The smell of mashed potatoes, fish, and pasta with tomato sauce wakes me up. I open my eyes and instinctively look for the flight attendant pushing the meal trolley thousands of metres above the ground. Just four more hours of flying, and I’ll finally land in long-awaited Australia.
Although I’m flying alone again, this time the journey to the other side of the world doesn’t feel nearly as complicated, nor does it bring the constant knot of anxiety to my stomach. I’m flying over familiar territory—Doha—and I’ll spend “only” 23 hours in the air. Enough time to gather my thoughts, sort through my expectations, and realise that I’m finally arriving in the Land Down Under.
I keep an eye on the flight map on the seatback screen. The little airplane icon shows that we’re already over Australia, yet there are still another three full hours to go. I remind myself that this is an entire continent—large enough to fit twenty-one Germanys, thirty-one United Kingdoms, or thirteen Frances. Europe… and then some.
Soon, the lights of Melbourne begin to appear in the distance. The plane starts descending, and my anxiety starts climbing.
What if immigration doesn’t let me in? What if I messed something up with my visa?
Getting an Australian tourist visa (for Croatians under thirty) is often far from a painless experience. After my first application was rejected, two years followed—working, gathering paperwork, and translating documents to prove that I genuinely intended to return to Croatia. I had also heard several stories of people whose visas were cancelled right after landing because of small mistakes in their applications.
Preparing to face immigration and finally step onto Australian soil, I become the textbook definition of obsessive-compulsive behaviour, mixed with the old-school mentality that “nothing should ever catch us by surprise.” I clutch a green folder against my chest containing all fifty-four documents I submitted with my visa application. I keep digital copies on a USB drive, and printed copies of my visa are tucked away in every bag I own.
Just in case.
I step off the plane and breathe Australian air for the very first time. I expect dry heat, the smell of sun-baked earth and warm air. Instead, I’m greeted by damp rain, cool air, and an unexpected urge to put my jacket on.
Hmm… It’s supposed to be summer here, not a humid southern wind from Split.
My slight disappointment with Australia’s first smells, together with complete confusion about the time zone I’m now in, distracts me from worrying about crossing the border.
The first step is immigration.
I’m expecting rows of counters and strict passport control, but instead I find dozens of automated passport scanners, one very long queue leading to a single open counter, and one older police officer.
“Where are you coming from?” the officer asks, trying to direct me away from the long line and towards one of the passport scanners.
“Croatia,” I answer, quickly adding, “the European Union,” knowing that the second piece of information sometimes carries more weight when crossing borders.
“Ah, the European Union. Then you can just scan your passport,” he says, pointing me towards the machine.
“Well… no. Could I still go to the counter instead? I’m not very good with robots,” I ask.
“Why not?” the officer replies, now looking slightly suspicious.
Don’t make this complicated, Nađa. Just enter the twenty-first century already, I tell myself, before apologising and explaining that I’d misunderstood him.
The battle to enter Australia continues at the passport scanner.
Place the passport this way.
Now that way.
Nope.
Still doesn’t work.
I’m already rehearsing an explanation for the police officer about why I’ve somehow ended up back in the manual queue when suddenly—
BEEP.
A small receipt confirming that my passport and visa have been successfully scanned slides out of the machine.
Great.
Now I just need to scan the receipt and walk through the little gate.
Except…
That doesn’t work either.
“Your passport is invalid,” the robotic gate announces, while I’m slowly beginning to believe in an artificial intelligence conspiracy.
ChatGPT getting revenge because I keep refusing to use it.
On about the tenth attempt, the gate finally flashes green. It opens, and halfway through my triumphant entrance it turns red again.
“Your passport is invalid.”
With one foot already in Australia, I manage to pull my other foot free before it becomes permanently trapped inside the robotic gates of the international duty-free zone.
Knowing it’s nothing more than another technological mishap, I queue up for the immigration counter after all, where I’m finally reassured that both my passport and visa are perfectly valid.
Right.
On to the next challenge.
Biosecurity.
The infamous biosecurity inspection that already required everyone on the plane to fill out a declaration listing the contents of their luggage.
The long checklist of anything that could potentially threaten Australia’s biodiversity or safety is almost identical to the one in New Zealand. Even hiking equipment, medication, or any food whatsoever—even if it’s just a souvenir—must be declared to customs.
Having already experienced New Zealand, where every piece of my hiking gear was carefully cleaned of every last trace of soil before I was allowed to enter the country, I’m expecting an even stricter inspection here.
The hypochondriac in me is especially worried about the medication section.
Even though I’m arriving in a developed country with doctors and pharmacies, I’ve still packed antibiotics “just in case,” along with the prescription.
Hopefully customs won’t confiscate my little Pliva souvenir.
While everyone waits for their luggage, an airport employee walks from person to person checking the customs declarations.
One quick question.
One tap on the tablet.
And on to the next traveller.
Surely that’s not all, I think to myself, unable to believe that Australia’s famous biosecurity process could really be this simple.
I continue towards customs, expecting a long interrogation.
Instead, the queue moves suspiciously fast.
Now convinced that I’ve somehow skipped an important step of entering the country, I turn to the first person standing next to me.
“Excuse me, is this the queue for customs?”
The man turns around, glances at my passport, and asks, in perfect Croatian,
“Are you from Croatia?”
After all those thousands of kilometres in the air, the very first person I speak to on this side of the border turns out to be one of our own.
My fellow Croatian assures me that this really is the entire process.
I pass the final checkpoint without losing my box of Klavocin.
As I take another deep breath of Melbourne’s damp air, my worries about immigration finally disappear, only to be replaced by a new—and far more realistic—fear:
Australian wildlife.