by Erika Matic, currently considering biking everywhere out of spite
There are moments in history that define a nation.
Independence.
EU accession.
The invention of ajvar in a jar.
And now, finally: The Day We Panic-Bought Fuel Like It Was the Last Liquid on Earth.
It started, as all modern chaos does, with the Internet.
Somewhere between a headline about America doing something dramatic again and a Facebook comment written in all caps by a man named Ivica, the message spread: “PRICES ARE GOING UP TOMORROW.”
And just like that, Croatia entered its new era: Petrol Apocalypse: Balkan Drift.
The Great Migration to Petrol Stations
If aliens had landed yesterday, they would have assumed two things:
- Oil had been permanently discontinued.
- Croatians had just discovered internal combustion engines for the first time.
Cars lined up in endless queues. People waited like they were about to receive free land, not pay slightly less for fuel.
There was urgency.
There was tension.
There was a man filling what appeared to be his entire personality with diesel.
And then – the legend.
The man who bought 400 litres of fuel.
Four. Hundred. Litres.
At this point, I don’t even have questions. I have admiration. Because that’s not a purchase. That’s a lifestyle decision. That’s a man who woke up and said: “I will not be controlled by global geopolitics. I will simply out-buy them.”
He wasn’t filling a tank. He was preparing for a Mad Max reboot set in Slavonia.
And when there wasn’t more fuel available? He was angry. Of course he was. Because when you commit to insanity, you expect customer service to support you.
Savings: The Myth, The Legend, The €6
Let’s talk about math. The average Croatian saved… what?
- 3 euros?
- 5 euros?
- 6 euros if they really pushed it and emotionally connected with the nozzle?
We are a nation that will:
- Drive across town.
- Wait in line for an hour.
- Argue with strangers.
- Risk mild public humiliation.
…to save the equivalent of one coffee on the seaside or Zagreb main square.
Financial strategy, but make it theatrical. And the best part? They will still need to buy fuel next week. And the week after.
Because, unless I missed a government announcement, we have not transitioned to teleportation.
Yet.
The Logic (Or Lack Thereof)
I understand fear. I understand uncertainty. I understand looking at the world and thinking, “This feels unstable.”
What I don’t understand is how that leads to: “I will solve this by hoarding petrol like a doomsday squirrel.”
What is the long-term plan here? To… stop driving after this tank runs out? To preserve the fuel in a glass case and show it to future generations?
“Look, children. This is gasoline. In 2026, we fought for it in parking lots.”
Or is it simply the illusion of control? Because nothing calms the human soul like aggressively overreacting to something you cannot influence.
Meanwhile, at the House of Reasonable People
At home, we watched this unfold like it was a live documentary.
“Here we see a Croatian male in his natural habitat.”
“Notice the posture. Defensive. Determined. Slightly confused.”
My husband and I did something radical. We did nothing. We stayed home. We accepted that fuel might cost slightly more. We survived the emotional trauma of not saving 4 euros.
It was difficult.
We lit a candle.
We held hands.
We moved on.
Global Drama, Local Chaos
Somewhere far away, powerful men are making decisions that ripple across the entire planet.
Wars.
Sanctions.
Markets reacting like over-caffeinated teenagers.
And here, in Croatia, we respond the only way we know how: By turning it into a logistical crisis at INA.
Because while we cannot influence global oil prices, we can absolutely block traffic at every gas station within a 20-kilometre radius. This is our contribution to world affairs.
The Psychology of “Just in Case”
Croatians have a deep, inherited instinct: “What if?”
- What if it gets worse?
- What if there’s a shortage?
- What if everyone else buys it first?
So we act.
Not rationally.
Not calmly.
But decisively.
We overbuy.
We overprepare.
We overreact.
Because somewhere in our collective memory lives the belief that if you don’t grab it now, you might not get it later. Even if “it” is… petrol that will still be sold tomorrow.
But trauma doesn’t do logic. Trauma does: “Fill everything that can legally and morally hold liquid.”
Brand New Cars, Same Old Panic
The irony? Many of these people drove to the gas station in cars that cost more than their annual salary.
Leasing plans.
Loans.
Monthly payments whispering gently: “You are modern now.”
And yet – there they are. Fighting over cents per litre. Because nothing says financial stability like a 35,000€ car and a crisis over 6€ in fuel.
We are a fascinating species.
The Real Question
Why does this bother me? It’s not the fuel. It’s not even the queues.
It’s the quiet realisation that we are so easily pushed into chaos. That it takes so little – one announcement, one rumor, one price change – for everything to feel unstable. And instead of stepping back, breathing, and thinking: “This is temporary.”
We sprint.
We hoard.
We panic.
We become characters in a satire we don’t realise we’re writing ourselves.
The Soft Part (Yes, Unfortunately, I Have One)
I make jokes because the alternative is to sit with the discomfort of it all. The world feels unpredictable. Prices rise. Stability feels fragile. And people are trying, in their own chaotic way, to feel safe.
Even if that safety looks like 400 litres of gasoline and a mild emotional breakdown at the pump.
Because underneath the absurdity, there is something human:
- The need to feel prepared.
- The need to feel in control.
- The need to believe we can outsmart uncertainty.
We can’t.
But we try anyway.
And maybe that’s the most Croatian thing of all.
We panic.
We complain.
We overreact.
We survive.
And eventually?
We laugh about it.
Preferably over coffee that now costs 3.80€, because of course it does.
Erika Matic is a Croatian writer documenting the emotional comedy of modern life, Balkan logic, and the delicate balance between rational thinking and full-blown societal panic. She writes about everyday absurdities with sarcasm, softness, and the quiet suspicion that we are all one bad headline away from buying 400 litres of something we don’t actually need.
Leave a Reply