Block life in New Zealand, the bubble that ‘beat’ the coronavirus | New Zealand

Thorndon, Wellington, New Zealand – Jess Sandoval thought life in recovery would be different. On good days, he might walk out of the house for a walk around the block. Although, just as likely, she couldn’t. She regains strength little by little, she thought to herself.

But powerful antibiotics, prescribed after her hysterectomy last June after years of excruciating endometriosis, sometimes left her dizzy and unstable. His forced recovery lasted for infection after infection. In her weak moments, her eight-year-old son Jorge helped her sit on the sofa, rest her head on her lap, and stroke her hair.

Now, after seven months of false starts, she knew that her expectations for herself had been too high. But even when she went on to receive sick benefits, Jess considered herself lucky. The money would go far enough to cover the rent on his house in Thorndon.

It was February then. New Zealand had yet to record its first case of coronavirus, and would not do so in a few weeks.

Jorge, whom Jess says has “a little anxiety” at best, was recently diagnosed with an auditory processing disorder, which means he doesn’t always process speech, especially when that speech is complex or the environment around it is noisy. But before long the pandemic would become inevitable, like a sea of ​​white noise, the virus intrudes on every conversation and almost every thought. Jess would need to choose her words carefully, even more so than other parents when she tells her children about the deadly pandemic.

In those days, it seemed that the whole world was being blocked, one country at a time, like buildings that turned black after a network failure. To get ready, Jess dug into her savings and ordered a box of paints and balloons to help pass the time in the event of a closure. Just as a precaution, he thought. In hindsight, it seems like a premonition. The package was delivered on March 22, the day before one of the world’s strictest locks went into effect.

‘Be strong and kind’

On March 23, New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern, whom some have called “the most effective leader on the planet,” noted that normal life would temporarily end in a matter of days.

Just two days earlier, it announced a four-stage coronavirus crisis response alert system, as part of a bold strategy to eliminate the virus instead of containing it. His government had already banned travelers from China in early February, even before New Zealand recorded a single case of the virus. On March 19, he announced the closure of the nation’s borders to foreigners, a move that was once considered unthinkable for a country at the bottom of the South Pacific that relies heavily on tourism.

In just over 48 hours, New Zealand would go to alert level four, a national blockade that lasts at least four weeks. Ardern called the aggressive approach “go hard and go early,” a kind of kiwi-ism for a short, sharp block. The entire country was told to stay home, unless they worked an essential job like health care, and when they left, to “stay local,” just exercising near home or visiting a nearby supermarket.

Some might have been tempted to complain that such restrictions were draconian. But Ardern conveyed the order with clarity and empathy. That day he also introduced “the bubble,” a concept to help New Zealanders envision who they might have close contact with during the shutdown, usually just their own home. The concept turned social distancing into something tangible, like a two-meter projectile that protects anyone who ventures outside.

“Be strong and kind,” said the Prime Minister that day, a five-word slogan that would come to symbolize the country’s unity during the shutdown, such as messages like “be nice” or “kia kaha” (I am Maori for “I know strong “) were chalked on the sidewalks by children, while teddy bears were left in the windows as part of a national spy game.

But, on March 23, not even Prime Minister Ardern knew what would happen next. “The situation here is moving at a pace,” he explained, referring to the number of coronavirus cases in the country, then 102. “And we must do it, too.”

In response, the island nation of nearly five million people moved quickly and en masse to the supermarket.

Jack Gilchrist is a cashier operator at Thorndon New World, a 10-minute walk from The Beehive, the New Zealand Parliament building, from where the announcement was made.

Thorndon is New Zealand’s oldest neighborhood, founded by European settlers in 1840. Today’s suburb forms a rough triangle at the end of a narrow coastal plain in the heart of Wellington, the capital. Just over 4,000 people live there; The stereotype says that most residents are government workers or retirees.

Jack says that within an hour of the closing announcement, the queues for pay spread through the aisles, reaching the other side of the store. Overwhelmed by demand, that store would be forced to close its underground parking garage to new customers that afternoon.

Just a few days later, the store was transformed. Now operating under a “one in, one out” policy, the queue of shoppers at the entrance extends into the parking lot, each shopper spaced two meters apart, the space indicated by duct tape on the floor. A man who introduces shopping carts gathers the queuing shoppers, with broad, gestural movements like an air traffic controller.

Jack is parked in front of the queue near the entrance. Holding up a gloved hand, he directs a buyer first to the hand sanitizer and then to a row of newly sterilized carts.

“Thanks for your service!” The buyer greets and walks away.

“A lot of people have been very nice,” Jack said later, recalling this encounter and others. “It gives us a warm feeling.”

