Military escorts, 14 days in isolation: A glimpse into the experience of arriving in Australia today

An eerily quiet airport. A jumbo jet typically filled with over 300 passengers now takes off with just a handful on board.

Health officials fully suited in protective gear. A military convoy to a luxury hotel. The stark reality sets in: no exit from this space for the next 14 days.

This scene might once have belonged in a dystopian movie. Now, it’s the reality most travelers face when flying into Australia—including me, an Australian citizen.

Saying goodbye from Hong Kong to Sydney for the last time

I had to make the difficult journey home for a family funeral.

In October 2018, my father-in-law was diagnosed with terminal cancer. When Covid-19 hit in March, and borders began to close, my wife and child returned to Australia from our home in Hong Kong as his condition worsened.

He passed away on July 17, before I could reunite with them. Despite Australia's strict quarantine regulations, which offered no exemptions, I decided to travel for his funeral and to support my family, who agreed to delay the service until I completed my quarantine.

A surreal journey awaits those flying internationally during these times.

I departed from Hong Kong Airport just 24 hours after his passing. The airport, usually teeming with activity, was now eerily quiet.

The terminals were deserted, upscale restaurants and shops were shut, and passengers were few in what’s typically one of the busiest airports in the world.

Boarding a flight with fewer than 70 passengers – all wearing masks – felt strangely unreal.

As the 8.5-hour flight began its descent, Australia appeared below, as stunning as always. But once I landed in Sydney, it was clear that everything else had changed.

First, health officials clad in full PPE boarded the flight to distribute informational leaflets.

After being cleared to leave the plane, I walked through the almost deserted Sydney Airport terminal. I was screened for a fever and asked a series of questions about my health and travel history.

After hours of waiting with my luggage, I was escorted by state police and military personnel to a vacant bus. No family or friends were there to meet me, and my final destination remained a mystery.

A luxury hotel serves as a quarantine facility.

In the end, my quarantine accommodation would be the InterContinental Hotel, located in Sydney's Central Business District (CBD).

The hotel room came with the usual mini bar, expansive views of the city and its lush botanical gardens, along with the bustling streets below. Some rooms offer a view of the iconic Sydney Harbour, with the Opera House and Harbour Bridge in full view.

The day I landed was marked as my 'Day Zero' by officials, meaning the official countdown didn’t begin until midnight, making it technically 15 days of quarantine (though it’s probably better not to think of it that way).

The next day, a medical team visited, performing throat and nasal swabs with tiny instruments that scraped the back of my throat and both nostrils.

Those who test positive receive a phone call, and their symptoms are closely monitored. On day 10, every guest undergoes a second test.

Fortunately, my test results came back negative.

Meals were delivered to my room three times daily. From what I gathered in social media groups, I ended up in one of the better quarantine spots—many others were less fortunate and complained about their hotel conditions.

However, travelers have no say in the matter. They only discover which hotel they’ll be assigned to when the bus pulls up at the entrance.

Families are placed in larger serviced apartments—when available—and are considered lucky, as these often come with open windows or even balconies.

For me, the craving for fresh air became impossible to ignore after just a few days.

Killing time.

So, how did I fill the long hours in a 32-square-meter room?

A continental breakfast would arrive promptly at 7 a.m., giving me a chance to enjoy a morning video call with my family over coffee and cereal.

Next, I would fit in a morning workout in the small space I had set up for myself.

At some point during the day, I’d get a call from one of the nurses, checking in to make sure everything was fine. Some were chatty, while others stuck to the standard questions and ended the call quickly. For many quarantined travelers, this might be their only human interaction all day.

One nurse seemed taken aback when I asked how she was doing. It was clear the situation was taking its toll on them as well.

After breakfast, I often washed my clothes in the bathtub using some detergent I brought along and hung them to dry. By then, lunch had arrived – usually a sandwich or a salad.

Afternoons were a mix of reading, working, and watching TV, though every now and then, boredom would set in, and I'd find myself making puppets out of paper plates.

Dinner was always warm and varied. After a chat with the family in the evening, I'd usually watch more TV before heading to bed.

I could order groceries or restaurant deliveries. These were left at the hotel front desk and brought up to my door. Care packages were also allowed.

Alcohol was limited to a daily allowance of either a six-pack of beer or a bottle of wine.

The mental toll of isolation.

When you haven’t seen your family in nearly five months and lose a loved one to terminal cancer, being so close yet still unable to be with them—it takes a heavy toll on your mind.

As a photojournalist, I’ve faced worse situations.

Breaking news often means going without enough food, water, or safe shelter for days, all while being surrounded by chaos and death. In that sense, I was probably mentally better equipped for this experience than most.

But it was when I tried to fall asleep that my mind would race. Mostly, I thought about my family and how many more days I had left. After being apart from my one-year-old daughter for five months, I couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to finally see her again in person.

The struggle Australians face to return home.

In 2005, I moved to London as a wide-eyed 23-year-old Aussie.

My first flight was the one that took me away from Sydney’s sun-kissed beaches to the grey skies of the UK, following in the footsteps of countless Australians who’ve made this journey for years.

Estimates vary, but it’s believed there are between 300,000 and a million Australians living abroad.

I spent almost 10 years in London, became a dual citizen, and then relocated to Hong Kong, all while continuing my work with Dinogo.

During all that time, I proudly carried the Australian flag, always happy to share where I was from. I enjoyed the reputation Australians have earned abroad: hardworking, adventurous larrikins who take pride in our identity and love to travel.

But the brutal reality is that, with flight cancellations, mandatory hotel quarantines, government exemptions denied, and a public backlash against returning Australians, the situation has made it nearly impossible for some to return, leaving many feeling like the government has shut its doors on them.

Australia has implemented some of the strictest border restrictions in the world. On March 18, it banned Australians from leaving the country. Two days later, it closed its borders to all but citizens and residents.

Ever since, foreigners have been scrambling to find ways to get home.

Due to caps on international arrivals, only 4,000 people are allowed to enter each week, with no more than 350 permitted to land in Sydney daily.

Some people have suggested we should have returned when we had the chance.

In reality, it's not that simple for most of us. We live in another country, with jobs, friends, children in school, and a life we've built in a foreign land.

Many who decided to return home for various reasons are now stuck overseas, facing canceled flights, sky-high airfares, and no available housing options.

Back in Hong Kong, another round of quarantine awaits.

With the funeral now behind me, I'll soon have to head back to Hong Kong, where I'll face another two weeks of home quarantine before I can resume my life, job, and connections overseas.

I will always see myself as an Australian. I was fortunate to be born, raised, educated, and loved in this country.

One day, I hope to return for good, ideally under better circumstances.

But for now, the future remains uncertain, and choosing to continue my life abroad is a difficult decision that I know I'm not alone in making.