Behind the Bamboo Curtain: The Coronavirus Crisis
Behind the Bamboo Curtain
Crisis, Quarantine, and Isolation
The plane touched down at Nanning airport at midday. A long haul flight from Australia to China always takes a lot out of me, and so I was looking forward to reaching my friend's house as soon as possible - only a three hour train ride away.
The first few days were uneventful. I visited the countryside, met locals, ate copious amounts of dumplings, mandarins and pickled vegetables.
On the fifth day, reports came in of an unidentified virus in Wuhan. At first, no one took any notice of it. A few days later, though, the roads were blocked. The iron fist came down hard, closing around Hubei province and spreading out over southern China, and cutting us off from the outside world.
So began my isolation.
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| Ghost town. Image credit: Getty Images |
The only time I managed to get out the house after the virus outbreak, I headed to a local mall to get some gift shopping done. Everyone was masked up and maintaining a fair distance from their fellow man. Looking back, I now realise that even at this early stage, there was only a fraction of the usual crowd walking around outside. At the time, I didn't think anything of it, and I finished my shopping quickly and returned to my host's house.
Odd rumours began to circulate on WeChat, too. False news reports of unusual deaths from Wuhan, a regional centre almost a thousand kilometres northeast. I'd visited the city before, and I remembered the smell of the wet markets, street food stalls, and the bustling crowds of itinerant students in the university district. The word "SARS" was thrown around in hushed tones. Videos of screaming civilians being dragged into vans by hazmat-suited quarantine officers did the rounds on WeChat groups. The rumour mill worked its magic and before long, the government was forced to admit that yes, there was indeed a new disease in Wuhan and yes, it was deadly. We had a new word for the outbreak - coronavirus.
The government crackdown
A government announcement came over the television while we were eating our morning meal. It was broadcast on all stations, a simple blue screen with white text over it, narrated in Standard Mandarin by a faceless newscaster. "As of 9 o'clock this morning, all transport links to Hubei are severed. The novel coronavirus is a public health risk, and all citizens should wear face masks and avoid leaving their residences, except for in emergencies. Any illnesses must be reported immediately to your local hospital. Failure to comply with quarantine measures is illegal."
For the locals I was living with, this wasn't a big deal. For me, I was equal parts fascinated and concerned by the dystopian message that blared through the living room. "It'll just be like SARS again, except we're ready this time," one of my hosts mused. "The government knows what to do, so we will just stay indoors for a few days and let it all blow over. Have some tea."
Over the following day and a half, more and more public services were suspended. High speed rail, my original method of getting to an international airport, was shut down across the provinces. My host assured me that if all else failed, a car ride wouldn't be out of the question.
Airlines started cancelling flights during the peak Chinese New Year migration. Tens of thousands of Chinese were left stranded in unfamiliar cities as domestic transport services were cut off. International flights, usually packed with holidaymakers and tourists, were also affected. My flight was cancelled, and with only a skeleton crew manning the customer service centres during the Spring Festival, I had no way of confirming that I would be able to find an alternative route.
Hundreds of medical staff started trickling into the area. From the sixth floor window we could see trucks full of nurses and doctors from the western reaches being bussed through our small city. Uniformed officers escorted trucks of medical supplies, all wearing a surgical mask that contrasted starkly with the dark greens and greys of their jackets.
Schools shut down, with security closing the vast iron gates and locking them with thick iron chains. Education was a cornerstone of Chinese society, and the image of security guards turning masked students away from the school gates is one I didn't think I'd see.
Roadblocks were erected and mandatory temperature and health checks placed at the entrance and exit to each city. The roads emptied out over the next couple of days, until finally all the action was replaced with an eerie calm.
Each morning I would wake up, greet my hosts, take a mandarin upstairs and begin my self-study. I'm a firm believer in the power of routine, and so I would work as efficiently as possible to complete the tasks I assigned myself. I stretched, did a light workout, re-arranged the desk...yet only an hour or two had passed. Stuck behind the Great Firewall and with an intermittent VPN connection, my online access was also greatly limited. Sitting in front of my computer and praying that the VPN would complete its connection became a morning ritual. It dictated whether I would speak to anyone outside of the house that day.
School resumed through online classes. Millions of young Chinese would wake up early and log into a new online platform, designed and supported by the government, to connect with teachers and classmates. Something that impressed me was how quickly people adapted to the changes. Work was now done from home, the suspension of delivery services meant that people were relying on their own gardens more than ever, and students would push themselves to study from their own rooms for ten hours a day.
