Part II – Paju, South Korea
The end to my self-isolation here in Korea is within sight. Having arrived nearly two weeks ago, I’m over halfway through the government-mandated period of self-quarantine for arrivals from Europe. For this past week and a half I’ve been living in Paju, a city on the wider outskirts of Seoul, with my grandparents and uncle.
The weather here has truly turned beautiful. In front of the complex of apartments in which my grandparents live there is a park, where snowy pockets of cherry blossoms are appearing around the lake and budding colour returns to branches that had been bare and lifeless. The sky is a clear, lucid blue like my uncle says they haven’t seen for a while; he attributes this to the cease in flow of pollution coming from China, due to the virus-driven lockdown. Whether this is wholly true or not is up for debate. But undoubtedly, the lengthening golden hours and bursts of flower welcome a true feeling of springtime. While the title of this post resonated with the eerie calm of Parisian streets under lockdown when I was there, here it reflects that true sense of tranquility that is felt with the coming of spring. Laughing children and couples stroll through the park, still clad in masks, of course, but with none of the sense of panic I had previously witnessed in Seoul. Rather, there is a sense of harmony; the lively breeze that blows through the provinces seems to bear a promise of change for the better.
Perhaps this is only my wishful thinking. Yet it is impossible not to feel more optimistic with the improvement of the weather, as arbitrary as it seems. My current situation is in stark contrast to the grey, “oppressive” Seoul I left behind a month ago, and the echoing silence of a boarded-up Paris I escaped even more recently. I’m extremely grateful to be here, within reach of a semblance of normalcy.
But how did I manage to end up here, in a time when most of Europe is on lockdown and countries all over the world are tightening their borders? (Read closely, because if you’ve ever wondered what a coronavirus test is actually is like, this exclusive scoop is about to tell you.)
My corona testing experience
In the early evening of the 23rd March, my dad and I drove through the deserted streets of Paris towards the airport. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky and I was semi-afraid of being pulled over by the police. In France, since the implementation of the lockdown, you’ve had to fill in a form declaring your basis for going outside. My reason – to return to Korea to resume my studies – didn’t seem to fit easily into any of the categories listed: the purchase of basic necessities, work that cannot be carried out remotely, the care of a family member, personal exercise or for reasons concerning health. Luckily, our journey was uninterrupted, and I arrived at the airport nearly three hours before for my flight. I’d been worried about being held up by extra security or health checks and so had left home early, but apart from the normal screening procedures, there was nothing. They didn’t even check our temperatures, which I thought was unusual, given the times. Most of the airport was closed and empty; apart from a convenience store and pharmacy by check-in, all shops and cafes were closed. I boarded a plane that was packed with Koreans fleeing Europe for their homeland, with only a small handful of foreigners on board.
Upon arriving at Incheon airport after the 11 hour flight, I was given a badge that identified me as one of the few foreign-passport holders who’d arrived on the flight from Paris. Whilst on board we’d had to fill in various health declaration forms, and now I followed the mass of people to stand in line to submit them. As we queued airport employees came round checking that we’d downloaded the app that would enable the government to keep track of our symptoms on our phones. The line was long; I waited for perhaps an hour, and as I came closer to the desks at the front of the queue I could make out figures in hazmat suits beyond (they seemed to be testing Korean citizens for symptoms). Finally, I went up to the counter and handed in my forms, after which I was guided towards an employee who briefed me that I was not to take off my badge until told to, and that I was to take a bus to a facility to be tested for the virus. I nodded my understanding and proceeded through immigration, which was by contrast very quick, given the lack of foreigners: I weaved my way through the empty stanchions across the squeaky white floor and had my passport checked in no time. I picked up my luggage from the conveyor belt and headed for the exit, feeling a little apprehensive – I had no idea if there would be someone beyond to guide me or whether they expected to figure it out myself. As I stepped through the doors an employee spotted my badge and directed me to one side, doing the same for a French mother and her two children who had come through after me. He led us towards one of three large buses outside, the kind used by tour groups, into which our luggage was loaded and we were told to take our seats. The bus was dark, and there were a few people already sitting within, separate to each other. I took a seat at the front of the bus and waited to depart.
I waited for nearly two hours before someone came onto the bus to say we were about to leave. It was by now past 7pm, and he asked whether anyone would need the toilet, because the journey would take three hours. By the time the bus finally started to move it had long since fallen dark outside. I had no idea where we were going or what exactly was going to happen once we arrived. Before returning to Korea I’d done my best to research what the quarantine measures would be upon arrival: I’d found an article saying that all passengers from Europe would be taken to a facility and tested for the virus, after which, even if they were tested negative, they would have to self-isolate for 14 days. However, if the person in question was to stay in Korea for a long period of time or did not have an appropriate place to stay, they would undergo the period of isolation in a government facility. Tired from the two hours of sleep I’d barely managed to snatch on the flight, the long periods of waiting and unable to do anything else in my situation, I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke the bus was still moving. I peered out of the window, trying to distinguish something other than my own reflection in all the blackness, and succeeded in making out something that looked like a security hut, the kind you would see next to a tollgate. We passed through and soon I could see lights, emanating from a single building, the telltale shapes of hazmat suits profiled against them. Voices could be heard out of the darkness below the bus; a woman’s, fairly nasal, seemed to be in charge and directing the others around. Two other buses had arrived with us, and through the window I could see their passengers disembarking with their luggage to form a queue outside the building, two meters apart from each other. As the caterpillar line of people disappeared into the building, the women’s voice called in broken English, “You must get off the bus, now. Get off the bus – now.” I don’t know if she meant to say it so threateningly, but it certainly sounded so. We disembarked hurriedly, grabbed our luggage and queued in the same fashion as the others had done. When I came to stand at the threshold of the entrance I was sprayed down with disinfectant by a hazmat and directed inside to a desk where a few other hazmats were gathered. I gave them my name and passport details, and in return they handed me a room key. In response to when I was to be tested, they said “Tomorrow”; in response to what time, they told me there would be an announcement later, and escorted me to my room.
