So, it didn't work out. But...

if you still want to read my online musings, there is somewhere to go:

www.maryofarabia.blogspot.com

Hi there

I don't think I'll be keeping up the blog. Sorry. It's too tricky to find time to sit down at a computer alone. Don't worry, though, I'm still making mental notes galore.

Did you know that Indonesian takes words from Portuguese, Chinese, Arabic, and Dutch?

Which means that Arabic, hilariously, has become my guiding friend.

"waktu" on the airplane TV screen obviously referred to remaining flight time (waqt in Arabic=time)

"selamat" is an easy greeting to remember (salam in Arabic=peace, and is used in the classic greeting "salam waaleikum", peace be upon you).

Peace be upon us all.

Being one's self, whatever that means

The other night I broke and reverted to North American English--the accent, the expressions, everything. At once, I wanted to speak and speak and speak. Rick and Jacquelyn, across the table from me, listened. Behind them were the balcony's sliding doors, made of glass. In the glass, I could see myself reflected. I was smiling and glowing from the pleasure of speech.

"What's different?" Jacquelyn asked.

"I'm not hindered," I said.

Then Rick and Jacquelyn told a story of a British woman raised in Argentina by her missionary parents. The woman was prim and proper in English, but relaxed and animated in Spanish. At a party dominated by Spanish-speakers, the woman told stories filled with emotion and punctuated by gestures. On the car ride home, among English-speakers, the woman straightened her spine, put her hands in her lap, and within twenty minutes morphed back into her usual English self.

A natural question: In different languages, are we different people?

Change and anxiety

I encounter both at two levels.

On the level of the trip: Why am I doing this? Why am I spending all my time, money, and energy on this? What if this is a stupid idea in the end? Being misunderstood all the time isn't pleasant, so why am I signing up for it? I could be back in Vancouver, riding my bike or talking to a friend. I could be taking an art class or making dinner. Instead I'm squashing my clothes into a little bag and figuring out the next step.

On the level of language learning: What if I don't learn anything? What if I do learn, and as a result my English goes haywire and I can't easily express thoughts? Or what if the thoughts themselves go haywire? What if I go crazy?

Maori in the lexicon

Kia ora! (hello. This appears above my Yahoo mail log-in and before the evening news)

That's his wahine (woman).

Walk as far as the marae (Maori meeting house, though I've read the word actually refers to the sacred ground in front of it)

Kumara (sweet potato)

Pukeko (a particular bird that flies badly)

Ponga (a particular tree fern)

Pakeha (white New Zealanders)

New Zealanders use a lot of Maori words, not only for the plants and animals that their immigrant forefather had never encountered, but also for things that have English equivalents, and for themselves. Do Canadians do this in some parts of the country? I can't think of examples.

Kiwi expressions

Heaps (lots)

Bach (beach house or cabin)

That's flash (fancy-looking)

The weather'll turn to custard (be bad)

Tiki tour (little wander around, by boat or car)

Rangi (poorly-made, poorly-done. Similar to 'ghetto'? Far from politically correct, since it's from Maori mythology and used in Maori names).

Mm (yes)

I reckon (I think)

It's good, eh. (Different than the Canadian 'eh', I reckon. The Canadian 'eh' seems more like a legitimate question. Here I've heard it used for emphasizing or softening a claim).

Sweet as (cool. Great. Preferably used in the expression, "Sweet as, bro.")

Hard-out (hard-core)

She's a hard case. (harder to translate this one. It's positive. I means she's got a good, strong character, and she probably doesn't care what people think.)

Chur (thanks or yeah. Not used by everyone. Again, preferably used in conjunction with 'bro'.)

In the morning

In the morning, before we put on our togs (bathing suits), before we look for Ngaire's jandals (flip-flops), when the sounds are the squeaky call of the tui or the electrical racket of the cicadas in the trees, and the colours I imagine beyond my closed eyelids are green--this country is GREEN--and red from the blossoms on the pahutakawa, I have a moment in which to decide:

morning or mo(r)ning

"Good morning, Ngaire," like the North American I've been for the last 26 years, or "Good mo(r)ning, Ngaire," like the New Zealande(r) I can be.

