As I came to the end of my time in Japan, the oppressive heat of the Japanese summer descended upon us. In the office suits and ties were soon forgone in favour of polo shirts, and when the ambient temperature passed the threshold of 28 degrees celcius, the air-conditioners were allowed again. My farewell dinner approached, and I attended my final closing ceremony at the school, the students distanced (can't show you photos of the kids, it wasn't allowed).
Thanking the Principal.
I had been packing, selling and disposing of my goods ready
to leave, all the while wearing a face mask when meeting with people. With
perseverance and a bit of luck, other ALTs (foreign Assistant Language Teachers
like me) in the area wanted some of my gear. Corwin was the other foreign
teacher in town, looking after the students up to the equivalent of Australian
Year 9. He had a date coming up so he bought the record player I’d acquired
from my predecessor, along with my one record (Bach!). Apparently it had the
desired effect with his date. I was impressed with his foresight.
Some furniture could be dismantled but the western-style
double bed was another thing. I don’t know how they got the mattress upstairs when
it was first purchased. After failing to get it down the steep, narrow stairwell,
me and my friend Takuya had to remove the sliding balcony doors and drop it down
onto Corwin’s ute tray. Or should I say, onto Corwin. Built strong, he was able
to catch it single-handedly. Takuya and I, who together had the pleasure of
dropping it on him, looked down on the massive mattress laying akimbo on the
tray. A miracle he didn’t break his neck, we said to each other as we hastened
to find tarps and ropes.
Another challenge during this time was getting permission to
enter Australia. Hearing that Australia had banned overseas arrivals, I
contacted the Embassy. When asked, they simply said “I don’t know what you mean
about legal obstacles. You’re an Australian citizen and can’t be denied entry.”
I was pleased to hear that, but part of me wondered if there might be more to
it. I was right – my partner (who had stayed behind in Australia) found out
that Western Australia uses the “G2G” system to control borders, and lodged an
application on my behalf. After two weeks of waiting, my application was
rejected. Apparently it was because of insufficient information. Saying I would
go home and back to work wasn’t enough.
Naturally, my family were upset, and
messages full of advice came thick and fast. It was grateful, since my situation was becoming precarious. Some in Australia weren't aware of the kind of risks that I was having to take. On further research, I found that the reasons for being allowed
into WA given on the WA Government website were different to those you could choose
in your online application. Anyway, this being part of a long journey over
which I had little control, I had no choice but to just lodge another
application with support letters and hope for the best.
My loved ones in Australia suggested arranging a business
class ticket just to get home, however with all the information available to
us, it seemed like there was no guarantee even those flights would arrive in
Australia, due to the caps on daily arrivals in each state. One flight had
already been cancelled, and if were to fail to board the ticket the school had
bought me, they would no longer have any obligation to get me home. As it was,
they said they would arrange an alternative, even if the flight from Singapore
was cancelled and left me standed there. It’s worth noting at this point that
the airlines were still offering all of their tickets, knowing that the
majority of them would be cancelled, leaving the value of the ticket as a
credit and not a refund. So I found myself suspecting the airlines were taking
a lot of money, knowing that the people would have to fly at some point, and
would then be stuck with that airline. I would recommend we all consider this
when the dust settles.
Sending my things to Australia was another challenge. Our
local post office was not experienced in international freight. I’m sure every
time I appeared they drew straws to see who would have to deal with me this
time. After three attempts, a very kind local man (who shared
my interest in cooking and language) came to my rescue. However, that was not
before considerable consternation from me, and desparate decisions disposal of
valuable items because sending them home was just too hard. I would add
that I had to weigh and value each of over 100 separate items, pack them
carefully into boxes with neat lists of every item (and what it was made of,
packaging, no batteries etc), four separate times.
Although I’ve moved house about 30 times in my life, rarely
have I had to be so ruthless with my decisions about what to take and what to
leave. Now, when I do shopping or look at what’s in my cupboards, I have a very
different attitude – I’m thinking of when I or someone else will have to decide
on the value of this item, and either dispose of it or get it to another place.