The first days of the closure were marked with uncertainty, as the number of cases shot up. At a daily press conference, Ardern issued his remarks as if they were reassuring notes. “Buy normally,” he urged. “The supply chain is strong; we will not run out of food.”

Jack’s presence, and the presence of other supermarket workers like him, was evidence of the truth in these words, meaning that even as demand increased, supply chains remained intact. His job put him on the front line, and yet they would only pay him slightly more than the minimum wage, a temporary increase of 12 cents as long as the country remains on alert level four, bringing his salary to $ 11.50 an hour.

Jack, like many others on the front line, was concerned about contracting the virus. After two weeks in the running of the bulls he fell fever and cough. He drove to Wellington Hospital for the test. “It came back negative,” he said, speaking on a midweek day in April. “I will return to work on Saturday.”

‘Don’t burst the bubble’

In the 1960s, nearly half of Thorndon was razed to accommodate construction of a new highway. Almost 60 years later, the Wellington Expressway roughly divides the neighborhood into two: tall office buildings and government institutions on one side, residential buildings on the other. On a typical day of the week, 44,000 cars would pass by on the highway, mostly people traveling to and from the city.

A few weeks have passed since the closure and the highway below is practically deserted. Jess walks up the hill from New World to the Hawkestone Street overpass, carrying groceries, most for herself and her son, except for a few items that are for her next-door neighbor, also a single mother, who is immunocompromised.

On the edge of the highway, among the bushes, is a makeshift shelter, fortified in the past six months by a homeless man. In December, he hung Christmas decorations on the branches. Now Jess realizes that groceries have been left at her front door: canned goods, chocolate, toilet paper. She leaves a bottle of milk and continues walking.

The school holidays were brought forward to coincide with the start of the closure, giving schools time to make arrangements for remote learning. Which means that, for the moment, every day has been “like the weekend” for his son, Jorge. The other day, the two of them had created a stained glass window, creatively using tape and the paintings she ordered. Later that day, they would make balloon animals. For Jess, this meant conquering her glophophobia for life (fear of balloons exploding). “It took me two hours to make one,” he recalls. “He thought it was fun.”

At bedtime, often wrapped under a pile of blankets, she and her son have a conversation about “how hearts went that day.” Two weeks after the closure, Jorge had become irritable, not wanting to eat or even change his pajamas. One night before bed, he confided her concerns to her. Perhaps he would never see his grandparents or cousins ​​again.

“He explained to me that his heart had felt quite sad,” he recalls, “and that he needed to cry.” The next day, Jess was able to schedule Zoom calls with the family who were a short drive away but could not be attended in person to protect the bubble.

“Don’t burst the bubble” had already entered the national lexicon along with Kiwi’s other unique expressions like “sweet like”, which means “no problem” and “yes, no”, a way of not really agreeing with someone. Jacinda Ardern’s own bubble, Premier House, which includes her own 18-month-old daughter Neve, was in Jess’s way.

But separated parents who shared custody of the children were allowed to spread their bubble through two homes. Such was the case with Jess and her ex-husband, who have partners but agreed not to see them during the shutdown to make sure their bubble does not burst. The deal has proven effective, with Jorge spending time with his mother while his father works.

“The only downside is the medication I must take,” says Jess, explaining that she often reduces her dose while caring for her child to avoid drowsiness that occurs as a side effect of her antibiotics. A few weeks after the closure, he was in immense pain, a chronic episode of endometriosis, and ended up collapsing in the bathroom. Finally, her ex-husband was able to come and take her to Wellington Hospital. Although she would be discharged two days later, she was afraid of contracting the virus.

“That’s the scary part for me,” she says. “Coming here has technically expanded our bubble much more now.”

On ‘No Dinner’ Road

It is often said that no point in New Zealand is far from the beach or the mountains. Thorndon is no exception, perched at the foot of Te Ahumairangi Hill, just steps from the Wellington coastline. Heritage is its step for tourists. It has the feel of an old city from the Victorian era.

Tinakori Road, which stretches 1.8 km through the center of the neighborhood, is a colonial relic. The street was built along the base of the ridge in the late 19th century. The Maori workers who formed the road did not receive a meal as part of their pay, despite the fact that this was common at the time. In Maori teo, tina is a transcription of “dinner”, while kahore means “none”. Tinakori roughly translates to “there is no way to dinner”.

The late writer Katherine Mansfield was the most famous resident on the street. One of his childhood houses was demolished to make way for the highway, but another house, his birthplace, has been restored and exists today as a museum. The Katherine Mansfield House and Garden sometimes receives up to 500 visitors a month. But it has been closed since shortly before the blockade began.

