Leave Now – Photo Essay Returning To NZ In The Age Of Covid

Sunday 1st March 1.00pm

Only 24 hours before my departure the news of the menacing Covid-19 crisis began to truly escalate. If I’d had one more week, I think I would have cancelled. The Corona Beer memes were no longer funny and already long forgotten. The Louvre museum announced it had shut its doors while the staff decided whether or not they wanted to put themselves at any further risk. Meanwhile Italy was beginning to reel from the enormity of the virus, well on the way to overtaking South Korea. A phone call to the travel agent on a Saturday morning was never going to produce great results. I was already locked in on my epic 9-week holiday to Europe and the UK, travelling via Singapore. Paris was to be my first major destination after a two day lay-over in Asia, and the Louvre was on my list to be the first gallery in a well-planned week of soaking up this highly anticipated city. The planning process had started back in November 2019.

Monday 2nd March. China Town, Singapore. Awareness through screening and widespread notices throughout the city were evident.

March 2nd After agonising over whether to continue on from a noticeably tourist-free Singapore, the news from the travel agent was of little comfort. ‘Refunds will be difficult to claw back if you cancel at such short notice.’ It was a case of damned if I do, damned if I don’t. I had to continue with this journey. I had spent far too much time and money planning this rare and important trip.

Tuesday 3rd March. China Town, Singapore. A normally busy lane of eateries sits empty as Singapore experiences a drastic fall off in the tourist trade.

March 4th The relief of making it to Charles de Gaulle airport at 0700 was immense, especially with the news upon arrival that the Louvre had reopened its doors. Expecting a thorough and slow clearance process at the international terminal it was surprising to see the complete opposite as customs officials cleared the plane in record time, even refusing to handle the arrival document. The difference between not only the two terminals but the two countries is staggering. I stayed very close to the hotel in China Town and on the two occasions I did venture out to a mall (one of them the Sands Marina tower with its aptly named ironing board top), I used taxis. In this amazing piece of architecture and engineering, in these two enormous structures alone and at the airport, screening stations and automatic hand sanitiser dispensers were everywhere. Large, friendly signs continually reminded people to wash hands and/or use hand sanitiser, to stay home if feeling unwell, use a mask if recovering from a cold or flu, while supplying a hot-line number to report their condition. Staff in office towers and malls were screened twice daily with access limited to both spaces. Anyone displaying a temperature over 38°C would be denied entry.

Thursday 5th March. The Louvre Museum, Paris, France. A tourist frames a photo of La Joconde/Mona Lisa in the Italian Paintings Gallery. The Louvre had reopened its doors the day before, following a four-day closure for museum staff to discuss its safe operating procedures as Covid-19 claimed more lives in Italy.

Thursday 5th March. The Louvre Museum, Paris, France. Tourists queue for their moment to view La Joconde/Mona Lisa. The gallery saw fewer numbers of tourists as The Louvre Museum reopened its doors following a four-day closure as a result of the escalating Covid-19 crisis.

March 5th The morning saw me make a direct bee-line to the famous museum, gasping at the size of the works of art on the way to the most famous of paintings hanging in the Italian Gallery. Room 711, La Joconde, herself.

As expected there were no shortage of tourists queueing up to view the painting sitting behind the invisible light protective bullet-proof glass, but it was not hard to recognise the shortened queue even if it was pouring with rain outside. The umbrella touts were doing a slow trade that morning. Later that day I witnessed a tourist run into the crown jewel gallery where I was standing, sneeze into the crook of her arm, then return to her friends in the other gallery.

Tuesday 10th March. Paris, France. A tourist wearing a medical mask checks his phone inside the Palais de Garnier, Opera house, in a quiet corner of the opulent lobby.

March 9th to March 11th I spent the weekend in Geneva and surrounding area with friends and family. Upon return to Paris I squeezed in as many of the must-see attractions I had listed, a rattling drive around the Arch de Triumph in a Citroen 2cv being a highlight. Viewing the Sacre-Coeur Basilica, the Moulin Rouge, soaking up Monet’s and Renoirs, Degas to Delacroix, delicate pottery to powerful statues, gallery after gallery, I satiated my touristic desires over the next few days while putting those other troublesome thoughts far to the back of my mind.