For example, experience told me that I tended to take more shoes than was
needed, in order to decide which ones to wear at a later time, forgetting that
shoes are bulky, heavy and only one pair will get used at a time. By deciding
in advance on one all-purpose pair or carefully choosing one other for another
purpose (eg special occasions) I could save a lot of trouble. In the same way,
when I discovered that my kendo stick was too long to post but quite light, it
made me consider how much that memento meant to me. Deciding it had personal
sentimental value, but not so much that I minded risking losing it at customs
in Australia, it helped me choose to carry it with me as oversized baggage
(after all that!). It was certainly a good perspective to gain. And in the
meantime, I was relieved to finally receive the green light from WA to go home.
The ten days between moving out of my apartment and getting
on the plane were mainly spent staying with a family in Kobe (the capital of
Hyogo Prefecture) whom I had come to know during my time there. They’re the
family of a musician friend in Albany and very kindly looked out for me during
my time in Japan. I just stayed in their home, learning cooking, looking around
Kobe a little, and keeping away from crowds (just in case). After that, I went
to Nagoya to stay with another music and language friend I had made (these
interests often seem to coincide!). However, as my big trips to Kyoto for Kabuki
theatre, Aomori for the Cherry Blossom Festival and Kochi to see my friends had
all been cancelled due to the coronavirus, I took advantage of passing through
Kyoto to see historic Nijojo Castle and the famous Golden Pavilion. My theory
was right that tourist numbers would be low so it was easy to sanitise and keep
distance, but I was still among about 15 people taking photos at the same time
at the Pavilion, all trying to take their bucket-list photo for their
collection. I feel sorry for the poor people who still see it as a religious
site rather than just a pretty view for tourists.
After my half-day playing tourist in Kyoto, I camped up with
another friend – a musician this time – in Nagoya. Taking trains in Japan is a
pleasant thing, but of course I was always conscious of what surfaces I was
touching. Between ticket machines, automatic doors with touch-buttons and handrails
on the trains, it’s hard to avoid sharing something. So I got used to
sanitizing and washing my hands. However, social distance is not so easy. I
believe that Japanese people don’t feel the same need for personal space as we
do in Australia (perhaps elsewhere in the West too). Often when a teacher in my
school came to speak to me, I’d find stand up out of politeness, only to find
myself inches from their face. In Japan, space has for a long time been at a
premium and they have developed a way of living which minimizes use of space
and keeps people close together. This includes design and arrangement of
buildings and furniture. In fact, it’s necessary to accept that closeness to
navigate the Japanese train system. With thousands of people passing through
train stations every day – Shinjuku Station in Tokyo handles 14 million
passenger trips per day – and people often going all different directions in a
hurry, there is literally no spare room. You have to pass close to people all
the time, almost as though you’re one person. If you don’t get your head around
this, it can lead to a lot of confusion and delays, and not just for you. So it
seems natural to me that they would embrace face masks even more, instead of
attempting the impossible.
From Nagoya I took a bullet train to Tokyo, changing to the
regional express to the outlying airport town of Narita. I had been variously
advised that it wouldn’t be so bad in Tokyo, I could go out and enjoy it for my
last nights. However, I knew that while Japan’s infection rate per capita was
one of the lowest in the world, Tokyo had the highest rates in Japan. So I bit
the bullet and didn’t linger, going straight to my hotel near the airport.
A dated 1980’s structure, it was in quite a multicultural
area for Japan. I’m sure I heard Tagalog and a lot of English just walking from
the station – unusual for Japan. I was able to get my final fix of
hardcore Japanese cuisine at a local bar, before what I knew would be a long drought. What you
see below is maitake tempura – battered and deep-fried maitake, a kind of long,
ribbony pale mushroom I’ve only ever seen in Japan. It
came with matcha salt, (salt flavoured with green tea powder), tempura dipping
sauce and a pretty pink sweet stick that tasted like the shoot of a ginger
plant. I followed this with grilled rice cakes (that came with green perilla
leaves plastered to their sides) then jellyfish flavoured with sour pickled
Japanese plums which went well with my cold sake. It was the last supper.
