens and sheep slippers come on, at five degrees we ring
the heaters around us and add a layer of Gore-Tex. Now when some
pinkie foreigner asks me about heat I snarl and say, ‘What class
of puffta-boy are you? Heat in New Zealand, did you hear that one
honey?’
It’s all the little things: I like how when you go to the movie
theatre you’re assigned a seat. I love how my squash club has a
bar in it. I’ll take a roundabout any day over a four-way-stop.
I find it amazing that policemen can be so courteous and aren’t
required to wear shiny sunglasses. I’m forever amazed by the amount
of milk a Wheat-a-bix bar can soak up, and I love reading Dick Hubbard’s
newsletters in each box of his cereal. I love every lump and bump
in the landscape. I like when the weatherman describes a nice day
as ‘fine’. I admit, I may never understand cricket, but I have grown
fond of Rugby. I love that you can’t drive thirty minutes without
hitting a golf course. I love how Kiwis we only just met invite
us to stay at their homes. I love the green, and of course it goes
without saying, I love the sheep. I love this place, this New Zealand,
truly I do, and if this were America…then we probably wouldn’t be
able to afford it.
Copyright 2000 Douglas S. Sassaman
Douglas Sassaman is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and
self-described humorist (who some think should be self-committed).
He writes an online column called, 'Life in the Cosmic-Burp' at
http://CosmicBurp.com. Join
the FREE direct to e-mail column and add zip your water-cooler conversations
every other Friday by sending a blank e-mail to: CosmicBurp-Subscribe@listbot.com.
You can e-mail Doug at Doug-Sassaman@CosmicBurp.com
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