March 12th The UK government were now sounding alarm bells, the horrible feeling of this encroaching pandemic crisis swamps me. I reluctantly avoided galleries that day. A slow walk through the shops and cafes of the Left Bank and the Latin Quarter finally took me to the heavily damaged Notre Dame Cathedral, and then along the Seine back to the Louvre, then by metro to Place de Bastille, Place de Vosges, and finally to Place de Republique where the Gillette Jaune protests had emanated a year or two earlier. A coffin draped in a French flag flagrantly decorated the base of the column.

Over dinner that night in arrondissement nine I contacted the travel agent… ‘Will get to London and make a decision from there – however please be prepared to begin arrangements for return’. It was becoming obvious. How can I possibly visit elderly relatives without risking their safety? How can I be gallivanting around the Scottish and the Irish countryside’s while the UK, Europe and the rest of the world goes into lockdown? I took my chance and I blew it. Even the residents of Paris were noticeably quickening their pace, armed with bags of toilet paper and laden with extra groceries. Handshakes and cheek kissing were commonly observed as I ventured around the city that week. Later I wondered if this latter custom had contributed to the sudden escalation Italy was shockingly realising and now France was beginning to experience.

March 13th The 10.15am Eurostar took me to London, where this time the departure terminal at Gare de Nord was somewhat more attentive than the arrival at CDG the week before. Not sure what to expect upon arrival at St Pancras, I was not so bemused to find it was simply the same as Paris CDG some nine days earlier.

Stepping into a lift with a young Indian man, he turned and looked at me shaking his head. “This fucking virus, man – it’s the media’s fault – it is nothing but hype!” Loaded with two large suitcases, a heavy looking carry bag, and a satchel he continued to blurt out that he was a junior doctor. From what he had seen it was not nearly as serious as the media were making it out to be. I recognised that look on his face when he revealed his holiday plans to return home had been well and truly stuffed because not only had cancellations stymied his break from a flight out of Paris that morning, but now he was being called back to work. (Wow – just when you think you might have it bad). At least I had covered most of my wish list while in Paris but any thoughts of maybe, just maybe continuing to Scotland and Ireland saw the bottom truly fall out of that idea after wishing him good luck – you’ll get there another day. I felt sorry for any Covid-19 patients turning up in his ward.

I stay with a nephew on his working OE. Beneath the apartment in Chalk Farm Road that has housed Kiwis for several decades sits an abandoned restaurant. At one stage occupied by squatters, it afforded the Kiwis upstairs a rent holiday of some six months as squatters rights were invoked. A tour of the graffiti soaked premises revealed a prophetic poem on the wall, rumoured to have been penned by Pete Docherty. “Advertise the product you make, never give and always take. Kill and lie for security, your shit on supermarket shelves to see. Instinct of survival. Another product for you to buy. And you’ll keep buying until you die.”

Prescient words as that weekend flour, rice and pasta, tissues, toilet paper and hand sanitiser ran out in every supermarket while my nephew and his flatmates set off on early morning buying missions to stock up for the clearly imminent lockdown. The British government had yet to fully enact a complete lockdown despite the actions now being undertaken by European governments. Brexit in your face – but for how long? This was why I kept hedging my options about remaining in-country. If there was no lockdown, perhaps visiting the two Isles might be achievable.

Saturday 14th March. Camden town, London, UK. 11.40am Looking down Chalk Farm Road toward Camden. As the news begins to sink in of an imminent lockdown, the streets of London begin emptying.

Saturday 14th March. London, UK. Waterloo station Underground 4.30pm. A normally busy underground on a Saturday afternoon is deserted.

March 14th I had a small list of people to see while in London, but took the time to call and email them as I made my way up to the UK – ‘Considering the worsening situation, I do not want to put you at risk of any potential infection as I will have just arrived from Singapore/Paris. Please, if you feel this could be problematic, do not hesitate to let me know. We can always do this another time.’

