The Strain of Strine

Anyone who goes to Australia thinking he speaks the Queen's English is in for a shock called "Strine," meaning Australian--the cockney-like vernacular that most Aussies spout. Through the mysterious medium of Strine, magic comes out mare chick, a terrace house is a terror souse, house-proud is assprad, and sacks of potatoes are sex apertaters. Such metamorphoses particularly baffle Australia's many visiting Asian students, who arrive Down Under speaking textbook Hong Kong or Pakistani English, only to confront linguistic anarchy on their very first gloria sty (glorious day) in the country.

When an Asian student attends an art class, for instance, he hears ostensibly sane Aussies discussing painting styles like mon (modern) and airpstrek (abstract). At lunchtime in the campus canteen, the visitor may hear a local student ask: "Gottiny semmitches?" "Air," says the counter girl. "Emeny jiwant?" Student: "Gimme utter martyr and an airman pickle." Thanks to the mare chick of communications, the girl duly produces a tomato and a ham and pickle sandwich.

A Split Nair Dyke. Unfortunately, some Asian students are keenly aware of the family sacrifices made so that they can attend college in Australia; many also deeply fear the loss of face that accompanies failure. Their struggle with Strine can lead to despair and, in some cases, to severe family crisis.

The Asians' plight has long concerned Ronald Bates, 57, a fourth-generation Australian who has managed to avoid speaking Strine himself, but knows just how confusing it can be. As a Sydney court stenographer, Bates has to decipher the lingo and convert it into shorthand symbols at the rate of 200 words a minute. "Thank God I'm a professional phoneticist," he says. "Otherwise, I wouldn't know what the hell half the witnesses and lawyers I have to record were talking about most of the time."

For several years Bates has given free, informal lessons in his spare time to help immigrants understand Strine. Now he and Psychologist Robert Hay, 33, have started a six-week crash course in Australian usage and pronunciation for Asian students at the University of New South Wales. Students are given isolated bits of Strine to cover all sorts of contingencies--envy is usually a case of sag rapes, and summer nights can be hell when the egg ni '--ner (air conditioner) is on the blink. Students often use a handbook on Strine that sets up little dramatic situations larded with lingo. What, for instance, should a wife do with a layabout husband? "Fitwer smeeide leave him. Seems he sawway sonn the grog. He'll nebby any good." Translation: "If it were me, I'd leave him. Seems he's always drunk. He'll never be any good."

The Bates-Hay goal is modest but realistic: to enable their charges to understand about half the time. The other half may still drive Asians to distraction, but at least some of them will soon be able to complain fluently: "I got a split nair dyke. Smor niken bear. I left a tiger nippy sea." In short, "I've got a splitting headache. It's more than I can bear. I'll have to take an APC tablet." When it comes to the strain of Strine, in fact, those tablets may be the only remedy.

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