WeChat use skyrocketed. The usual Spring Festival traditions - visiting far away relatives, giving red packets, sharing banquets in restaurants - were replaced with digital facsimiles. Video calls while eating from home helped bridge the physical gap between family members, and while it was not ideal, it was certainly a testament to the power of technology.
Local party cadre followed the example of the upper echelon and sent messages of encouragement to their constituents. Political slogans and rhetoric switched their focus from countering dissent to reassuring the people that the Middle Kingdom would utterly vanquish the coronavirus using patriotism and jingoistic pride. Videos of Wuhan residents shouting from the rooftops at each other to not give up served only to reinforce the people's belief in the power of the party.
Usually I mark time by events: meetings, dates, meals, workouts. I can think of a day by remembering what activities I had planned. Being isolated from the world, and being kept indoors, has a way of stripping that from you. Instead of events giving time a solid, rigid feel, time begins to speed up and slow down at random. Entire days go by where you don't remember anything concrete, while others seem to open up like a fractal image, drawing you deeper into reminiscence until you rise from your seat and draw the curtains wide, only to be met with an inky blackness. In southern China, where fog blankets the land, even the sun isn't a permanent feature. There's a common folk saying that in these cities, dogs bark at the sun.
The escape
It's dark, it's cold, and the single meat bun in my bag is not going to satisfy my ravenous hunger.
With Australia closing its borders to flights from China, and most of China's neighbours following suit, the window of opportunity for me to escape had started to close rapidly. Eventually, with some help from a sympathetic local with a spare car, we plotted a route.
I left the host under the cover of night, at 2 in the morning, and was hurriedly bundled into a car. At this time, only cars with certain number-plates were able to leave the city. This man owed the host family a favour, and so he became an accomplice to my daring escape.
We drove until 7. We were stopped three times by medical staff, once by the police, but we were thankfully not turned back. Saying farewell to my silent but generous chauffeur, I entered the airport. In the entire departures section, there were three people. I checked my bags and headed to the gate to board the first of four flights.
After a long delay in Shenzhen, my flight to Thailand was given the all-clear. As we took off, I looked out the window at the cold city I was leaving behind. Rain had begun to fall, and the shimmer of the city lights played across the window for a few minutes before the clouds swallowed our plane.
There has been intense speculation on the origins of the novel coronavirus, ranging from conspiracy theories involving American deep-cover spies to bat origination in the same vein as SARS, but nothing has been conclusively confirmed. At this point, it's unlikely that we will ever have a satisfactory answer as to what started the outbreak.
As an introvert, I often complain about needing to spend time with people. I feel drained by conversations and I retreat to my study to read books whenever the opportunity presents itself. Even I have to admit, however, that my introversion has its limits.
Odd rumours began to circulate on WeChat, too. False news reports of unusual deaths from Wuhan, a regional centre almost a thousand kilometres northeast. I'd visited the city before, and I remembered the smell of the wet markets, street food stalls, and the bustling crowds of itinerant students in the university district. The word "SARS" was thrown around in hushed tones. Videos of screaming civilians being dragged into vans by hazmat-suited quarantine officers did the rounds on WeChat groups. The rumour mill worked its magic and before long, the government was forced to admit that yes, there was indeed a new disease in Wuhan and yes, it was deadly. We had a new word for the outbreak - coronavirus.
The government crackdown
A government announcement came over the television while we were eating our morning meal. It was broadcast on all stations, a simple blue screen with white text over it, narrated in Standard Mandarin by a faceless newscaster. "As of 9 o'clock this morning, all transport links to Hubei are severed. The novel coronavirus is a public health risk, and all citizens should wear face masks and avoid leaving their residences, except for in emergencies. Any illnesses must be reported immediately to your local hospital. Failure to comply with quarantine measures is illegal."
For the locals I was living with, this wasn't a big deal. For me, I was equal parts fascinated and concerned by the dystopian message that blared through the living room. "It'll just be like SARS again, except we're ready this time," one of my hosts mused. "The government knows what to do, so we will just stay indoors for a few days and let it all blow over. Have some tea."
Over the following day and a half, more and more public services were suspended. High speed rail, my original method of getting to an international airport, was shut down across the provinces. My host assured me that if all else failed, a car ride wouldn't be out of the question.
Airlines started cancelling flights during the peak Chinese New Year migration. Tens of thousands of Chinese were left stranded in unfamiliar cities as domestic transport services were cut off. International flights, usually packed with holidaymakers and tourists, were also affected. My flight was cancelled, and with only a skeleton crew manning the customer service centres during the Spring Festival, I had no way of confirming that I would be able to find an alternative route.