By now it was obvious I would not be visiting my elderly relatives in Scotland but in London, all responses were positive – Virus, what virus? Who cares? Of course we want to see you. It will be fine. I take the tube to Waterloo to grab a train to see friends in Twickenham for lunch. The journey is surreal as the reality of this continually escalating crisis now truly shows itself. Camden High street is almost deserted at 11am of a Saturday morning. The tube train is ominously empty. Platforms and escalators are devoid of people. The noise of humanity in one of the most intensely exciting cities in the world is that of a quietened snare drum as the band says goodnight to the sole drunkard in the bar. The punk rock energy of the city in concert is conspicuous with its absence. It would repeat itself over and over for the next few days.

An email arrives from Singapore Airlines, the carrier I am scheduled to return home with in late April. “Your flight from Frankfurt to Singapore has been cancelled. Please contact your travel agent to arrange a refund.”

The generic weekend response from the travel agent is not unexpected – “If your scheduled departure is not within the next 48 hours, please stand by until we clear this immediate period and we will get back to you.” Not quite what I wanted to hear, but understandable. I informed them of the airline’s email while reminding them of my request sent from Paris, not sure how soon after 48-hours it would take for the TA to call me. I figure I have some comfort in knowing that if airlines are cancelling and borders closing, then refunds are definitely due, but this is a minor detail right now compared to what it really means.

Sunday 15th March. Camden, London, UK. A former restaurant in Chalk Farm road now closed down. Peppered in graffiti by squatters who occupied the premises for close to a year, it is now boarded up. The prescient lyrics on the wall read – “Advertise the product you make/Never give and always take/Kill and lie for security/Your shit on supermarket shelves to see/Instinct of survival/Another product for you to buy/And you’ll keep buying until you die.”

On Monday morning I am unable to contend with the continuing stream of overbearing news so I set about cancelling my own bookings of car hires, hotels, trains, ferry connections, and more family and friends’ gatherings, while I hopelessly await any news from the travel agent. It is actually a sunny, not-too-cold day outside in the big city. Sunny mild days in early springtime London were unheard of when I lived here in the eighties. By 11am I had done all I could and I reminded myself why I was here – to be a hell tourist. I am resplendent in my sparkling new Timberlands bought in Rue la Fayette, Paris.

Sunday 15th March. Tate Modern Art Gallery, London, UK. Sunday afternoon visitors take a rest beneath the neon graphics of an installation as the world situation escalates dramatically. (The entire wording reads, “The whole world + the work = the whole world.”)

I arm myself with the camera and set off for the British Museum. It is never far away from my eye, and certainly never out of my hands. Who knows how many more days I have left here, but I am going to use every single one of them.

Monday 16th March. The British Museum, London, UK. A small but lively group of schoolchildren are escorted up the stairs of the museum lobby to a gallery.

Sitting in the atrium of the enormous museum upon arrival I was gripped with a palpable sense of increasing tension. The quiet city is un-nerving. The museum is a ghost town. It is obvious this trip is over. Wondering how many more days I could squeeze out of the week only adds to the mixed emotions. Frustration that I will not see such dear relatives in Scotland along with a number of friends, the loss of visiting a country for the first time, the excitement of being in London during such an epic moment in history and having the opportunity to record it, the fear of such an intense and sudden escalation while witnessing the process of a major city in shutdown mode. Any jokes I had made about having the gallery to myself no longer seem funny. I think of my late twin brother and what he would have made of this. I feel that pang of loss. For him, for this journey. I take a deep breath. Live in the moment. What you do now will forever stay with you. Make it count. And finally, most importantly, believe that you will return here another day.

Monday 16th March. The British Museum, London, UK. An elderly woman and her daughter take a rest in The Enlightenment Gallery of the British Museum. Museum staff have never experienced such low numbers of visitors to this vast building.

