A BRIT IN THE BOONIES

By Helen Leggatt

Copyright 2012 by Helen Leggatt

Smashwords Edition

INTRODUCTION

This book contains a collection of humorous short articles from writer and British expat Helen Leggatt. They first appeared as a column in the Malvern News, a local newspaper distributed in rural Canterbury, New Zealand.

The twenty short articles document her observations of everyday life in the Kiwi countryside while learning to live in a new country. Discover her cock-ups and successes, misunderstandings and steep learning curves. From housing to horticulture and jam to jandals, even the mundane can be a hurdle for a Brit in the Boonies.

WHERE THE BLOODY HELL AM I?

I remember pressing my nose against the window as we flew over the Southern Alps for the first time. “Ah yes, this is just as I imagined it would be,” I sighed as the snowy tips made way for the lush green blanket of the Canterbury Plains. But it didn’t “hit” me; perhaps I had to land first.

The free-flowing, glistening and efficient airport bolstered my expectations as I flung open the doors and sucked in a lung of fresh, clean New Zealand air. I expected it to hit me there and then. But it didn’t.

The taxi ferried us through suburbs stuffed to the gills with mock-tudor mansions and roman-pillared monstrosities. Confusion set in. What were humungous concrete castles with grass verges for gardens and six foot fences for vistas doing in Godzone? Who dares to be so ostentatious in Godzone at the expense of infinite views and space? This isn’t the 1950’s British backwater we’d been dreaming about where society was classless, driving was courteous and money an after-thought.

What hit me there and then wasn’t the feeling of “arriving home” that we’d been so keen to experience and which others, before us, had so powerfully described. It was the realisation that we’d been so focussed on the similarities to the UK that we’d become oblivious to the differences, which are so much more evident once your feet hit the ground.

A few left and right turns through Christchurch’s wide, tree-lined streets and suddenly “The Palms” spreads before us. It’s a concrete shopping mecca, with more car parking spaces than there are cars in the entire South Island.

We pass it by and the road follows a river, on which rowers and kayakers skim. Ah yes, this is more like it.

A bridge and a blink later and the scenery switches. Concrete houses give way to weather-beaten wooden sheds, with rusted corrugated iron fences and pitbull-chewed sofas on the lawn. Something begins to hit me, but it isn’t the feeling of home.

Onwards we drive, past the oxidation ponds to the coast and, finally, a chance to approve of the scenery once more. We marvel at the blueness of the sea, the architecture of the hill-hugging homes and the snow-tipped ranges on the horizon.

Something flutters in my chest. Not home. Not at all like home. New Zealand – that mix of history and future, wealth and make-do, sun and snow – is not little Britain. You know, it never did hit me, that feeling of arriving home. Not once. Thank goodness for that!

WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE

I’m a terrible mimic, I’m sure people think I am taking the mick. They may well speak English here but, as with American and Australian, it has its nuances and it’s worth swatting up on the local lingo.

Why? Because it’s simply not clever to tell your new Kiwi mates that you’ll be there ‘rooting’ for the local rugby team on Sunday. Believe me, it doesn’t mean you’ll be faithfully supporting them.

And if someone says they come from ‘Waikikamukau’ you’ll look a bit of a ‘sook’ if you ask for directions! Go on, repeat it back... slowly.