First encounter : A coronavirus tale
Yesterday I met up with a familiar human being for a face-to face conversation — my first such encounter in 136 days (almost 20 weeks).
It’s not that I hadn’t actually spoken with a human being in the physical world in all that time. I have exchanged the cursory few words that occur at the food shop or pharmacy checkout on the 2 or 3 times per week I venture out beyond the walls of my apartment, where I live by myself (with my cats).
I have also spoken, briefly, with the dentist I finally managed to visit (on an urgent basis) after a delay of four months — where two teeth which were by then badly infected had to be extracted. Also, after a horrible and unhygienic episode for the residents in the apartment below me, I did speak briefly with the emergency plumber finally sent by my building administration to pull up my bathroom floor and replace a sewage pipe that had sprung a leak. [The kind plumber also (and perhaps illegally) fixed my toilet so it flushed — which, not being regarded as an emergency, I had to live with for many months of the lockdown period.]
But none of those conversations touched my heart the way a one hour meetup with someone I knew and cared about (and who cared about me) did — after 20 weeks of isolation mandated by government due to the coronavirus ‘pandemic’.
But none of those conversations touched my heart the way a one hour meetup did with someone I knew and cared about (and who cared about me) — after almost 20 weeks of isolation mandated by government due to the coronavirus ‘pandemic’.
Not only have we been “locked down” since 19 March 2020, but masks had also been mandated earlier here (14 April 2020) than in many countries.
Despite being a skeptic about the ‘coronavirus pandemic’ narrative, as a generally law abiding person I acquired some masks and dutifully tried to wear them as I ventured out to buy essential supplies of cat and human food, and life-saving pharmaceuticals. Despite now having no income, due mainly to the lockdown, I now had to pay for medicines at the local pharmacy because the dispensary at my local public hospital, which normally supplies them at no cost, was out of bounds — due to coronavirus ‘health protection measures’. I’m not really complaining; it just meant a few more skipped meals for me. Not for the cats though — it was hardly their fault.
However, I quickly discovered that my slow and careful walks to the local grocery store, generally manageable despite by debilitating COPD, became almost impossible in a mask. My normal reaction to any form of physical exertion — laboured breathing, ranging from puffing to desperate panting — was magnified so much behind a mask that I genuinely feared passing out in the street.
However, I quickly discovered that my slow and careful walks to the local grocery store, generally manageable despite my debilitating COPD, had become almost impossible in a mask. My normal reaction to any form of physical exertion — laboured breathing, ranging from puffing to desperate panting — was magnified so much behind a mask that I genuinely feared passing out in the street due to lack of oxygen.
And where would I be then? Some ‘concerned citizen’ (or police officer) would be sure, from my symptoms, that I had Covid-19 and pack me off to the hospital in an ambulance while I lacked the breath to explain what had really happened. And my cats would starve while I waited days for a test.
So I did the logical thing — I stopped going out as much as I possibly could. No exercise. No human contact at all. And not much food, as my COPD also limits the weight I can carry home from any one trip to the shops.
Police officers do monitor neighbourhood streets for quarantine breakers, and once (early on), as I sat on the stoop of an apartment building to catch my breath and take a puff of medication, a police officer asked me if I was alright. Yes, I eventually managed to tell him, but my bag was heavy. Could he help me? The kind young man looked very surprised (asking for help from police is not a local custom) but he did pick up my bag and carry it to my door (about 50m away). His mother would have been proud of him.
It became apparent that not going out was not a viable long term strategy for personal survival and, as the “lockdown” was extended over and over, that the problem was not going to go away. So I cautiously changed tack by abandoning mask-wearing in the street. I started carrying my mask by its strings in the street and only putting it on for a quick foray into a shop or bank lobby (for an ATM). Suddenly the world looked different. I could breath again, at least sufficiently to meet my basic needs via excursions into the shared spaces of my city.
Now, though, I was the ONLY unmasked person on the street. And the other people, rendered faceless by the predominantly black masks, looked like muzzled monsters passing by. “Is this what masked people look like to small children and adults challenged by mental illness or dementia?” I wondered.