While vastly empty, the spooky quiet is nicely broken by a small phalanx of schoolchildren setting off excitedly for their specialised tour of the enormous building, their cheerful sounds reverberating through the empty atrium. A tour guide gives a lively free tour of the section on Enlightenment. Joseph Banks and Captain James Cook are mentioned a small number of times. The personalised tour consists of three to four people. Later I ask the tour guide how many people she would usually see on a tour at midday on a Monday in mid-March – anything from half a dozen to twenty people. As for how quiet the gallery is, she has seen nothing like it. I speak to security, cleaners and restaurant staff. All of them say the same thing. No queues, no noise, eerily quiet. In a way it is a very unique experience punctuated by moments of utter stillness. The light sits softly on the beautiful artefacts undisturbed by hordes of tourists. For lunch the well catered, yet starkly empty museum restaurant serves Scottish salmon. It will be the closest I get to Scotland so I order it with a glass of NZ chardonnay. I venture out and stroll down to Covent Garden taking the time to chat to shop vendors. The plaza is usually thick with people, you can't even see the paving stones, one says. Today, the long shadows fall across empty squares. Charing Cross Tube station at 6pm is bereft of commuters. You don't have to live here to know that this is deeply unusual. Big cities at rush hour, and I know what this place is like at 6pm, are a regular crush.

Monday 16th March. The British Museum, London, UK. The piazza outside the main entrance to the museum sits empty, the food trucks closed due to the complete lack of visitors.

That evening while uploading photos and typing out the blog of my startling account on face-book unsurprisingly the news worsens. Expect lockdown. I watch a debate on Channel 4 about the hopeful yet unlikely efficacy of not undergoing lockdown and none of it sounds good. Already NZ has advised all returning nationals will undergo mandatory 14-day isolation, with further announcements about border closures to follow. Level four is imminent. Friends have sent texts, social platform messages, video called, phone called and emailed me – we will ensure your fridge and cupboards are restocked for your return, we will wave to you through the window, we have your back. I jokingly ask for supplies of wine, beer, chocolate, ice-cream and weed.

Monday 16th March. Surgical mask sales went up significantly with a wide variety of shops stocking supplies. Masks for sale are available at CBD, a legal high store in Covent Garden, London.

My nephew informed me earlier upon return that his office is now officially shut. Work from home, expect this to last up to 12 weeks. Don’t wait for your TA to make contact, he tells me. You need to seriously consider jumping a seat right now and getting home.

He has a point. It is only Monday night ergo it is Tuesday morning in NZ – it will be 24 hours more before I will even begin to hear from the TA but I err on awaiting their response and flight suggestions. Let me wait for some information from them tomorrow night, I suggest rather weakly.

March 17th (St. Patricks Day) By Tuesday morning I am now hoping for the impossible. I have to admit that at this point I was in a state of self-denial. Perhaps my hesitation was selfish. To be honest I just wanted a couple more days to keep capturing on the DSLR – if the TA could have me on a flight by Friday or Saturday then that would be fine. Today I was meeting a friend for lunch – visiting galleries felt slightly pointless. The rest of the day would be spent walking the city and recording. But I am procrastinating in the face of further news that there is now a mad rush on with the airlines – the world exodus is on.

Tuesday 17th March. Barons Court Underground Station, London, UK. A discarded latex glove sits outside the entrance to the Barons Court tube station. Shops and pharmacies sold out overnight of hand sanitiser and protective wear.

My nephew took matters into his own hands. Would you like me to do this for you? He asked. I nodded with a deep sigh. ‘You’re right, I hate to admit it, but this is over.’ There was no point in holding off as the media frothed at the mouth about said world exodus on shrinking numbers of flights. If you are not fast, you are last, and this would be an expensive last.

Tuesday 17th March. (10am) Margravine Cemetery, West Kensington, London, UK. A British Airways 777 heads toward its landing strip at Heathrow Airport. Prime Minister Boris Johnson ordered the dramatic increase of restrictions to head off a possible 250,000 deaths, as warned by scientists.

I do not know what I would have done without this sterling relative to snap me out of this. He is so quick with the booking that before I am even out the door for my final day in the city he has completed the details. I give him my credit card and five minutes later am officially booked to leave at 1330hrs the following day. I contact the TA and inform them of my arrival time in NZ – please book me a flight to Wellington. They nail it with an open ticket, the confirmation coming through the next morning.

Tuesday 17th March. Piccadilly, London, UK. Advising people to work from home wherever possible, the government warn of further restrictions as a third of Covid-19 cases exist in London.

