Kevin Page: Getting over the language barrier

There was nothing like rolling out a few Kiwi place names to entertain the Londoner, and being understood at the airport. Photo / Getty Images

So, here I am at a rental-car desk at Heathrow Airport in London and there's a problem with my "icksent".

I should point out here the problem is not actually with me. I know exactly what I'm saying. It's the plonker across the desk from me who can't understand my price request for a 10-day rental or my name. Mind you, to be fair, from what I've seen of the population of my old home country so far he may well have got off the plane from Poland an hour before I arrived.

"Tin?" "Kivin?" he queries in his best English, laced with a liberal dose of eastern European. I conclude Kiwispeak is not going to cut it and if I don't get it sorted soon I'll spend the majority of my whistlestop visit stuck here arguing.

"Yor avin a larf encha?" I mutter in my best North London drawl and suddenly there's a breakthrough. He understands me and beams. I continue in similar tones and within 15 minutes I am on my way and pleasantly cruising along the M25 motorway catching the odd glimpse of the countryside between the trucks passing within two inches of my wing mirrors on both sides.

The language issue is discussed with cousin that night over a welcoming beverage (or two or three ... I can't remember) and he confirms I am "bleedin' ard" to understand at times.

He says it gets worse with alcohol consumption. Obviously, in England, there's something in the beer that affects their ears.

But we go through the usual rigmarole where I rattle off Maori place names and he falls about laughing. Whakatane and Whakarewarewa are firm favourites when pronounced correctly (if you get my drift), especially in London where babies say the "eff" word before they can walk.

Anyway.

A day later a family wedding is all wrapped up, and cousin and I find ourselves winding down in a small pub in a delightful English village and he's just told the friendly locals I'm a Kiwi.

As expected, sheep noises come floating across the room.

But now a local has approached to sniff the Kiwi. I introduce myself. "Kevin" I say, as we shake hands.

His look confirms he's struggling with my accent - "Kivin?" Odd name - and quick as a flash cousin sees an opportunity to improve our "liquid assets", which are by now barely covering the bottom of the glass.

"Tell him that place name you told me," he says, nodding towards the still vexed local.

"Whakarewarewa," I say, emphasising the "f".

The local roars with laughter so I throw in "Whakatane" (similarly emphasised) just for good measure. We've made a friend and as he heads off to the bar to buy us a drink, cousin smiles knowingly. A real Londoner never misses an opportunity.

And it doesn't stop there.

As word spreads around the bar other locals are keen for a taste of New Zild and with cousin taking the appearance fee, the drinks add up as I find myself discussing all manner of things. To be honest, I did lay it on a bit thick.

The locals particularly liked the story about finding "tin sints in the kaa paark at Fukatarney after daark" but we realised it was time to go when stunned silence met my reply to a question about what I was going to do when I got back to New Zealand.

"I'm going to paint my deck," I said.

*Kevin Page has been a journalist for 34 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.