Mansfield was no stranger to the running of the bulls. In early 1922, he began a series of X-ray treatments for his tuberculosis with a Russian doctor, Dr. Manoukhin, in Paris. The treatment was painful and she spent about three months in isolation, in a hotel room, often in bed.

Cherie Jacobson, director of Katherine Mansfield House & Garden, checks the house occasionally. “It looks like the floors are a little squeakier than before,” she says. “As if they wanted to have a conversation with someone.” The crunch is typical of many Victorian-era villas along the street. Standing inside one of them, Wellington’s famous wind can feel like waves breaking against the shore (by some estimates Wellington is the windiest city in the world).

Cherie is not concerned about the museum’s immediate future, as funding is guaranteed at the moment. But, to his dismay, the fruit of the loquat tree had already fallen.

“Hopefully, we can still make the loquat jelly that we sell in the store every year.”

The antique seller

John Fyson knows this street better than most.

Standing in her tent, she holds a small silver box in the light. Silver is slim, embossed in design, and has been polished so frequently over the past 120 years that high points have worn away, exposing tiny holes. John has devised a way to disguise this imperfection by placing a filler inside the box, which he then paints. Now when the lid is opened the light no longer shines through the perforations. “It makes the box look quite salable,” he says, as an explanation.

John’s store, Tinakori Antiques, will celebrate a quarter century of business in September. Even during closing, the general shape of your days remains unchanged. He wanders around town around 9 a.m., his apartment is a little further along Tinakori Road, and he spends the day at his store, repairing and organizing supplies. Except there is now a notable absence: customers.

“They have killed sales, of course,” he says. “Dead stone.”

For the past 40 years, John has owned four antique shops in the town of Tinakori. You are hardly alone in this search. There are three other antique shops within a radius of 100 meters.

“No way to dine” has taken on a new meaning during the shutdown as the numerous restaurants and cafes in the village of Tinakori are forced to close. John considers the situation tragically ironic. “Actually, there is more foot traffic than ever,” he says, referring to residents who would otherwise be confined to their homes and would stop by Tinakori Village for exercise.

He thinks he has enough cash reserves to see himself through the shutdown. Although he’s worried about how the business might go even after local restrictions are eased. He estimates that 25 percent of his business comes from tourists.

John is a 69 year old. “I have always looked younger than my age,” he says. At age 25, he entered a medical center and a receptionist, completing paperwork, asked him what year he was in high school. It won’t blow out 70 candles until next February. If you were 70 years old today, the government’s recommendation would be that you isolate yourself at home for your own protection.

For many years John had a rigid meditation practice: 20 minutes before breakfast, 20 minutes before dinner. He even taught transcendental meditation for a time during the 1970s. Discipline has reinforced him against anxiety during confinement. “I don’t give it any more time,” he says. “Every time I feel the need, I sit down and bring a mantra, maybe just for a few minutes, and I feel better.”

‘I feel bad for the patients’

For the first time since the running of the bulls began, Mia Bean and her six roommates were going to “jump bar.” The night started at 8:30 p.m. in The Living Room, a Parisian bar run by her French roommates, Elsa and Pierre.

The second bar, Heartbreak Hotel, was a hop, hop, and hop, in the next room. Run by his roommates Hayley and Zane, the facility was covered in colored lights. Everyone enjoyed chocolate-dipped figs with raspberries and hazelnuts, as well as delicious salty figs. The Fleetwood Mac rumors provided an environment. The cheery team continued a few steps further at Kwl Bean Cafe, where music dated back to the early 2000s, and the bar served hearty sangrias. There they played an educational board game, part of which involved the challenge of “saying five words in Maori teo” or drinking, created by Mia herself.

With tear-filled eyes, they made one last stop at Gabe’s, located in the outdoor patio, where they drank tequila and feijoa juice, as well as rum and coke. “Everyone was pretty drunk at this point,” says Mia, explaining that most of the roommates went to bed at 2 in the morning.

Mia only moved into the apartment, which is located on the border hills between Thorndon and Wadestown, a month before the closure began. For a few years before, the 22-year-old lived alone. She and her new drinking buddies have already developed a family closeness. “I like to think that we are siblings and that our parents have gone on vacation,” he says.

Although she lives in Thorndon, Mia works as a receptionist at Wakefield Hospital, a private hospital in Newtown, on the other side of town. He usually works a 40-hour week, Monday through Friday. Their hours have been reduced since the confinement began. “The patient lists have been very small,” he says, “which means we don’t need as much staff during the day.”

At the moment, she works only two days a week. The remaining three days are currently paid at 80 percent of their normal earnings through the government’s wage subsidy scheme. It is enough to cover rent and expenses, although he is concerned about what might happen beyond the 12 weeks that the government scheme is expected to last.