Hundreds of medical staff started trickling into the area. From the sixth floor window we could see trucks full of nurses and doctors from the western reaches being bussed through our small city. Uniformed officers escorted trucks of medical supplies, all wearing a surgical mask that contrasted starkly with the dark greens and greys of their jackets.
Schools shut down, with security closing the vast iron gates and locking them with thick iron chains. Education was a cornerstone of Chinese society, and the image of security guards turning masked students away from the school gates is one I didn't think I'd see.
Roadblocks were erected and mandatory temperature and health checks placed at the entrance and exit to each city. The roads emptied out over the next couple of days, until finally all the action was replaced with an eerie calm.
Interregnum
At this point, the days started to blur together.Each morning I would wake up, greet my hosts, take a mandarin upstairs and begin my self-study. I'm a firm believer in the power of routine, and so I would work as efficiently as possible to complete the tasks I assigned myself. I stretched, did a light workout, re-arranged the desk...yet only an hour or two had passed. Stuck behind the Great Firewall and with an intermittent VPN connection, my online access was also greatly limited. Sitting in front of my computer and praying that the VPN would complete its connection became a morning ritual. It dictated whether I would speak to anyone outside of the house that day.
School resumed through online classes. Millions of young Chinese would wake up early and log into a new online platform, designed and supported by the government, to connect with teachers and classmates. Something that impressed me was how quickly people adapted to the changes. Work was now done from home, the suspension of delivery services meant that people were relying on their own gardens more than ever, and students would push themselves to study from their own rooms for ten hours a day.
WeChat use skyrocketed. The usual Spring Festival traditions - visiting far away relatives, giving red packets, sharing banquets in restaurants - were replaced with digital facsimiles. Video calls while eating from home helped bridge the physical gap between family members, and while it was not ideal, it was certainly a testament to the power of technology.
Local party cadre followed the example of the upper echelon and sent messages of encouragement to their constituents. Political slogans and rhetoric switched their focus from countering dissent to reassuring the people that the Middle Kingdom would utterly vanquish the coronavirus using patriotism and jingoistic pride. Videos of Wuhan residents shouting from the rooftops at each other to not give up served only to reinforce the people's belief in the power of the party.
Usually I mark time by events: meetings, dates, meals, workouts. I can think of a day by remembering what activities I had planned. Being isolated from the world, and being kept indoors, has a way of stripping that from you. Instead of events giving time a solid, rigid feel, time begins to speed up and slow down at random. Entire days go by where you don't remember anything concrete, while others seem to open up like a fractal image, drawing you deeper into reminiscence until you rise from your seat and draw the curtains wide, only to be met with an inky blackness. In southern China, where fog blankets the land, even the sun isn't a permanent feature. There's a common folk saying that in these cities, dogs bark at the sun.
The escape
It's dark, it's cold, and the single meat bun in my bag is not going to satisfy my ravenous hunger.
With Australia closing its borders to flights from China, and most of China's neighbours following suit, the window of opportunity for me to escape had started to close rapidly. Eventually, with some help from a sympathetic local with a spare car, we plotted a route.
I left the host under the cover of night, at 2 in the morning, and was hurriedly bundled into a car. At this time, only cars with certain number-plates were able to leave the city. This man owed the host family a favour, and so he became an accomplice to my daring escape.
We drove until 7. We were stopped three times by medical staff, once by the police, but we were thankfully not turned back. Saying farewell to my silent but generous chauffeur, I entered the airport. In the entire departures section, there were three people. I checked my bags and headed to the gate to board the first of four flights.
After a long delay in Shenzhen, my flight to Thailand was given the all-clear. As we took off, I looked out the window at the cold city I was leaving behind. Rain had begun to fall, and the shimmer of the city lights played across the window for a few minutes before the clouds swallowed our plane.
Homecoming
I'm back now, staying with my family. I'm not allowed to rejoin society for another two weeks, but having family (and cats) makes things bearable.There has been intense speculation on the origins of the novel coronavirus, ranging from conspiracy theories involving American deep-cover spies to bat origination in the same vein as SARS, but nothing has been conclusively confirmed. At this point, it's unlikely that we will ever have a satisfactory answer as to what started the outbreak.
As an introvert, I often complain about needing to spend time with people. I feel drained by conversations and I retreat to my study to read books whenever the opportunity presents itself. Even I have to admit, however, that my introversion has its limits.
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