Dropping the 'r' is not an enti(r)ely new concept fo(r) me. My British friend Lauren was chastised each time she came into the house speaking the American dialect we all somehow agreed upon in our expatriate compound in Saudi Arabia. Neve(r) mind that we we(r)e Greek, Indian, Lebanese, Canadian, and so on. We spoke American. "Speak English, Lauren!" said Lauren's British mothe(r) when Lauren fo(r)got to drop the American at the front doo(r) befo(r)e proceeding to the kitchen. And thus Lauren maintained two dialects and I was exposed to a wo(r)ld of 'nea(r)', 'dea(r)', and 'da(r)ling.' "The phone's fo(r) you, Ki(r)sten," Lauren called to he(r) younge(r) siste(r). Or was that me? When I pictu(r)e da(r)ling Ki(r)sten, she's as much a Ki(r)sten as a KiRsten. I could call he(r) eithe(r). People did. Lauren now wo(r)ks in in England. People on the phone ask whe(r)e she's from. She claims some random state in the U.S. to cu(r)tail the conve(r)sation about Saudi. Indiana, I think.

We a(r)e all so, so good at spotting difference. Hitchhiking no(r)th from a reggae conce(r)t in Matakana, Ngaire and I we(r)e approached by a blonde teenage(r) in a blue singlet (tank top/'wifte-beater'). We exchanged fou(r) utterances and he left to check with the drive(r), his gi(r)lfriend, that we could indeed get a ride. Ngaire tu(r)ned to me: "Whe(r)e's he from?" I shrugged. "I dunno. He(r)e?" "Nah," said Ngaire, "I thought he was from America o(r) something." I had spotted a difference and assumed he was a Kiwi. Ngaire had spotted a difference and assumed he was No(r)th American.

The mystery was solved 5 minutes late(r) in the ca(r). Blue singlet was raised in White Rock, British Columbia, for the first 10 yea(r)s of his life, before moving with his Kiwi mothe(r) to Auckland for the next 8. Woah! So much richness in this case study! We could talk about the issue of "mothe(r) tongue," for sta(r)te(r)s. We don't call it "fathe(r) tongue" for a reason--kids tend to take thei(r) mothe(r)s' accents. And yet blue singlet hadn't. And what of the "critical age hypothesis", by which resea(r)che(r)s a(r)gue that if you get imme(r)sed in a language before age 7 or 11 or pube(r)ty, that you can achieve pitch-pe(r)fect fluency in that language? Blue singlet was ce(r)tainly not a pitch-pe(r)fect Kiwi.

I subdued the geek in me that wanted to discuss these issues, but still made him pronounce a list of wo(r)ds that I scribbled into my notebook, designed to quickly test the accent:

call
awesome
family
difference
torso

The last one made everyone laugh: "toRso." Said like a Yank. Even I wouldn't have fallen fo(r) that one, and I've only been he(r)e a week. "Yeah, but you'Re trying to change youR accent," he responded. Fair enough. He was just living his life. And since No(r)th American and Kiwi accents a(r)e--for the most part--mutually comprehensible, why would he change?

My dad didn't lose his Kiwi accent because it was incomprehensible to the Americans who called him while he was wo(r)king in Montana. He lost it because those Americans pe(r)ceived it as different and made fun of him. "Where are YOU from? ENG-LAND?" Easie(r) to inse(r)t some 'r's and extend the vowels than explain. Fast fo(r)wa(r)d fo(r)ty odd yea(r)s and my dad ba(r)ely references the language he hea(r)d and spoke for the fi(r)st couple decades of life, except when he speaks to his beloved cat Jake, and when he thinks no one else can hea(r).

Good mo(r)ning, Ngaire!