For now, the hospital has placed screens around the reception, acting as a buffer between staff and patients. Since the blockade began, visitors have also been banned, unless the patient is disabled or a minor. “I feel really bad for a lot of our patients,” she says. “We have taken some cancer patients out of the public hospital; having to reject someone’s wife or husband under those circumstances is heartbreaking.”

‘We have stopped a wave of devastation’

Shu Lu does not know when he will see his son again. In mid-December, she and her husband, Alex, took a six-week vacation, visiting her family in mainland China. They flew back to New Zealand on January 23, the same day Wuhan entered the lockdown. On the way home, they passed through Guangzhou airport, a city that at the time had 354 coronavirus cases.

It was a time when New Zealanders could still afford to ignore the virus. Or at least many thought they could. No throat swab or nasal swab was taken on arrival. Shu even heard a customs official ask, “Why are all these people in China wearing masks?”

Her four-year-old son Rhys did not return home with them. The idea was that she would spend more time in China with her grandparents, continue to review her Mandarin, then return home to celebrate her fifth birthday and start school soon after.

The couple owns Starfish, the local fish and chip shop on Molesworth Street, next to Thorndon New World. Kiwis are said to make their way through about seven million servings of chips a week, or about 120,000 tons a year. The local fish and chip shop is practically a New Zealand institution, believed to be around 160 years old; almost as old as Thorndon himself. But during alert level four, Starfish closed, even as Molesworth Street itself was still a center of comparative activity due to the supermarket.

Starfish also closed in January. As a precaution, Shu and Alex closed the store for 10 days while they isolated themselves in their home. Although neither was ill, the lost income was a small cost to pay for the peace of mind. Or at least that’s how he felt at the time.

When his son was supposed to return, the borders of New Zealand had been closed to anyone who was not a citizen or permanent resident. Her son is a New Zealand citizen, but he is too young to fly home alone. His grandparents are not New Zealand citizens, so they cannot travel with him. Shu has considered flying to China simply to bring him back with her, but the flights are now unreliable and too expensive.

She and her husband video chat with their son every day “to make sure he knows we haven’t abandoned him.”

“I miss him,” she says. “I feel guilty for not taking him back with me.”

The five weeks at alert level four left the bottom line of his business in dire straits. Shu estimates the loss of income during that period somewhere between $ 6,000 and $ 9,000. Meanwhile, government assistance has barely been enough to cover the rent.

On April 27, New Zealand eased its stringent blocking measures, moving to alert level three. At the time, 1,400 people had been infected with the coronavirus, while 12 people had died, all older people with pre-existing health conditions. New Zealand’s death rate was one of the lowest in the world, according to the University of Oxford government coronavirus response tracker.

“We have done what very few countries have been able to do,” Ardern said in making the announcement that New Zealand would move to level three alert. “We have stopped a wave of devastation.”

Perhaps the biggest change was that restaurants could reopen, for contactless delivery and pickup. The announcement caused “McDonalds” to have a brief trending on Twitter in New Zealand. The announcement was also good news for Shu and Alex. Starfish reopened on April 27, though only for contactless collection. During the first week at alert level three, New Zealanders bought five weeks of takeout.

Rhys celebrated her fifth birthday in March. Shu intends to write to New Zealand Immigration to explore his options.

“My top priority is getting it back,” says Shu. “I just don’t know when we can.”

Coming out of the bubble

“We will get out of our bubbles,” Jacinda Ardern said this week, announcing a gradual move to alert level two and get out of the blockade in just over 48 hours. Much of the economy would reopen on May 14, he said, including restaurants, shopping malls, cinemas, shops, health services, and a hair salon. Next Monday, May 18, the schools would reopen. Then on May 21, the bars could reopen.

As blockade increases, 1,497 New Zealanders have become infected with coronaviruses, while 21 people have died. There have been no new cases in the past two days; 94 percent of cases have already recovered.

But now, the country turns its attention to the economic consequences of a severe blockade. New Zealand unemployment is estimated to hit as high as 13.5 percent in the coming months. The lowest projections are 10 percent, about 275,000 people out of work.

“New Zealand is about to enter a very tough winter,” said Ardern. “But every winter is followed by spring, and if we make the right decisions, we can get New Zealanders back to work and our economy moving quickly again.”

Like everyone else, Jess cares about his job prospects. Your first approach is to get healthy. Before the closing, there was talk of a second operation, but all his follow-up appointments had to be canceled.

Her son was scheduled to be fitted with hearing aids to help him with his auditory processing disorder, but that was also neglected.

“It is like throwing a stone into the water,” she says. “We can’t get to the end of this block and wait for things to return to normal. It’s all that ripple effect.”