Arriving at the airport by taxi in the morning, I was convinced
I had come to the wrong place. It was just an enormous, shiny concrete building
in the blinding sun. It was like a scene from The Stand. There was not a
single person nor vehicle in sight outside at the departures wing, and it even
seemed the electricity was off. However, after confirming the terminal details
I took my leave of the driver with confidence and went inside. I hadn’t had
breakfast due to my early departure, and as is my habit, I was going to buy
something to eat at the airport.
It was still a ghost town. Barely one person could be seen inside, although on closer inspection I could see signs of life. When I eventually found a departure status board I realized how lucky I was that my flight hadn’t been cancelled a second time.
I’ve since heard on the grapevine
that the airlines are checking landing permissions of passengers’
end-destinations before considering whether to cancel flights. If that’s true, it may explain why I
eventually made it. I knew I had an 18-hour layover in Singapore without any
chance of leaving the airport or doing anything inside it. So I had booked a
hotel within the departure lounge that included meals. The price was
exorbitant, but I knew that without sleep or food I would soon truly become a prisoner,
charged with murder of innocents at an airport.
After the usual airport formalities, I admit to shedding a tear when immigration destroyed my three-year work visa that took so much sweat and tears to get. Arriving at the gate lounge, I realized I had been short-sighted. Two hours to go before boarding, and all the cafes and coffee shops were closed, of course. The most substantial breakfast I could find was black coffee in a can from a vending machine. Oopsie. I even walked the entire length of that wing of the airport to check the other vending machines (for milk, or a soup), and in doing so realized that mine was the only gate with a departure. There was literally not so much as a single security guard or cleaner.
Being reliable Singapore Airlines, the familiar style masked
the heavy precautions being taken. I eventually received lunch, gratefully, and
passed a six hour flight without removing my mask except to eat. What I wasn’t
prepared for was Changi Airport.
From touchdown, it was tense. Staff behaved like jail-wardens.
We were called from the plane a few rows at a time, lined up in single-file by someone
wearing both face mask and face shield. She asked to see our passport and
boarding pass, in that distinctive clipped English that's hard to understand
even when layers of fabric, plastic and fear aren’t in the way. She separated
off those who were entering Singapore (nobody) then left us with another woman
who asked to see our passport and boarding pass. We were then marched across
Armenia- I mean across the airport to the holding pen for transfers. It took 30
minutes. At least I got some exercise. The staff there asked to see our
passport and boarding pass (bless them), before letting us through the gate.
Two women then surprised us with “Welcome to Changi Airport. Here is a gift and
a survey.” My greeting skills had long ago gone into hibernation, but I managed
“thanks”.
Then I asked the way to the hotel – the man’s clipped voice
barked through his fabric and plastic (no fear this time apparently), demanding
to know if I had a reservation. Confirming I did, he demanded my passport and
boarding pass, then asked me to wait while he got my chaperone. The chaperone
asked to see my passport and boarding pass, then getting me a trolley, we
marched about 40 minutes to the hotel, now and then zipping along as I crossed
a section of travelator.
How many empty stores did we walk past? All open, all
attended by staff trying to clean or tidy, but not one single customer to be
seen. Asking my guide about this, he said that they are bound by their contract
to be open, but no customers are permitted at the moment. For some reason, when
we neared my hotel, there was a crowd of people in uniforms waiting to get into
something – perhaps onto a plane. It didn’t seem to matter to me, so
conspicuous and apprehensive was I, but I realized then that I hadn’t seen a
single person since the transfer lounge who wasn’t wearing a uniform.
