New Year in Australia: Counting Pennies to Get By
I. The Great Australian Egg Shortage
This past New Year, my family and I rented an Airbnb in Sydney, Australia, to ring in the new year. Being unfamiliar with the area, we did all our shopping at the large supermarket chains.
Coming right at the peak of the Christmas and New Year holidays, I realised for the first time that I couldn’t afford the organic eggs in the supermarket. I had to grit my teeth and settle for a carton of free-range eggs—one step down the “egg hierarchy”.
Even the free-range eggs weren’t cheap; a dozen cost nearly 10 Australian dollars. Based on an exchange rate of roughly 1:4.65 between the AUD and RMB, a single egg cost nearly 4 yuan—several times the price back home. These 4-yuan eggs were practically “golden eggs”, and I could only eat them with a heavy heart.
At the time, I assumed it was simply due to the Christmas and New Year break, with many shops closed and suppliers pausing deliveries. After returning home, news of the egg shortage in the US prompted me to revisit the local Australian news. I discovered that Australia had also been suffering from a severe egg shortage caused by avian influenza.
The two major supermarket chains have recently even started limiting egg purchases to two cartons per person. ABC, a mainstream Australian media outlet, recommended that residents try shopping at smaller local stores to find support from small-scale farming supply chains, which are more stable and less affected by the mass culling of industrial farms.
II. What else has gone up in price?
Returning to Sydney after five years, it wasn’t just eggs that had become expensive due to bird flu. Because of severe inflation, many items on the shelves had climbed to unattainable heights. The high-end Australian “Nothing But Oranges” juice, legendary for its rich pulp, had risen from 5 AUD a few years ago to 10 AUD; two litres of orange juice now cost nearly 50 yuan. Although it is indeed freshly squeezed, it’s simply too expensive—I’d rather buy a few oranges and squeeze them myself.
The variety of leafy greens in the big supermarket chains remains as limited as ever—just a sea of green leaves. The locals call them all “greens”, echoing the way some of my friends from southern China call every type of leafy vegetable “qingcai”. The prices are also quite steep: 3 AUD (15 yuan) for a bunch of greens, or 5 AUD (25 yuan) for two ears of corn. At least the husks had been removed, saving the cook a bit of effort. If you want more variety, you have to buy pre-packaged salad mixes, which take us one step further down the path of the minimalist “white people’s meal”.
Of course, Chinese residents living in Australia have other shopping options. At supermarkets like Harris Farm—a sort of Australian version of Whole Foods—or at Chinese supermarkets, one can find a wider variety of vegetables. Sydney Market and Paddy’s Market also offer a broader array of vegetable stalls. For the variety of greens needed for a hotpot, one can see what the local farmers and fellow Chinese compatriots have grown, although the portions are said to be quite large.
Every Sunday, the markets have huge clearance sales, where you can find bags of fruit for as little as 1 AUD. If you live in Australia long-term, you can eat well and affordably by budgeting carefully and growing some of your own vegetables in the backyard.
Overall, however, the price of ingredients in Australia is exorbitant. If one were to set up a hundred baskets of vegetables for a master to inspect, as seen in the film *NeZha 2* in Chen Tang Guan, I shudder to think of the budget required.
The sophisticated and well-known Australian skincare brand Aesop once displayed a basket of ginger in its stores, calling it “spring ginger” as a New Year’s giveaway. Shoppers flocked to them. One shouldn’t underestimate this small piece of complimentary ginger; in a supermarket, it would cost 20 yuan. Buying a tube of hand cream just for the ginger seems like a fair trade. Truly, every generation has its own version of “queuing for free eggs”, and every generation has its own way of valuing the wrapper more than the gift.
III. How About Dining Out?
Australians take immense pride in their creamy lattes and authentic bakes. They used to cost 4 or 5 AUD; now they are 7 or 8 AUD a cup. The simple joy of popping into a cafe for a couple of coffees a day vanished, and I was forced to downgrade to supermarket concentrated cold brew, which I dilute with thick milk—5 AUD now lasts two days.