Now, though, I was the ONLY unmasked person on the street. And other people, rendered faceless by the predominantly black masks, looked like muzzled monsters passing by. “Is this what masked people look like to small children and adults challenged by mental illness or dementia?” I wondered. Even further, could this fearful scenario be contributing to the early deaths of elders in ‘care’ homes all over the world — are they frightened to death?
First Encounter
But let’s get back to my very special hour yesterday, my first physical-world encounter with a familiar person in 136 days.
My friend suggested we each walk to a park equidistant between our apartments. She too lives alone and, if possible, goes out even less often than I. Not having needed an emergency dentist or plumber she had also seen fewer human beings, even of the unfamiliar kind.
It had to be somewhere we could both walk to, as public transport in our city has been out of bounds to all but those with special permission to travel (ie for work) for the whole period of the lockdown. And driving a car (not that either of us have one) also requires a special permit. [My emergency dentist was quite worried that my taxi might be stopped and asked for a permit en route to or from the surgery , but fortunately that did not occur.]
We planned our outing carefully, to coordinate our rendezvous, and to maximise the period in which we might partake of sunshine and each other’s company.
So this has been our third winter with no hot water, or heating or gas cookers. Still, on every walk around my barrio I see growing numbers of homeless people living in the street. I feel very lucky …
The day proved to be warm and soft, in the middle of what has been a very cold winter. For the inhabitants of my apartment building it has been colder than for some, as our gas was cut off three years ago due to someone complaining that they could smell gas in their apartment. This meant the building was required to strip out all gas pipes and instal new ones before the gas would be reconnected. It’s good that the gas company cares about resident welfare. But the general poverty here, even before the lockdown, and the rampant inflation, meant that it took years to accumulate the funds to complete such an upgrade. And just as we reached our target, the lockdown began. So this has been our third winter with no hot water, or heating or gas cookers. And now the even greater inflation has eaten our savings. Still, on every walk around my barrio I see growing numbers of homeless people living in the street. I feel very lucky to have a kettle to make hot water for washing in, a private space I can lock, and a warm, comfortable bed in which to sleep. There are many worse things than having no gas.
I was the first to arrive at the park. It had been renovated just prior to the “lockdown” and looked very pretty and inviting. Very green too, for eyes that had just looked out on a concrete jungle for 20 weeks. A long bank of attractive concrete benches had been provided by the park designers. On this day, though, they were all festooned with yellow incident tape, and every second bench had a notice taped on it “Do Not Sit Here”. Having walked several blocks (with no mask), I did need to sit down so I carefully positioned myself on one of the benches without a notice.
I relaxed into the unexpected warmth of the day, and watched the black-masked people walking around the square at the heart of the park. One woman with two children came by. Her little girl, aged about 6 years, had her face fully masked. Her little boy though, aged about four, wore no mask. He came close to me, put his hands on his hips in a parody of a chastising adult and proceeded to wag his finger at me, all the time making authoritative noises. (I didn’t understand his words— they may have been Mandarin.) I burst out laughing. Fortunately, so did his mother. My guess is that he was mirroring some public shaming he had received for not wearing his mask.
My friend arrived. I hardly recognised her at first, as (like many people) her hair had turned to salt and pepper from the privations of the quarantine. My own hair has been silver for years, so no change there. As I rose to greet her and we cautiously touched elbows, tears welled in my eyes. With the wonders of the internet, and even the phone, I have had plenty of electronic contact with other humans. So I hadn’t really expected this first encounter to feel like a big deal. But it did.
There are several cafes surrounded by a very pleasant paved courtyard in this renovated park. We went to one and each ordered a snack and a hot drink. My friend had her mask on the whole time, and I put mine on to go to the cashier to order our great treat. This was the first cup of coffee I had purchased in 5 months. Government rules (“for the protection of our health”) meant that no sitting was permitted inside the cafe — although we were the only customers. Nor were we permitted to sit in the open air courtyard. Indeed, all seating had been removed. We had a brief chat with the cafe manager — business was not good. Unsurprising really.
So with drinks and snacks in hand we slowly climbed the steps back up to the park proper — I had taken some extra medication prior to the outing, otherwise the steps would have been too much for me. Once at park level, we looked for somewhere to sit. Alas, the “Do Not Sit Here” signs seemed to be everywhere. So we conspired at some civil disobedience, and sat on a low wall at the edge of the grass.