I climbed an escalator and saw we had arrived. At the
entrance gate to the lobby, I had my passport and boarding pass ready before
they demanded it. Allowed to the Reception desk, I gave him my (you guessed it)
passport and boarding pass to be copied, then paid in my choice of currency.
I’ve never seen a multi-currency EFT machine before! Anyway, no customer service
skills were wasted there and I was sent to stay in my room for the next 16
hours.
Putting on a brave face.
Weary and ill-at-ease though I was, I didn’t complain – at
last able to take off my mask, I looked forward to a meal, some quiet time
alone to catch up on emails. I relaxed and tapped into the wifi like a real
modern guy and tried not to think about my stomach.
It’s funny, staying in a hotel which only sells its rooms
six hours at a time. Not just that, but you can’t leave your room until 90
minutes before departure, and not before that either. So once booked for 12
hours, I discovered I had to cancel and rebook for 24 hours. Furthermore,
people check out at night, 4am, whenever their time is up, and housekeeping
waltz in, open everything, clink dishes and chat while they pile up dirty linen on the floor. I have never seen a housekeeping
crew discreetly sneak around trying not to disturb anyone.
Anyway, my sparrow meals eaten and all the R&R I could
manage, I was allowed out of my room. Used my passport and boarding pass to
check out, then to be honoured with the guidance of my next warden. We marched
again, this time to a closer gate where appropriately serious people sat
distantly together. In true Singapore style, at the security screening point I
was given curt instructions to do, or reprimands for not doing, things I was
already doing. Removing a record number of pieces of clothing, I rather inconsiderately
wanted to put them all on again afterwards.
This was Scoot, Singapore’s budget airline. No food, no movies. Questions of the crew answered with incomprehensible words. I was placed directly behind a girl who sniffed, coughed and sneezed, looking pale and tired. A couple that had been separated were allowed to sit together, and the girl in front to lie down and sleep. I, however, unable to sleep on a plane, just wanted to read. I could see my reading light was keeping the girl awake and I asked the air hostess if I could move. She wouldn’t speak to me, and sent the man in charge of my area, who told me “no, nobody can change seats because of the corona virus”. So instead of moving to the area with no people in it, I stayed with the sick girl and read my book about convicts in early colonial times, suffering at the hands of their jailers.
Another thing I noticed was the sense of secrecy around our travel. We were told at every turn, "you must not take photos or video during your arrival." I could write this off as a national security precaution, but then I wondered about why we never heard from anyone in Australia who actually had the virus. I ask you, if you're still reading - have you actually heard from people who have the virus? I know some who have conspicuously spoken out afterwards, but apart from Trump and Boris Johnson, searching for live information on having the virus - crickets.
When at last we arrived in Australia, I was exhausted,
hungry and despondent. I should have been more stiff-upper-lipped, but to be
honest I was worn to a thread. Barely able to speak, I did what the nurse told
me, passed interrogation from Borderforce and lined up for the police. A full
bench of seven officers sat at desks, and as I waited (they were all available,
but we had to wait anyway) an officer attempted levity with a flippant “you
look stressed.” Knowing this was no time for dry humour, the best I could do
was “I’m just tired.” However, my G2G pass was good to go, and I passed muster.
The policeman did his job, even if he was someone who clearly became an officer
because he was tough. It’s too much to expect of people like him to take pity
on someone who was suffering.
He let me go with my “Centre Direction” – quarantine order –
and I was allowed into the holding pen for the bus. The guy next to me made
affable conversation with the staff and other passengers around him, apparently
keen to appear unfazed by it all. Others were more like me, unable to make
light of such a situation. We lined up, we boarded and sat where we were told,
and then when reprimanded, moved elsewhere. Like gold-plated refugees, we
arrived at the Westin.
On our arrival, the congenial, no-nonsense manager boarded
the bus. Staying behind a yellow and black police cordon, he told us that we
could have things delivered to us such as food or groceries, but not liquor. We
were permitted to order up to four drinks a day (at bar prices) from the room
service menu. A few other details were explained and then we were allowed to
“check-in” – the manager himself did this for us – then were directed to what
looked like a staff entrance.