Even a simple meal out requires careful deliberation. Although most restaurants in Sydney have stopped charging tips during normal hours in recent years, 15 AUD—nearly 80 RMB—is merely the starting price for a bowl of Chinese noodles. Pasta that appeals to the Chinese palate costs 25 AUD a plate; the stomach can accept it, but the wallet cannot. Yang Guo Fu Malatang, which costs 30 RMB to be full or 50 RMB for a feast in China, transforms into a 30 AUD bowl in Australia. Where on earth are these ingredients so precious? Is the fish in a bowl of Malatang wild-caught and flash-frozen from the Pacific?
Don’t feel like heading downstairs? Order a takeaway? That is even more stressful.
I tried Uber Eats, the largest local platform. Compared to the delivery riders in China who zip around on electric scooters, Sydney’s riders generally use bicycles, pedalling hard up and down the city’s slopes—effectively combining a workout with their job. Some do drive, of course, but they haven’t created a corresponding “Australian speed”. I’ve even heard of riders delivering on foot with a thermal bag on their backs; it’s practically hiking, all about that signature “relaxed” vibe.
Once, I ordered some groceries from a nearby supermarket. The store wasn’t far, and the driver was in a car, yet after driving just one kilometre from the shop, they came to a standstill for a whole hour when only 200 metres remained. It was a far cry from the rapid efficiency found in China.
A quick search online suggests that Uber Eats doesn’t seem to have a strict management system for riders, nor is there a tipping system to incentivise them. Consequently, delivery is a matter of “best effort” and doing as they please. Riders might also be taking orders from several platforms simultaneously, meaning they have to coordinate their own routes; as long as it arrives eventually, it’s fine.
Similarly laid-back is Sydney’s transport system. As New Year’s Eve approached, I wanted to head to Sydney Harbour to watch the world’s first fireworks display. Then, I suddenly saw in the news that the transport union had decided to strike on New Year’s Eve. The fate of countless fireworks and pre-booked hotel restaurants was suddenly held in the grip of the transport system.
Fortunately, the government and the union eventually reached a provisional settlement. We made it to the Sydney Harbour area by evening and found a spot to sit on the ground. During the long wait, everyone’s snacks standardised into beef jerky and crisps from the local shops. Those willing to push their boundaries on this surreal journey could try some local kangaroo jerky for a taste of authentic Aussie flavour.
Sitting there for seven or eight hours alongside neighbours from Australia, Brazil, India, Korea, and Japan, we finally witnessed the world’s first fireworks of 2025.
IV. The “Australian After-effects”
Here, the “invisible value” of daily labour becomes far more apparent: every handmade dumpling, every carefully cooked egg, is a task with significant “market value”. Imagine a couple doing housework together; they probably start seeing each other in a much better light: the husband fixes a leaking pipe—great, that’s a thousand saved; the wife makes dumplings herself—that’s another 300 or 400 saved. In the balance of things, they feel the immense value of each other’s diligence, and realise they must stay firmly bound together to keep the household running.
After the New Year, I returned home and spent a week bingeing on Chinese delicacies, but I came back with an after-effect: whenever I make a coffee or boil some noodles at home, I give myself a huge pat on the back: “Brilliant! Saving money! Knowing how to live! Not bad at all!” In this way, my motivation to love life has actually increased.
Come to think of it, should a hard-grown vegetable, a meal delivered to one’s door, or a skill that can save a house from flooding be “a bit expensive”? Although the expensive and “inefficient” Australian delivery riders are often complained about, those we usually consider “low-paid manual workers”—like farmers, delivery riders, and plumbers—live more dignified lives there than in China. I believe there is a certain way to balance the guarantee of a worker’s wages with the overall efficiency of society.
Unless otherwise stated, images are by the author
Editor: Wang Hao