A Bit Weird in Australia

4:30 am, the alarm goes off. Ugh. Time to wash the face, drag on some clothes, and make two pieces of toast.

Chris, who with his wife Mary have hosted us the last two days in Christchurch, has offered to drive us to the airport at this ungodly hour. It’s a small mercy for which we’re quite thankful.

Throw bags in car. Chat in semi-conscious state on 20-minute drive. Jump out at the curb. Stand in line—the correct one: Easy Jet line is 3 hours long; Air New Zealand line is 30 minutes. Stand. Shuffle. Stand. Shuffle. Pick up bag. Set down bag. Stand. Pick up bag. Shuffle. Play with those strange plastic-capped poles with spring-loaded straps that corral passengers like bipedal sheep. Stand. Shuffle.

“Good morning. How ya goin’?” The colloquial Kiwi greeting.

Hand over passports. Yawn. Place bags on scale.

Type-type-type. “To Sydney?”

Where are we going today? Ah, yes. Sydney. Good.

“Are you going through from Sydney?”

Sydney’s not far enough? Maybe he wants us to suffer another 17-hour flight somewhere. Maybe Darwin. Singapore? Let’s pull out all the stops and fly to Calcutta! No, just Sydney today, thanks.

“Have you got a visa?”

Heart rate increases. Visa? Who needs a visa to enter a prison colony? Sweat glands around face warm up. We didn’t need one to get into New Zealand; why Australia? No, we don’t have visas. Don’t need them. We’re Americans! Fight or flight response kicks in, and since they won’t let us fly, only one option remains.

“Oh, well, you’ve got to have a visa or an ETA to get into Australia.”

Heart rate kicks up another notch. We don’t have a visa. We’re going to be quarantined, locked up in some holding-cell for a week because we’re supposed to be in Australia and we can’t go. Everyone will stare at us as we’re escorted away from the ticket counter, bags in hand, like shorn sheep in a cold rain. “Hey, look at these folks! They haven’t got visas!” Bloody Americans. Bloody Americans? Bloody travel guides! Not worth the paper they’re printed on. Ought to have a big red stamp on the cover declaring, “Americans must have visas to enter Australia—but not New Zealand.”

Visas take weeks, maybe months to get. There’s no way we can get one. What’s a New Zealand holding cell like? Never seen one, but at least I know they’ll serve tea there. Cold comfort right now.

And what’s an “ETA”? Extraordinary Tax on Americans? Elusive Tariff for Australia? Heart rate rises another notch. I know you can’t bribe a Kiwi. They’re too darn honest. They’ve checked my signature against the back of my credit card on every purchase I’ve made since we arrived in the Southern Hemisphere. No way to bend the rules. That’s it. Watch the plane take off like some bad rendition of the end of Casablanca. Roll credits. No Sydney for us. All because we didn’t have an ETA. Hey, maybe it stands for Extort those Travelling A—

“If you haven’t got an ETA we can’t let you on the plane. But we can issue you an ETA right here. Just go over to that desk there . . .”

Suddenly, at 6:00 am, the Christchurch International Airport is filled with a thousand-member choir singing the climax of Handel’s Messiah. Thanks, mate. Cheers.

Heart rate slows, breathing returns to normal. Fight or flight response fades. Pay 50$ to the Australian government in a numb stupor. (On top of the “departure tax” to get out of New Zealand, that’s 100$. Maybe it’s Extract from Tete to Arse.)

Return to counter to finish check-in. Hey, how is it that we can enter New Zealand Scot-free, but have to pay an ETA to get into Australia?

“Ah, you know. They’re a bit weird in Australia.”