A masked man asked what floor, and I don’t recall whether I
touched a button myself but, steering clear, he managed to get me there.
It’s strange, staying in a room so luxurious and fancy that
you could never afford it normally, and wouldn’t need such extravagances. The
view was spectacular, across northern Perth towards the hills, overlooking
Yagan Square from the 15th floor. The art was beautiful, the
furniture lovely. It had remote control mechanical curtains and blinds. The bed
was larger than a king-sized (albeit sagging). However, deprived of our
liberty, I and those I saw on Facebook groups found a lot to complain about. All
we could see was what was missing. Mostly all we could say was that the food
was bad – it was the easiest target. But I think what we really disliked was
losing the control and freedoms we’ve come to expect in modern society. We, who
haven’t been refugees or captives, or lived through a major war. I also know
from my time in Japan that we never know how we’ll respond when we’re under
extreme stress. We may be disappointed. I wonder what the next crisis will be.
How will we react then? Me, I’m grateful I looked at the Facebook groups,
because I realized I didn’t want to be like those spoiled and entitled whingers
venting their indignation.
In reality, I thought the food was actually quite good. They gave us just enough each time, something for different tastes, always some vegetables and a bit of variety. In the fact, the butter chicken was fantastic. I would only fault the fruit salad, which must have been made the day before, and their in-house bread which seemed to give me heartburn.
I wonder if I was the only person to speculate that the
Westin may have cleverly cornered a good profit on their Government quarantine
contract, by monopolizing liquor purchases “for the sake of your health”. In my
case, I wasn’t concerned because I didn’t intend to drink, but it was one of
many questionable things that went on.
Another was cleaning. My room’s surfaces and floor were
filthy. I came from Japan so I never wore shoes in the room, except ones I had
washed for exercise. However, every morning when I did my yoga, I could see
more long, black hairs attached to the carpet. It seemed as though one day I
could take out a handful and then the next I would find more, from the same
place. As for washing dishes, they wouldn’t provide dishwashing liquid because
it’s a chemical. I was perplexed, because the information leaflet said we could
request cleaning materials. I later asked what I could have for cleaning and they
brought me a kit with cloths and a bottle of spray cleaner. I scratched my head
about the chemical rule, but since I now had what I wanted I just went about
cleaning the grease and grime from the marble benchtops until they gleamed.
Finally, I asked for a small knife so I could cut fruit and
cheese – luxuries all but unavailable in Japan. What could be wrong with that?
Alas, nothing sharp was allowed. By this time, I had lost my temper and didn’t
pursue the reasoning behind it. Perhaps it was because of the risk of
self-harm, or damage to rooms, but by this time I no longer cared. Quarantine
has no Trip Advisor reviews. There is no appeal process, no second opinion; so
what is the point of a reason? I gave up arguing. However, I soon realized that
my room still had the trappings of luxury, including a corkscrew. Corkscrews
also have a built-in knife about an inch long for cutting the plastic wrappers
off the tops of corked wine bottles. You beauty! I had to cut on a paper plate,
but I had my knife. I was very grateful – and didn’t tell a soul.
As it happens, soon after I left quarantine I went to see a
friend in Perth. She had in fact been to France to see her father before he unfortunately died from COVID-19. On her return from overseas she was quarantined in the same
hotel, and had experienced exactly the same problems. She even complained about
them, to the staff, managers, and the Minister of Health. She hadn’t had any
answers, and as I could attest, nothing had improved. She was less inclined to
accept the circumstances and asked a lot more questions. For example, it was
she who discovered that in the event of a fire, we were not to evacuate as per
the evacuation diagram on the wall, but wait to be called.
