An Ode to One’s New Home

Aussie land.

Home to the mate and the wombat.

Where men are hairy muscular men. Who then go riding around on pink buses called Priscilla.

A land where they play more Ozzie Rules than rugby [Fck. I have to learn a whole NEW man sport!?].

Where they claim they live in a desert. And as soon as you have a visa, they tell you that the winter is one sopping wet affair.

Where the women can guzzle down more beer than a Rhodes student showing off to a Maritzburg Down Down champion. And that’s just during the lunch break.

A land where the accent requires you to dislocate your whole jaw just to pronounce its name. Austraaaaaalier. Mate.

And mate, you gatta throw in a whole group on unintelligible words to be understood. Mate.

An island of dirty secrets & dirtier exploits with sheep.

Corks for wine. And flies.

Where the Brit queen rules ok.

And the highest mountain is walkable. [Even by my feeble standards].

With marsupials. Drag Queens. Billabongs. And cockatoos.

Where the dirty convicts only drive 70 kms.

And where they’d best accept two clueless kids on a mission for adventure.

Austraaalier Mate.