With Word Girl away, Word Boy Liam Nash steps into her shoes to bring us his take on the weekly column.
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Ask anyone from anywhere in the world outside of the Tasman waters, and they probably couldn’t decipher the difference between Australian and New Zealand culture.
Hell, I have been living in the land down under for the past nine-or-so months and the lines were even beginning to blur in my head. Until recently.
My trip across the ditch to my homeland a few weeks ago brought back so many familiar sounds, tastes and smells — some of them welcomed, others not quite so much.
Upon arrival in Auckland International Airport, while trying to hack into the wi-fi, I sat next to a pair of jolly Maori dudes who chewed the fat over a hearty helping of Macca's.
While I remained a fly on the wall as these two gentle giants exchanged colloquial speech patterns and trademark schoolboy giggles, I just couldn’t help but crack a grin.
But what happened next brought a flood of homely warmth flowing back like a rush of blood to the head.
“Far, look at us fat fullas stuffing our face while this skinny guy's bloody starving,” the larger of the duo exclaimed.
I looked up. “Have a chip my bro.”
And there it was, the easiest icebreaker in all of history.
Following the offering or, as Maori say, koha, the strangest-looking trio in the Pacific yarned for a little over two hours, which led me to have a second glance over Aotearoa’s psyche.
One particular quality that strikes home about New Zealand’s native culture is the utter obliviousness and care for social status when it comes to judging a character on their merits. Instead of posing the question of ‘what do you do’, most Maori people will ask where you are from first, a wonderfully simple sentiment.
Rather than defining someone’s social value in the opening exchange, finding out where an individual grew up is, I believe, what unlocks the real conversation. Conversation which delves deeper than the usual superficial to-and-fro during which neither party is listening but rather waiting for their turn to speak.
And that is what I perceive to be most important when it comes to making connections with strangers: the origins that have shaped you.
I’m from a place called Kerikeri. A bumbling, humble town in the Bay of Islands that comes under the bracket of the winterless north, where it takes near-on three hours to complete a simple task such as shopping for groceries because you have to stop and talk to every single familiar face along the way. A place where a 30-minute drive will take you to six or seven picturesque beaches that most postcard locations would be jealous of. A place where everyone gets along, so much so it could almost be used as a template for a utopia.
And that’s not an invitation for dwellers of the concrete jungle to come along and gentrify it, no thank you.
Don’t get me wrong, we have our issues. Poverty in surrounding areas, gang-related violence and a particular inclination for the devil’s lettuce.
But I’m proud to come from that little town.
It is not patriotism and it certainly isn’t nationalism. It stems from running around barefoot in a paddock, cringing while attempting to throw on a shirt after getting sunburn from countless hours of beach cricket, and spilling sauce on your shorts instead of onto the perfectly crafted meat pie (I am not trying to offend any devoted Four 'n' Twenty die-hards, but New Zealand pies are simply better, okay?). The salt air whipping through my hair during a ride down the coast in my sister’s newly purchased Chevy 210, the clink of a Speights down at the local with mates, the cackle of my 89-year-old grandmother as we reminisce about the time I used to opt for fish n chips after disposing of dinner behind the back garden (sorry Nan).
The elements of life I took for granted while calling Kerikeri home all made for a memorable holiday that will no doubt play over and over in my mind for months to come.
And now here I sit, firmly planted in my ergonomic chair, trying to conjure a way to bring an end to my first ever column.
I think I will leave you Aussies with a bit of Kiwi wisdom in the form of an informal salutation that can be used in just about every single social situation under the sun: chur.
I AM WATCHING...
Dexter. Michael C. Hall delivers a captivating performance masquerading as a blood-spatter analyst for the Miami Metro Homicide department who brings justice to the killers who fall through the cracks of the judicial system.
I have always been a sucker for a good score, and Daniel Licht comes up with the goods with a soundtrack that perfectly accompanies the mysterious, dark and often comedic elements of the series.
As an avid Showtime fanboy having obsessed over smash hits such as Californication and Weeds, I take no shame in admitting this is my third time round watching Dexter.
I AM LISTENING TO...
The Ultimate Jackie Wilson. While Elvis Presley rightly takes the crown of king of rock 'n' roll, Wilson possessed those same hip-gyrating, soulful howling tendencies that would keep audiences in a frenzied trance during the swingin’ 60s.
While my music taste usually varies from blaring rap out of my hunk-of-junk jalopy to utilising roots reggae as some kitchen ambience, Wilson’s shuddering tremolos have taken my Spotify hostage over the past few weeks and I don’t see him disappearing any time soon.
I AM LOVING...
Connoisseur’s Salted Caramel Ice Cream. As a self-proclaimed gelato aficionado having worked as a salesman and guinea pig for my parents' ice-cream venture, I can say this is the real deal. While we often fiddled with countless batches to create the perfect salty and sweet treat, Connoisseur has hit the nail on the head on this one.
I can’t help but ignore its burning glare as I stroll down the freezer aisle at Woolies, which is probably why my nightly runs are becoming increasingly sporadic.
I AM WARY OF...
How careful you have to be with your own body. Having played soccer for as far back as my memory stretches, I always assumed the human anatomy’s astounding restorative abilities would go on and on.
Often being the smallest lad on the pitch, kicks to the shin and getting absolutely cleaned out on a weekly basis became second nature to my bleached-blond-haired self. But now at 21, which by no means is old in terms of a sporting career, I am starting to feel those knocks and bumps just that little bit more.
While I used to scoff at the idea of attending yoga classes, it probably doesn’t take a clairvoyant to predict their appearance in my near future.