I might only have one more day left here, so I am not going to waste it even if it is pointless trying to visit galleries that are shutting down by the minute. I shoot newspaper headlines, (“London faces new virus clampdown”), knowing it is only every 3 to 5 minutes before someone will walk past the newsstand wearing a surgical mask. When I arrive at Piccadilly circus I stop to listen to a busker. She belts out “Someone like you”, by Adele. Damn, I hate leaving London no matter any time I am ever here, but at this moment it stings especially. I keep walking, keeping the camera working, constantly looking for those signs. Eventually I stop by a bar near the National Portrait Gallery. I slowly consume, yes, you guessed it, a Corona Beer. No memes this time but I post my lame joke to face-book anyway.

Upon return to the infamous Kiwi residence with its tattered Union Jack and Southern Cross flag waving in the evening breeze I upload my photos, send a last blog and pack my gear, readying for the uncouth long haul flight to come. My nephew sits with me the entire time, talking to me, taking care of his uncle. I feel his close attendance. He knows how difficult this is. We laugh about how the English would respond to their lockdown. Unlike the Italians who are now singing from their balconies in Milan, the English would probably be yelling at each other to STFU.

Tuesday 17th March. Trafalgar Square, London, UK. A bus with an advertising hoarding for “The Book of Mormon” passes by the National Portrait Gallery of London as evening sets in. The impending crisis threatened the entertainment sector, worth £111 billion and two million jobs.

Tuesday 17th March. Charing Cross Underground, London, UK. An eerily empty escalator advertises a positive travel slogan. Travel bans began taking effect around the world as borders proceeded to shut down.

My sleep is jagged. I cannot switch off. When I finally do, I am woken by a long drawn out fight and yelling match outside on the Chalk Farm Road. I manage about 6 hours of sleep.

March 18th 0830. In my most cynical moments I have occasionally stated, “I am here to film the end of the world as we know it.” It felt like that over the last few days, thrilling, scary, weird. I never really believed that statement would rise up to haunt me. And yet it is over as quickly as it started. I take a selfie with my phone, wearing a mask with the immediate slogan “Leave Now” inked on, care of my Sharpie felt-pen. Psyching up to cope with the impending 27-hour slog via Dubai and Denpasar I keep reminding myself, ‘Where would you rather be?’ There are a couple of answers to that question but it is obvious, you know where you have to be. It was as well I did not bring my British passport along for the ride or it might have been a different story. Weeks later, from the comfort of my apartment here in Newtown, Wellington, NZ, I now realise how crazy it would have been to have stayed no matter what nationality badge I had on my passport.

Wednesday 18th March. Gatwick airport, London, UK. Passengers board an elevator to the check in terminals. Airlines still operating experienced a flood of bookings as airports around Europe were inundated with the mass exit.

Wednesday 18th March. Gatwick airport, London, UK. A group of Turkish millennials smoke cigarettes near the departures entrance to Gatwick airport. Students returned home from overseas study and exchange programs to be with families.

The queue at Gatwick departure check-in had a ring of diaspora about it. Social distancing was unobservable. The term Social distancing, was now becoming firmly entrenched in our vernacular.

Surgical masks had increased dramatically, this time topped with frowns of disappointment. My nephew had walked with me to the beautifully burgundy tiled Chalk Farm Underground station, giving me a tight hug and a fond farewell as we bid each other adieu. Together we will get to Scotland one day, we promised each other.

I continued to shoot black and white. I passed a group of Turkish millennials hightailing it back to Istanbul, hanging outside the departure terminal smoking through their surgical masks. They were super fine about it when I asked if I could shoot a couple of frames. No elbow bumps times this time. There were too many of them. The elbow bump became the new fist bump, marginally safer, and this week it was a thing. Masks became further evident as the trail continued while full disposable plastic jumpsuits replete with hoods, goggles, masks, gloves and tape sealed wristbands were spotted along the way. If it was an Ebola epidemic I could understand it, but this?

Maybe they had a point. Planes and international transit terminals were my main concern – they were nothing but viral incubation pods as far as I was concerned. Being sucked inexorably into this mass world exodus may have been unavoidable, but it felt like adding to the contagion that was now spreading rapidly around the world. The inevitable self-isolation upon return was no joke – every single human being travelling every international airport would have to do their bit.

