Feeling welcome in the sunburnt country

We have been in Sydney the past few days and have witnessed the blatant Australian glee at winning more medals than us at the Olympics.

They have won the party throwing, the hoopla and hyperbole and smugathon events. They have excelled in the over-confidence and brashness competition and did not even qualify in the synchronised humble.

Apart from the overwhelming post-Olympics smugness evident in the media, the Aussies have been very friendly to us. The people we have encountered as we travelled the suburbs of Sydney have been welcoming and in many instances have gone that bit further with service and helped solve difficulties with patience and good humour. Pronouncing place names can be fraught. The Sydney bus drivers, without exception, have been very helpful. They have struggled with our requests for directions, somewhat baffled till they realised what we are asking them and then corrected us.

People have kindly taken the time to improve our English. We have learned that you should not attempt to describe a house as having a "deck" unless you are prepared for a bout of sniggering.

The landscape has taken me by surprise. In the area we stayed in there are bush covered hills and wild areas that disguise the fact that we are actually in a huge metropolis that contains more people than the whole of New Zealand.

The birds sing a different song. The cockatoos scoot about the sky calling to each other in the raucous manner of partygoers who have had a few too many while other unknown bird calls signal we are in another country. We did hear a morepork that reminded us that we share some aspects of our wild heritage with the big continent.

It is somewhat daunting to look at a map of Australia and realise you are on the edge of a country that stretches across time zones and vast spaces.

A family member who has lived in Australia for many years tells a tale of getting directions on how to get to another town. "Two lefts and a right" was the reply. This was essentially correct but they neglected to mention it would take two days to get there.

Entering the neighbourhood shopping mall is like becoming lost in a familiar place. The shops look the same. Many brand names and chain stores are the same as ours. A dollar is still a dollar even though the exchange rate can induce sweats and palpitations.

Stepping outside, it is immediately apparent you are not at home. The sky is a different shade of blue. It has a bright sheen. The gum trees and jacarandas cast a different shadow and the sound of strine rings in the ear, clanging like a badly tuned bell.

They think we speak funny but, of course, we enunciate in a superior manner that only the truly refined can recognise.

Terry Sarten lives in Whanganui. He describes himself as a writer, musician, social worker and lapsed sceptic. Email: tgs@inspire.net.nz