They Don't Call it 'Oz' without Reason

Yesterday, I injured my thumb while playing soccer with a bunch of Scots in Western Australia. That sentence contains so many absurdities that I felt compelled to share it. After all, why am I hurting my thumb while playing soccer? Why are there enough Scots for a soccer game here? What the hell is my fat American bottom doing playing soccer in the first place? I guess there's always a little touch of the surreal when one is south of the equator.

Speaking of being on the other side of the globe, I've been asked to examine the truth behind the Coriolis effect and toilet bowls. Theory holds that being in the Southern hemisphere should cause the water to proceed through its draining procedure in the opposite direction it does in the Northern hemisphere. I've endeavored to try the experiment, but Australian toilets are ill suited for such observations.

The problem is that the Aussies are not used to a quiet, subtle flush that drains away inoffensively. Rather, they prefer a method more like God used when he grew displeased with the world. When you flush the toilet (which, by the way is accomplished with a button instead of a lever), a torrent of water comes from the tank and into the bowl, eradicating any evidence of what has occurred. It's a shockingly violent process, which is especially startling the first time you flush a toilet.

Urinals, here, are different, too. Rather than the individual, stand-alone, bidet look-alikes we prefer back in the States, the Aussies prefer troughs. They'll simply cut a wall back six inches, make it out of aluminum, and drill a drain hole. Viola! One urinal. I'm unclear on the etiquette of use, but it seems that those big enough for two are only used by one. Those big enough to hold three or more are almost always used by an odd number of people. Three, five, or seven to the urinal. Don't ask me why.

As if the difference in fixtures wasn't already enough, the Aussies don't even call it a restroom. They say "toilet," "wash room," or "dunnee." The CIEE residential director, Paul, has wondered why we call it the restroom. "After all," he asks, "you aren't really resting when you're in there, are you?"

Learning those little cultural differences makes me grin, especially when I'm able to apply the lesson. With that in mind, I've accustomed myself to using the words "mate" and "cheers." My accent makes me feel like a tourist awkwardly (and unsuccesfully) adopting a local custom when I say "Cheers, mate" (American translation: "Thanks for the beer"). Bartenders don't bat an eye though, so I think I'm getting it right.

I've also discovered that Australians don't have the first clue what the word "sweater" means. They call a sweater a "jumper," and the guys I was talking with couldn't fathom why one might ever use the word "sweater."

Mind you, this means I am changing my vocabulary, not my accent. I fully intend to keep my accent because I'm American and I'm proud of it, I'm too obstinate to change just because almost everyone around me speaks with one, and I'm told that an American accent is an advantage with Australian women. Don't think you're too clever for knowing which of those is most important to me.

The Australian accent is, however, strangely endearing. Maybe it's because it's different from what I'm used to. Maybe it's because it is representative of the opportunity I have here. Maybe it's because it reminds me of Paul Hogan. For whatever reason, I feel like the Aussies intone in a warmer and more upbeat fashion than we do back home.

Oh, back home. I already dread leaving Australia.