If you can translate the following sentence into standard English, you might pass the Australian naturalisation test: “My BF stacked his pushie in his trackie-daks.” * Yes, English is the official language of Oz but, when the vernacular is imbued with this much local flavour, it might as well be Dutch – a fate which, as it happens, just might have come to pass.
In two voyages, between 1642-1644, Dutch captain Abel Janzoon Tasman, charged with exploring a possible southern passage to Chile, mapped large stretches of the coastline of the Australian continent. He went on to discover and name Tasmania (though he assumed it to be part of the mainland) and then found New Zealand. The results are charted in the Tasman Map of 1644, a glorious mosaic reproduction of which is set into the floor of the entrance hall of the National Library in Sydney. It was to be another 125 years before Captain Cook turned up on the scene and staked a claim on behalf of the English monarch. Quite what happened in between, I don’t know, but Captain Tasman appears to have missed the opportunity to sow the seeds of his native language, which is fortunate, since it is reputed to be difficult to learn. Also, the outcome is more convenient for me and my kind. And the resulting ‘English-on-steroids’, adorned as it is with witty, frivolous words, phrases and abbrvtns., seems to reflect the no-nonsense, egalitarian character of the Aussies. I don’t know how that would have worked out in Dutch, especially as my Amsterdam-domiciled niece (our family is gathered here in Sydney for a wedding) assures me that Hollanders exhibit none of the universal friendliness that is so conspicuous here.
But the language does not always work in my favour. I am presently staying in Sydney’s Chinatown and am having some difficulty communicating with the first-generation immigrants who seem to run most of the businesses. Either I can’t understand them, or they can’t understand me. Last night, at a restaurant, I got up to go to the ‘restroom’ and, on the way, asked someone whom I assumed was a waitress to bring the bill. She smiled and nodded but she was actually a customer returning from the restroom to her table near ours. She seemed to take no offence. Perhaps she mistook me for a friendly, outgoing Aussie and thought nothing of it.
I had no such problems out of town, where I had spent the previous week with my naturalised Aussie sister and her husband at their house on the Central Coast. The population there seems predominantly Anglo-Australian, which would account for the strange sensation I had of feeling at home in a foreign place. Even so, I did have one experience that I’ve never had at home: a visit to a cattery, where my hosts, being about to travel abroad, had booked lodgings for their cat, Garfield. Amidst much wringing of hands and expression of guilt at having to inconvenience His Lordship for so long, my sister took “Garfie” to the cattery. I went along for the ride because there’s not much else to do round there and I was intrigued by the name of the establishment, Kangi Mews, which is in the hamlet of Kangi Angi. I had hoped to wait in the car so as to avoid any emotional scenes of separation, but I was prevailed upon to lug “Garfie”, mewing miserably in his cage, into the premises, where the cat-caring lady (whose trackie-daks were unspeakably stained) checked him in and made reassuring promises to his inconsolable owner concerning his welfare. She then introduced us one-by-one to his temporary neighbours and their respective foibles, until I made it clear that my interest in furry creatures with permanently predatory, staring eyes was waning. I refrained from adding that the species is alien to the continent and poses a threat to its ecosystem in case the cat-lady cracked the shits**and told me to go walkabout. I didn’t want to get in a bingle*** with her.
* My boyfriend crashed his bike, wearing only tracksuit trousers.
** Lost her temper.
*** Fight.
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