The irony, I suppose, was that people kept asking if I was going home. The UK government, in its infinite wisdom, suddenly suggested all British citizens should just drop everything, with no assistance provided, and leave China. Otherwise no help could be guaranteed, should there be a need, for those of us outside Hubei Province, center of the novel coronavirus epidemic and subject to a strict lockdown since before the Chinese New Year holiday.
And go where? I replied in a grumpy Facebook post. Are they going to pay for me to leave? Pay my salary? Provide accommodation? I have a job here. Responsibilities. There was never any other decision for me. I rescue animals, and couldn’t abandon them anyway.
Then came Storm Ciara. It swept across the UK from the Atlantic, packing super high winds, knocking my mother off her feet when she attempted to close a banging garden gate. She hit her head, and took herself by taxi to the local hospital’s emergency room, where they did not seem to think the damage was too great, and sent her home. She messaged me to tell me what had happened, pleased she had managed it all herself.
The following day it was announced that a local doctor, who had been working in that very emergency room, was infected with the virus. They had come into contact with a businessman, a so-called super spreader, who had picked it up at a business conference in Singapore attended by people from all over the world, including China. He had an elaborate trip home, via France for a skiing vacation, and then back to Brighton, a city a few kilometers down the road from my hometown. One of the people on the ski trip was the doctor.
My mother contacted me, worried. She wondered if she should self-isolate for 14 days. I looked at the dates, and found the infected doctor had been there a few days before her visit, so the risk to her was very low. Still, it illustrates well the web of unlikely connections and pathways such a virus can take.
I was also in China during the SARS epidemic of 2002/3. At that time, I was a tour guide. No one knew the severity of the crisis until quite late, so when I boarded an Air China plane with my group at Heathrow, it was perturbing to see all the crew wearing masks. The trip was a great success – at least until it got canceled halfway through in Shanghai. Everywhere we went was empty – it was lovely looking at normally crowded places like the famous gardens in Suzhou with no crowds of tourists following guides wielding loudhailers.
The first efforts at temperature-taking were chaotic. We had to fight our way out of Nanjing airport. The staff at the Shanghai hotel played with the thermometer, sticking it in and out of each other’s ears. I watched for a while, and then firmly instructed them on the use of disinfectant. But eventually, I got the message that we were all to be repatriated. I was upset for the group, as they would miss their Yangtze cruise, but more upset that I would be leaving my friends in Beijing behind. Plus my mother wouldn’t allow me to go home for a week.
This time, there’s no chance of repatriation. I’m fortunate to live in a residential compound with a garden – albeit quite unkempt. And I have to walk the dogs several times a day, so I can’t stay inside. While there is no mandatory quarantine in Beijing, there are few places to go and rules about how many people you may sit with. I live alone – except the cats and dogs – but I feel it must be worse to be cooped up with a family and children for all this time. Like an endless Christmas vacation without the presents.
Not that there aren’t boxes and packages arriving every day. I had to learn to do some online ordering, as my usual pet food suppliers, I realized early on, would probably not make it back to Beijing anytime soon. My friend accused me of stockpiling. It’s not me, I protested, it’s the rest of them.
A morning ritual is to get a phone call announcing the arrival of a package. They are all to be picked up at the gate. Sometimes, the box is light. Other times, it’s kilos of cat litter. I’m gratified to see neighbors going out in their pajamas. It makes me feel better about looking scruffy. The security guards spend more time organizing people’s home deliveries than doing anything else.
There are trips to the supermarket. One local store had a supply of sterilizing handwash. Does it have a smell, I asked, because I’m allergic to perfume. “It smells of alcohol,” the assistant said. I tried it when I got home. I almost got drunk on the fumes. I think they must be using alcohol stocks that can’t be used, as there is a ban on parties.
We will celebrate when this is all over – I’m imagining it now. But we will not forget the suffering people have endured, and I hope to never experience it again.
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