Once at park level, we looked for somewhere to sit. Alas, the “Do Not Sit Here” signs seemed to be everywhere. So we conspired at some civil disobedience, and sat on a low wall at the edge of the grass.
Oh, the joy of a real, face-to-face chat (“socially distanced” by more than a metre, of course) about nothing of world import — just the small exchanges that cement a friendship. And sometimes shared silence as we both took in a world much larger than the usual confines of our apartments. The forgotten bliss of being ‘seen’ as a real person by someone who cares.
The park was not crowded, but a steady stream of parents and children walked or cycled by. One father and child, playing on a skateboard, stood out as unmasked but everyone else was playing by the ‘pandemic’ rules. A group of black-clad, armed and muzzled police made their way across the terrain, accompanied by black-muzzled Alsatian dogs. Their passage was uneventful but never-the-less impactful, as dogs rarely accompany police on our city streets. Perhaps they were deemed necessary to sniff out the infected.
I have been surprised at how many police have been found by the authorities in their effort to control citizen behaviour in this time of coronavirus. A year or so ago, after three men entered my apartment, trashed it, beat and almost asphyxiated me, threatening (with a cutting blade in their hands) to chop off my fingers if I didn’t give them money (which I couldn’t since I didn’t have any), the police did not seem to have the resources to follow up on the information I provided so as to apprehend the culprits. It does seem that the culprits were eventually caught though, after beating up and breaking the bones of a well connected elderly couple in the same neighbourhood. Better late than never.
I survived the home invasion, and kind friends helped me clean up the mess. My black and blue face healed quickly, although the damage to my leg took longer. Further, the experience made me determined not to live a life ruled by fear. But now that there are large notices in the street announcing house to house visits to test for coronavirus, I confess I do feel somewhat nervous about that. Innocently answering my doorbell to a supposedly official person (the post) already brought me great distress. I have no desire to do it again. Or to give my DNA to the government, even if the bell-ringer were legitimate. I’m planning not to be at home.
Coffee in hand, we chatted away for about half an hour, both revelling in the luxury of the encounter. In another era, the freedom to sit and talk to a friend for a short period would go unnoticed, but in the time of coronavirus all our evaluations have been altered.
Then along came the low level city employee charged with putting us in our place. “You can’t sit down,” she said. “Only walking around is permitted.” Reluctantly, we packed up our empty paper cups and slowly walked to the other side of the park to take a photo. My drugs were wearing off, so I sat down on the grass for a brief respite. Our nemesis followed us over. “Sitting down is not permitted,” she said again. I took a puff on my inhaler. “ You can have five minutes,” she said, clearly feeling that she was being generous. She moved off a short distance, keeping an eye on her recalcitrant targets.
To be honest, I felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Grossly obese, spending all day on her feet playing spoiler to those wanting to enjoy the unseasonably warm day by spending an hour with a friend in a public park cannot be the most comfortable or inspiring (or well paid) of occupations, and in tough times everyone has to make ends meet.
But isn’t that the excuse we make for all kapos? When there is simply no sense in the rules, all regimes have found it best to set one group of prisoners (and the working poor are certainly that) against another. And there is no doubt we have all become prisoners of the government rules around the coronavirus ‘pandemic’ — in almost all countries. We are not permitted to debate the rules, or even the science on which the rules are purportedly based. Those who do so are ruthlessly censored — even doctors and scientists.
Still, this is not the place for that conversation. Here, I just wanted to share the enormous pleasure that even less than an hour of human contact brings — especially after 20 weeks of isolation (“for our own good”).
I left the sweetest bit for last. My friend brought with her a jar of homemade green tomato chutney as a gift. With every bite of today’s cheese and chutney sandwich, I tasted again the essential humanity of our face-to-face encounter.
I hope I don’t have to wait 20 weeks for another. And next time, would it be too much to ask that we could actually sit down in a public park?
Thanks for reading this tale.
This is my permission to republish it, so long as you republish the whole story, unedited, and give attribution with a linkback to this article.