A big show was made about informing us of what was
happening, but mostly it was about repeating the same things over and over. What
was written in our documents was not what happened in real life. We got very
limited interaction with the staff, and every aspect of it was controlled. At every
step, it was about keeping us under control. Within a few days I was quite detached, and became
indifferent to it.
Soon Main Roads sent me a laptop, and arranged for me to
start working. I might as well have been assigned to painting murals on the
moon, so foreign did that kind of work seem by that time. However, the
regularity and purpose was beneficial and I formed my daily routine. It ran
like this:
6:30am Get up and do yoga
6:45am Shower and get dressed for work
7:00am Coffee and study
7:15am Tidy up and clean while waiting for breakfast to
arrive
7:30-8:00am (different every day) Eat breakfast when it came
(sometimes, I was still eating as I read my emails, or started work later)
8:00am Start work
12:00 midday Lunch break (delivered any time from 11:30 to
12:30pm)
13:00 Start work again
16:30 Finish work – commute 2 metres to the couch for coffee
16:45 Exercise – walking back and forth in the room, then
jogging, star-jumps, squats, push-ups, sit-ups, step-ups, stretches – anything
that would get my blood moving and my strength back.
17:30 Shower and change, then TV or read until dinner
18:00-18:30 Dinner was delivered.
21:00-22:00 – Bed time. Early nights did me good.
After dinner, I gave myself free time, but found I felt
better if I did something constructive, like writing a letter, writing music,
or doing my taxes.
To be honest, while talking to friends and family was nice
from time to time, it got a bit crazy in quarantine. Because I was “free”, in
theory I could spend as long as I wanted if not working. However, so as not to
go crazy, I needed to stick to my routine. Talking to someone for half an hour
or an hour became very common. It’s interesting how our sense of time and
priorities change so much according to our circumstances. However, I still
appreciated it, and remembered polite ways to end conversations when I had
things to do. Did you know that Americans have different ways to do that?
Soon came the day for my second swab. When they knocked, I
put on my mask and grabbed my passport as per the instructions. When I opened
the door, the employee would bolt out of sight like a rabbit. I would say,
“hello?” and they would answer in a thick accent “what is your name?” Once spelled
out, a nurse in a full body suit and sufficient plastic on her head would step
in front of the doorway. With an Australian accent, she’d offer some pleasant
patter before the assistant passed her the specimen jar. Once, the assistant
had forgotten to write the date on it and asked for it back. The nurse said “I
can’t give it back to you now, I’ve touched it”. So a pen was passed to her and
not returned. Having written the date, she took her swab and asked me to tilt
my head backwards. She then stuck the long plastic prong into one nostril for a
moment – and it was over.
I’m sure I should have been more concerned about the
results. But to be honest, by this time I felt like we had all taken such
precautions, including the longest quarantine times in the world, that it
seemed like it couldn’t have been helped if I got a positive test. However, it
seems others weren’t, and I was asked to work from home for a few more days
after quarantine. Thinking of all the people who had helped me get home (some
unbeknownst to me), I agreed.
When the day finally came to leave the hotel, I was more
than ready. I followed the instructions to get to Reception, feeling lost all
the while. Staff acted like it was the most natural thing in the world to leave
quarantine with your luggage, as though you’d just been on a lavish holiday.
Hilariously, none of us know where the exit was. We all looked around,
bewildered, staying apart but running into each other’s personal space in our
search. When I finally got outside, I passed the soldiers and police to the car
waiting for me, and at last it was finally over. The cool evening sun of Perth
welcomed me back and the next challenge awaited.
It’s hard to believe that the year ended in such a way, and
I know we’ll remember 2020 long into the future. For sure, many of us now think
more about hygiene. I hope we can use our newfound consciousness of risk to
make brave decisions, and throw off the kneejerk noose of fear that dragged
many people I know into total and indefinite isolation. Call me naïve, but a world
of absolute black-and-white we do not live in. If you’ve read this far, you
know the value of perseverance. As my students always said, “try your best”.
May we all succeed in doing so with whatever challenges we face in the future.
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