I hadn’t seen my wife, Josephine, in six months. As the COVID-19 pandemic continued its long march from China around the world, U.S. officials cancelled her Feb. 27 interview in Guangzhou for a U.S. marriage visa.
Missing her, fearing turbulence in America, and knowing the likely difficulty, I set off for China. On March 19, my plane from Los Angeles landed at Shanghai’s Pudong Airport.
A local medical officer in an all-white, full-body hazmat suit soon walked the aisle right beside me. I then knew something deadly was on my plane. I felt naked, even in my N95 mask.
It was the first time that I ever saw everyone sit completely still on an aircraft. "Mr. Hazmat" patrolled the aisles again and picked four people to deplane first.
They looked unusually tired as they stared straight ahead and slouched to the front of the jet. Mr. Hazmat then summoned small groups of passengers by name. They immediately went to the front of the EVA Air Boeing 777. Chinese officials escorted them to another spot in the airport and eventually into a long line.
The authorities in identical hazmat attire distributed forms asking for details on each passenger’s previous travels.
Another eight hazmat-clad functionaries occupied two tables, reviewed these forms, and snapped photos with our passports. They were calm, in good spirits, and helpful.
Traversing immigration was the same. I briefly had to remove my mask, to verify my identity. I did so reluctantly and looked directly at the hazmat-bedecked immigration officer. I tried to tell whether I faced a man or a woman, but could not.
Lacking luggage, I approached the airport exit, to hail a cab into town and join my wife.
Instead, even more officials guided me to a series of plastic barricade booths, all manned by white clad individuals. Each booth bore the name of a district within Shanghai to which the agents directed travelers. It seemed chaotic, with regular people mixed in among those wearing all white.
I approached the booth for my destination, Jian’an, and offered my hotel’s address. The attendant’s response was polite but firm, "You cannot quarantine there. Pick one of these two hotels, and we’ll send you there."
These words did not compute. I had expected to spend my 14 days at the Ritz with Josephine, relaxing while being quarantined together. Not so. The nice-but-firm voice told me that resistance was futile.
Seeing me cramped, cold, and waiting for a few hours, one worker in a hazmat suit handed me some bread and a small carton of soy milk. I took them, but was scared to pull my mask down even for seconds. Yet I did so out of hunger and thirst. I stood up and stepped aside to avoid getting wet as a disinfectant-spraying machine passed by.
I was grateful, then and now, for that nourishment. I saw how hard these Chinese workers labored, while maintaining their composure. They did what had to be done, with a sense of grace.
After being processed in the airport for seven hours, about 30 of us were ushered onto a comfortable bus, which charted its way towards our quarantine hotels. We reached mine first.
Seven of us exited. And there was my Josephine.
She stood a mere 10 feet away and pleaded with two of the hazmats to let me quarantine with her at an Airbnb that she swiftly had reserved, once our Ritz plans imploded.
They refused — I knew they were not the decision makers anyway.
I was just feet from my wife, whom I had not seen since October, and yet we still were separated, possibly by unseen microbes. I knew I could not touch her, or the hazmats justifiably would force her into quarantine.
I could not help but look away, to avoid the pain.
Checking into the Shanghai Hotel was perfectly normal, except that the front-desk clerks wore — what else? — hazmat suits. They clearly were not the usual hospitality staff. Rather these were officials who would make "no mistakes."
After registration, I sat down at a table facing yet another hazmat.
She handed me a thermometer and told me to report my temperature twice daily and never leave my room. Then, I signed a few papers. After my 35-hour commute, I went to my room, retrieved a bottle of whiskey from my luggage, and cracked it open.
The day before I left America, I chipped a tooth. On Day One of quarantine, it started to hurt. I feared that an infection might elevate my temperature. I worried about the consequences: Would they confuse chipped-tooth fever with COVID-19?
No worries. When a doctor rang me that morning for my temperature, I told him about my tooth and my concern. My wife called him, and mouthwash and penicillin reached my room within minutes.
The efficiency stunned me.
The two Chinese doctors I consulted by phone spoke good English.
More importantly, they listened and were helpful.
These are the Chinese I know and love. They confronted unique circumstances, adapted, and did so with charm and elegance amid adversity.
I recently heard stories of doctors who returned from Wuhan, Ground Zero for COVID-19 and the site of ample misfortune. Physicians and other healthcare professionals entered Hell and tirelessly sacrificed themselves throughout a medical nightmare.
As they reached their hometowns, they were welcomed back with warmth and cheers.
I am proud of what I just experienced, of the Chinese, and how the people are handling this challenge. America, too, will use these extreme steps, to avoid new COVID-19 cases.
Men and women of every country will fight similar battles.
Meanwhile, Josephine sends me daily her freshly made Chinese food. I am a lucky man, enduring a rather painless quarantine.
Ensconced in the Shanghai Hotel, I am keeping my microbes, if any, to myself.
Newsmax contributor Deroy Murdock assisted in editing this article.
Bradley Good has lived and worked throughout Asia and China for over 30 years. He is the author of the forthcoming book: China: The Control Center and has a BA from UC Berkeley and an MBA and Masters in East Asian Studies from the University of Chicago.
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