When English Isn't English Isn't English. A Lesson in Foul Language in a Lovely Country

You're Too Old to Spend the Rest of Your Life on the Couch: Let's Adventure!

Photo by Sophie Turner on Unsplash

Tripping the light fantastic all over my tongue

The Christmas dinner table, made up of fourteen well-dressed people (including three tiny ladies in hats and gloves, no less) went silent. Everyone was staring fixedly at their plates. I’d been holding forth on travel stories when all conversation came to a sudden stop.

The head of the family, seated to my right, stood up. He cupped his hand under my elbow, silently steered me out of the dining room and into the kitchen.

At this point I knew that I had really stepped in it.

I most assuredly had. At that moment, I was clueless.

Let me back up.

The year was 1983. I’d flown to New Zealand, the first stop on what would turn out to be a four-year, life-changing trip thumbing and hostelling my way around Australia, New Zealand and the Fiji Islands.

I’d told all my friends that I was going to walk the perimeter of Australia, an idea which was met with much hilarity (deservedly so) at the Australian Consulate.

The Consulate said it nicely after laughing into their morning tea, but did suggest that I study the map key more carefully to better understand just how bloody huge Australia is.

We are all such rookies once.

While I realize that for some this is incomprehensible, this was well before the Internet, when we could do so much research. It’s astounding that people still don’t bother, but that’s another article.

I’d planned my trip, bought and overloaded my backpack, and set out to be Dora the Explorer. I was just thirty and utterly, stupidly full of myself.

One of the first adjustments a traveler has to make is to the language. Before I left for New Zealand, I had been peppered with questions about whether people spoke English down there.

Yes. Well, okay, sort of. Okay, okay, it depends. First, your ear has to adjust to the Kiwi accent. For example, a drug store is called a “chemist.” But pronounced KEE-mist. Eggs are pronounced EEEEGGs. Takes a while, but you learn.

It’s also terribly important not to confuse the Kiwi accent with the Aussie accent or risk offense. Or much of any other British-related accent, such are both class and national pride.

Then there are all those other British idiosyncrasies: a boot and a bonnet aren’t a shoe and a hat. Those describe the trunk of your car and the hood. And so on. If you’re an experienced traveler, and I most assuredly wasn’t, such things regularly trip you up.

Still, after a few days, I thought I had the hang of it.

Not even.

Within two days of landing in New Zealand, I managed to take a terrible fall on a boat just north of Auckland. I had such such a bad bruise on my thigh that I had to get crutches.

The kind family who’d put me up on their boat brought me back to said boat, limping badly.

As I was gesturing with my crutches from the bow of that same boat, I managed to drop one into the swirling waters of the bay where the boat was slipped.

My host and I watched with horror as the metal crutch, which I had sworn to return to the hospital, sank out of sight. I should have taken that as a sign.

Things had already started to head south.

But this is about Christmas.

Christmas in New Zealand is right at the start of summer. For those of us nursed on North Pole and winter stories, seeing Santa displayed in all his heavy clothing when the heat is high is disconcerting.

The locals still call England “home” although for most, nobody in their family has been to the UK in generations. They dutifully roll out all the decorations and the sleighs and reindeer and Yorkshire pudding despite the sweltering heat.

Maybe that’s part of it.

I’d made my slow way back to Auckland, clumsily, as I was on one crutch and my bone bruise was brutal. Standing on the roadside with an overloaded pack and a crutch did get me lots of rides, though, and stays with generous families which was so typical of the Kiwi mindset, at least back in early Eighties BB, or Before Bilbo.

It was the day before Christmas and I was staying at the popular Auckland hostel. Someone there took pity on me and invited me to Christmas tea at their family home.

Being an American, “tea” to me meant “cuppa.” I had no clue that it meant the entire groaning sideboard. So I ate at the hostel, thinking that I’d be having a nice cup of hot tea on a hot Christmas day with my new friends.

My first mistake.

By the time I landed at their home, I was filled to the gills. The family proudly showed me their home and backyard garden. Everyone seemed to have a garden, giving fresh food new meaning for those of us too far away from rich soil.

Then they showed me their Christmas tea, of which I was to avail myself: a great long table crammed with enough food to satisfy the All-Blacks and all their alternates.

Speaking of groaning, I had already stuffed myself with enough food to feed an entire stadium of All-Black fans.

We loaded our plates and gathered inside at the long dining room table. The host family had invited all the relatives in all their Christmas finery seated, waiting for their American guest.

I got the seat of honor, head of the table.