The building seemed to be some kind of accommodation for a university or conference centre. My room was quite spacious: it had a bathroom and I was given toiletries and a towel… overall, it was clean and comfortable. At around 11:30pm an announcement came on over the loud speakers: we were to be tested at 7am tomorrow, and our meals were being distributed at that moment; we should not collect them from outside our doors until we heard a following announcement declaring it was safe to do so. So it was that I came to be eating dinner out of a plastic tray at 12am, tired yet strangely unruffled by my situation. After doing the sheets that had been folded and laid out on the bed, I fell into a deep and seemingly instantaneous sleep.
I’d set my alarm for the next morning so that I could have a shower before the testing was done. They were delayed slightly; I think it was past 8am when I heard a knock on my door and opened it to see two people in hazmat suits, one wheeling a small trolley equipped with all sorts of small steel canisters. The one without the trolley asked to see my passport before introducing himself as a doctor and explaining how the test would work. Taking something that looked like the needle part of a syringe, but plastic, and with a small swab at its tip, he told me he was going to put it up my nose. “You’re going to feel discomfort and some pain.” I nodded. He also said that he was going to take a sample from the back of my throat, and that it would make me feel like I wanted to throw up. Less intimidated than determined to show I could bear the discomfort easily, I stood with my back against the wall and my head tilted at a 45 degree angle, as instructed. As the swab first entered my right nostril I felt no pain at all, but it continued to move slowly upwards, so far so that I felt the discomfort acutely: my right eye started to water and I thought of the Egyptian mummies and how they had their brains removed through their nostrils and hoped that the same wouldn’t happen to me. Having obtained this sample, the hazmat-suited-doctor obtained another from the back of my throat, and the test was done. It had taken less than a minute; all that was left was to wait for the results, which were to come out around 4pm, and to have breakfast (and lunch) in the meantime.
Around half past four in the afternoon, the loudspeaker came to life once again and declared that all those who had arrived the previous night, save some five or so rooms, had tested negative. A bus would be taking us back to the airport and we were asked to dispose of all the rubbish in our rooms in the manner in which we had been instructed. This was the following: put all our rubbish into the yellow “hazardous” plastic bag each of us had been provided with; put the bag into a cardboard box; seal the cardboard box with the roll of tape and cutting knife, also provided; and leave this outside our rooms. I turned in my room key and had my personal and contact details confirmed before receiving a sheet of quarantine rules and stepping, once more, onto the bus.
It was still light when we left, though the day was starting to wane, and it was perhaps because of this that the journey back to the airport seemed shorter than the outward one. I’d made the last minute decision with my family after testing negative to go to Paju the period of isolation instead of the apartment I shared with four other girls in Seoul. My uncle picked me up from the airport and brought me to my grandparents’ house, where I’ve been since. Everyday at 10am I get a notification from the self-diagnosis app I’d downloaded at the airport, nudging me to fill in my symptoms or lack of them. And everyday I receive a call at varying times in the afternoon checking once again if I have any symptoms. I’ve been occupying my time quite well; I have online classes for my Korean course every morning, and in the afternoons I write and read and watch something.
With four days remaining of what was nearly a month of isolation (from my arrival in Paris to now), it seems that the time has passed extremely quickly; the prospect of being able to go out to restaurants and cafes and shops again soon is somewhat alien to me, now. Looking back, I have to question myself as to whether I made the most of my time in quarantine. (I definitely have found it too easy to spend too long on Instagram.) Though these times are uncertain and unprecedented, they are also an opportunity to embark on projects and do the things we had saved up for that intangible, mythical moment of “when I have more time.” It seems that against all odds, that moment has finally arrived – and thus we should do our best to make the most of it.
Now is the time to brush up on language skills, do yoga, meditate, read books, start that show, cook, bake, paint, call your loved ones, listen to podcasts, dance to Just Dance videos on YouTube, begin an online course, organise your music playlists, clear your laptop desktop, write, collate your past writings – or just sleep. In our modern day and age, there is so much we can do from the ease and safety of our own homes, and we should not take it for granted. We have so much to be grateful for: the internet and the ability to stay connected with our friends; to be entertained; to discover new knowledge; even for our access to basic amenities like water and heating and food. Everyone all over the world is now confronting this pandemic, and yet so many people do not have the means to weather it through, in comfort, as we do. Knowing this, one must make the most of our situation. If it helps, we should think of it as time given to us by the universe for you to become your best self.
P.S If you got to the end of this longer-than-normal post, thank you! Your reading means a lot to me 🙂 stay tuned for more writings coming your way soon xxx
