The customs officer pored over the vacuum-sealed silver salmon and birch tree syrup I packed for my host family before nonchalantly asking whether I was familiar with narcotics. The end of a 15 hour flight and an 18 hour time difference generated the following response, “Well, I haven’t done narcotics for a long…well ever actually.” Not a perfect introduction to Oz, but thankfully I was soon welcomed to Australia on my crisp, new student visa.
Our group mini-bus drove east towards Gembrook National Park for orientation, into what our driver referred to as “the bloody bush.” During the two-hour drive, I began taking stock of the most notable differences around me. While the streets signs looked the same, I found myself gripping the armrests involuntarily as oncoming traffic rushed towards us on the right side of the road. My fear of impending collisions subsided as I tried to absorb the surroundings.
I could’ve been in California. Eucalyptus trees rose next to the roads and a morning fog rolled back to the harbor as the sun moved higher in the sky. But as we pulled into the Boy Scout camp in Gembrook Park, the similarities were put on hold. Two kookaburras sat in a low, mossy tree, summoning to mind a song I had learned in 6th grade. Inside the lodge, more wildlife lay in waiting, namely the largest spider I have ever seen outside a zoo. “A Huntsman,” explained Bill, our program director, “They’re not poisonous, but they do have a nasty bite.” “Wonderful," I muttered, “a Huntsman.”
In the isolation of the semi-tropical rainforest we were about to spend three days preparing for three and a half months in Australia. We discussed the cultural differences alluded to by my Renwick book. Australians are laid-back – Americans pushy. Australians appreciate social equality – Americans flaunt class differences. It all began to sound formulaic, and I was convinced that Renwick had it all wrong. Indeed, Bill told us that it’s never so black and white, but awareness regardless of locale is the name of the game. We’d see about that. I’m in Australia after all, where the most shocking difference could arguably be the opposite flush of a toilet.
Emerging from orientation, and back in Melbourne, we nervously awaited the arrival our home stay families. Brief summaries of our families were distributed, and I scoured the sheet, anxious for every detail. My host dad, Jim, is Maori. He was raised in a seaside village in New Zealand. He has two sons and two daughters. This obviously was not enough detail.
“Jim might operate on Maori time,” Liz, the home stay director explained, “he’ll be here either first or last.” My wait was short – barely five minutes when Jim came to the door and introduced himself, “Hello mate, I’m Jim, this is my son Stevie.”
We drove home and Jim narrated the entire route, pointing out good pubs and bars, adding anecdotes about those he had visited. Turning onto Brunswick Road, he motioned out the window, “Bridie O’Reilly there, a bloody wonderful pub, you could bring a bag and sleep in the corner without anyone bothering you.” For awhile I tried remembering each landmark, but around the same time the explanation of various tram routes to Uni began, jet lag reared its head. Inside the house, my tour was concise: the bathroom, the kitchen, the lounge, and finally, my bed.
