Border Crossings. Tricky things. Usually involving passports, declaration forms and sweaty uniformed officers asking about your employment.

Crossing into Western Australia is an entirely different matter.


They are peering in eskies and under the camper trailer cover with great enthusiasm, searching for spores and seeds and contraband fruit and veg. The backs of our hands are wiping orange pips away as we roll across the line, mouths stuffed with pulp.

We humbly offer up a limp lettuce, and two sweaty onions. This does not satisfy.

The quarantine crowd want more.

Queue the violins.

Back in Darwin Little Miss Squid had persuaded the Skipper to buy her a pot of honey shaped like a bear.

She was quite taken with it. She’s enjoyed it less on her toast and more for the aesthetics.


The Border Crossing Guy enjoyed it too.

Honey carries some bizarre spore that now makes me look sideways at what I smear on my saladas.

Mr Quarantine was having a Gotcha moment. The honey pot would not be continuing its journey with us.

Queue crying Squid here.

Welcome to Western Australia, where it’s a dangerous things to be a breakfast condiment.

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