My big Gregory pack was propped against the wall behind me, in full sight. I was terribly proud of it. It had all kinds of features which charmed me no end, including the fact that you could unbuckle the top for a daypack.

I’m easily impressed.

Like all the Kiwi families I had the pleasure of meeting, this one peppered me with questions. New Zealand is a small, isolated country- this was long before Lord of the Rings made the destination world famous- and people there hungered for news and conversations with outsiders.

Being the center of attention, I rose to the occasion, happily regaling the family with my grand stories. The family stretched down this long table to include some fourteen people, including a few quite elderly women who had dressed in their best for the occasion.

White gloves and hats, it was summer after all. And Christmas.

When asked about where I was from, I explained about growing up in Florida. Inspired by the garden in the family’s yard, and having seen the enormous (invasive) blackberries which are absolutely everywhere in New Zealand, I bragged about our farm.

“Down by the lake we had a bog full of blackberries,” I smiled, convinced I’d scored my first big cultural connection.

That stopped chatter for a moment. Then people broke out laughing, as the father explained to me in an aside that the word “bog” was very rude slang for an outdoor toilet.

Who knew, right?

Unfazed, I plowed ahead.

By this time, I understood the Kiwi love affair with footie, or soccer, and rugby. Given that my father had been the first television broadcaster for the then-Washington Redskins and that team was about to play the Giants in the Super Bowl, I yammered on about how in America we all go out and enthusiastically root for the team.

Again, the table fell silent. There was a long pause, during which I eyeballed my host for another explanation.

While he struggled to contain a grin, he said that in New Zealand, the word “root” had a very different implication. In effect, I’d just told the Christmas dinner table that I had enthusiastically screwed the entire football team.

At this point I was beginning to get the distinct impression that my English wasn’t their English, and that the road ahead was going to be full of potholes.

It was.

Desperate for a safe topic, I pivoted yet again.

Knowing the Kiwis to be keen hikers and walkers, I pointed to my Gregory backpack. I announced, with considerable pride, that the top compartment unbuckled. You could wear it as a fanny pack.

Instantly all conversation stopped. Everyone, especially the elderly ladies in their white hats and gloves, stared at their plates. Their cheeks were red.

The silence that landed on the lively table was palpable.

Well, shit.

That’s when my host walked me into the kitchen.

“I take it you don’t know what that word means here?” he asked in a hushed tone, gauged to convey the gravity of my error.

Clearly not, I thought. How about enlightening me?

All I did was shake my head.

He cleared his throat, and avoided my eyes. The word “fanny,” which he choked out with some effort, is used by crude, uneducated New Zealanders the same way as the American slang c—t.

In other words, about as foul a bit of language you could imagine dropping into the Christmas punchbowl.

In the eyes of my host family, I had the verbal manners of a guttersnipe.

I turned bright red, but did a masterful job of stifling my guffaw.

After all, it was funny. I’d managed to stick my size ten hiking boots into my big fat mouth three times in less than fifteen minutes.

Sufficiently humbled, I was perp-walked back to the table, where Christmas dinner eventually continued apace. Conversation turned to the garden. I kept my mouth largely shut.

To everyone’s disappointment, I learned later.

Apparently people were quite eager to see what I’d say next.

I also learned that lots of Kiwis loved watching MASH, just to hear Colonel Potter tell a character “don’t let the door hit you in the fanny on the way out.”

They are easily entertained, it seemed, if I was considered good dinner company. Then there’s this:

I was invited back three more times. I suspect it was for entertainment value.

Photo by Hannah Wright on Unsplash

According to Wikipedia, Americans and Brits- as well as all those iterations of Brits all over the world - have very different languages, despite having at least a few words in common:

This divergence between American English and British English has provided opportunities for humorous comment: e.g. in fiction George Bernard Shaw says that the United States and United Kingdom are "two countries divided by a common language";^[3] and Oscar Wilde says that "We have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, the language" (The Canterville Ghost, 1888). (author bolded)

As a writer who prided herself on her ability to communicate, I found it particularly challenging trying to speak clearly when my size ten hiking boots were firmly embedded in my mouth.

At least I didn’t fall into a bog while rooting for my team, wearing a fanny pack.

Let’s play.

Photo by Tanya Prodaan on Unsplash

Thanks for hanging with me as I hang out my best embarrassing moments. I hope you’re inspired to take the chance to fail every so often; I have made a lifetime of it. If you had fun, please consider

If you know someone who can relate or who needs a chuckle, please consider

Above all, laugh at, and with yourself. It’s very healthy.