Take off; 1330hrs. Rules for keeping it real – smile at travel weary humans, respect the masked up air crew, (one of who informed me that a week ago the plane was virtually empty, now it was 99% loaded), observe as much distance as possible in the fortuitously super-large terminals, don’t touch surfaces, wash and thoroughly dry hands when possible, keep hand sanitiser close by and use often, use tissues when necessary, don’t bother with a face mask. (80% did not).

March 20th It was not so much a case of Right Place, Right Time as Wrong Time, Right Place. This journey really had mattered. I clicked off a poignant frame of the landing lights from the in-flight LCD screen as the plane bumped down onto the runway at 0520.

A 15-minute delay on the plane was called by the flight captain as paramedics came on board to assist a passenger off while nervous reasons abounded amongst passengers. At the overloaded terminal it looked like three plane loads of people had arrived, but it was probably just one, those planes are so big. Buses took us to an entrance with a single escalator and stairs leading up to the concourse, which served up a moment of drama. The crowd on the concourse at the top of the escalator had reached capacity so that when people were reaching the top of the escalator there was nowhere to go, causing a pile up. It was messy, and judging by people’s reactions it was becoming dangerous. Downstairs another bus pulled up to disgorge more passengers. People yelled out to move forward and then to the arriving passengers’ downstairs to avoid the escalator. Someone managed to hit the stop button. The bottlenecks put in place for the processing added another 2 and a half hours. It was always going to be this way. Everyone I spoke to had a story - 'There I was, just going about my business on... holiday, wedding, visiting family, studying, ticking bucket list, when suddenly ...' But we are all home. People the world over will be recounting this to family and friends, (through their jet-lagged masks from a distance), as we all wonder about the sanity of traversing the globe and perhaps spreading the contagion even further. There is a note on my apartment window now to warn any possibly unaware visitors. It is the right thing to do while those who have become said resident in exile are posting 14-day quarantine countdown memes hoping that this is the only thing that becomes Viral. In returning home, thanks to awesome friends I was treated to a fridge full of beer, veges, meat, coffee and chocolate. Wine and Epsom salts also wait for a hot bath before jetlag claims me for the weekend. There is even toilet paper. (Yesssss!!)

Friday 20th March. Emirates flight EK450 from Dubai to Auckland. A steward begins gathering in the headsets from passengers in the fully loaded 777 prior to landing in Auckland International airport at 0520hrs.


Friday 20th March 0520hrs. Emirates flight EK450 lands at Auckland International airport. Total travel time from Gatwick airport via transits in Dubai and Denpasar, 27 hours. Documents were handed out to passengers upon arrival while screening and temperature reading stations were not available.

Friday 20th March 0900hrs – Auckland domestic terminal. At the boarding gate for a flight to Wellington, a local newspaper headline contrasts significantly with the hoarding in the background. The NZ government announced a complete 4-week lockdown only 76 hours later.

March 23rd My suitcase sits still unpacked as the Prime Minister Jacinda Adern makes a live public announcement – we are going to level four. Lockdown begins in less than 60 hours.

Any disappointment felt in the preceding 72 hours are vanquished – this is the whole world. You cannot change what is out of your control, and this was an unguided missile. I unpack my suitcase.

The photographer prepares to leave for the airport. Total travel time from the front door of the Camden abode to the apartment in Newtown, Wellington – 35 hours and 20 minutes.

Saturday April 4th A phone call at 1.30pm, 27.5 hours since self-isolation lapsed. It is from the Ministry of Health with a follow up call to all returned nationals. We believe you have returned and therefore undergone self-isolation. I concur. When Christine, a necessary service worker then checks the flight and seat numbers of flights taken all the way to Wellington from Gatwick, I am a little more curious with each response. You know what I am thinking. Is she about to tell me I have shared a cabin with you know what? Especially when she asks if I have shown any symptoms. But she did tell me this was a follow up phone call, so on this very sunny day I cheerfully tell her that yes, I am completely symptom free and still observing, and that I hope everyone that is answering her phone calls are responding in the same way.

Christine thanked me for answering her questions, was pleased to hear I was well, and that yes, everyone she spoke to was virus free.

Fin.

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