Why are New Zealanders so effing loud?

Dizengoff on Ponsonby Road is one of the area’s better know eateries with a particular reputation for excellent coffee. There are plenty of tables for diners inside the cafe but, like several other local establishments, the acoustics aren’t great. When the place is less than half full you can’t hear yourself think.

Like most Auckland cafe patrons, if the weather is temperate, I prefer to sit outside. Dizengoff  boasts two pavement tables, one on either side of the entrance. Each table seats six people, three a side. You are cheek by jowl with anyone sitting next to you.

As a general rule diners aren’t particularly comfortable sitting immediately next to strangers and least comfortable if there’s very little space between the chairs or tables. This is in part a reflection of our sense of personal space and in part because we neither want to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations nor to have them intrude on ours. Common courtesy dictates that when seated next to a stranger in a restaurant or cafe – not to mention in a cinema or theatre – we keep our voices down.

On a recent Jim Mora panel I confessed to a penchant, as I was leaving a restaurant after a meal, for approaching any diner whose loud or droning  voice had annoyed me, making an ironic or sarcastic remark and walking off leaving them (and their fellow diners) to contemplate their crimes.

The most egregious example of this behaviour occurred one afternoon at an Italian restaurant in the Viaduct basin. Seated a couple of metres away from our table was a group of half a dozen youngish businessmen. Throughout our and their entire meal only one of the businessmen spoke. He must have droned loudly on for the best part of an hour. As we were leaving I approached their table, said “excuse me” and addressed the offender as follows:

“I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but are you aware than you could bore for New Zealand at the Olympics?”

There is a moderate risk of being told to ‘f*k off‘ or even of being knocked to the ground when you make a comment like this to a total stranger. But the drone’s colleagues immediately fell about laughing and invited Judy and me to join them for a drink. We declined but stayed long enough to be told that my comment had hit the nail directly on the head. I reckoned I had performed a useful social service.

On another occasion, at the Mutiara Malaysian restaurant – one of our favourite eateries at the K-Road end of Ponsonby Road – we were seated next to a table occupied by three elderly women and a middle-aged man. The man had apparently read and digested every volume of National Geographic. During the meal he took the three women on a detailed guided tour of several African and Asian countries. He appeared to be auditioning for an upcoming appearance on Eggheads. The elderly women said ‘Yes’, ‘Indeed!’, and ‘Really?’ at regular intervals but made no other contribution to the conversation.

‘Don’t you dare say anything!’ Judy said in her best commanding tone, so I waited till she went to pay the bill, before approaching the lonely planeteer. (I’ve made that word up.)

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to say that I learnt more about world geography sitting near to you tonight than I ever did at school.’

‘I’m sure you did,’ he replied with little warmth. The elderly ladies smiled. I was pretty sure they knew me from somewhere.

I’d have waited a little longer to judge the impact of my intervention, but a vice-like grip on my right arm told me that the bill had been paid and it was time to go.

Back at Dizengoff this morning one of the two outside tables was fully occupied. At the other table a man in his late twenties and a woman I’d guess to be in her thirties were seated at one end of the table opposite one another. The man was animatedly talking, the woman listening intently and occasionally responding with apparent approval.  Cafe protocol more or less demands that you don’t sit immediately next to a stranger but I wanted to sit facing the road and Judy was already seated at the end of the table. So I sat between her and the young man.

His voice was loud and penetrating and it was simply impossible not to be party to their conversation which was about conflict resolution in a relationship. After a few minutes I couldn’t take this any more, excused myself as I walked behind his chair and moved to sit opposite Judy.

Our coffees arrived precisely as he informed the woman that she just had to hear this amazing quote which he’d saved on his mobile. He began reading the quote out loud in stentorian tones, his co-diner occasionally responding with a ‘wonderful!’ or ‘beautiful!’ or ‘amazing!’. At this point a young woman came over and asked Judy, ‘Do you mind if I join your table?’ Judy said of course not and the woman sat down between her and the pop psychologist. She lasted only a few minutes before deciding to move inside.

As we were leaving, I said quietly to the man, ‘Excuse me. Do you realise that you have no sense of personal space. It’s impossible not to listen in to your conversation and impossible to hold one’s own.’

He blushed and said he was very sorry.

I think these two were intelligent, thinking and probably very nice people. But having no sense of personal space, one’s own or other people’s, is a Kiwi characteristic. And it finds its main expression in excessive decibels.

And that is why I find myself constantly asking the question: “Why are New Zealanders so effing loud?”

For the most part, New Zealand men have loud, penetrating voices that they make no effort to moderate regardless of their environment.

For the most part, New Zealand women have loud, shrill voices that they make no effort to moderate regardless of the environment.

Unsurprisingly, for the most part, the offspring of New Zealand men and women understand no other form of communication but shouting and screaming.

That is why it is impossible to hear or be heard at any social function in Godzone. Everyone is talking at the top of their voices.

That is the explanation for so many TV field reporters apparently failing to understand that they have microphones in their hands and that their voices do not actually need to carry into every living room in the country.

That is why a cellphone conversation is the least private form of communication in this country.

That is why there is so little business for spies or eavesdroppers in New Zealand. Most secrets here are yelled across the ether.

That is why no one can hear what the quietly-spoken Bob Jones is saying to those around him at one of his annual office parties, because his guests are all talking at the top of their voices and the din is deafening. His ‘listeners’ nonetheless nod approvingly.

So why are New Zealanders so effing loud? Well, according to speech-expert JC, it’s because no-one has taught them how to modulate their voices or how to project without shouting. She showed one of our former clients (nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more!) how she could do that in about 10 minutes.

So please, please, please can you keep the volume down. After all, if we all speak more quietly, no one will have to shout. And perhaps we’ll be able to hear the cicadas when they finally return. Who knows – maybe the competition was just too much for them.

Media trainer and commentator Dr Brian Edwards posts at Brian Edwards Media.