Last month I flew to the UK, my homeland, for the first time
since 2016. A long overdue, Covid-delayed trip in which my girlfriend met my
family for the first time, spending Christmas together. We visited the south of
England, went to Oxford University, took a sleeper train up to Edinburgh and drove
up snowy roads to Inverness and around the Highlands of Scotland. We contracted Covid and rounded off the trip with a long-awaited reunion (and some strong
karaoke performances) with old friends in London. With the relatively mild strain
of Omicron setting out its stall, we reveled in the masklessness of society
and the pubs open until late. We drank wine in fine restaurants, enjoyed
an excellent rendition of the Nutcracker, bopped our heads and tapped our feet
to the Lion King, visited remote Scottish castles and drank in the melancholy
of hauntingly beautiful battlefields. But as we suspected, the journey back to South
Korea was going to have anything but the calming tranquility of a trip around
the snowy peaks and sun-lit troughs of the Scottish Highlands.
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It was a harsh
initiation to the increasingly large gorge opening up between two methodologies
of government, and the trade-off between public health and individual liberty: the
punctilious heavy-handed approach favoured by countries of the East, particularly
China, South Korea, and Singapore, with a robust use of behaviour tracking QR
codes, outdoor mask mandates and vaccine passes (in South Korea and Singapore),
and anal swabbing and the welding of apartment blocks shut in China. Not to
mention a citizenry far more likely to follow whichever rules imposed, in part
due to a legacy of Confucianism which enshrines deference to authority
and a higher degree of trust in institutions. The mostly chaotic, laissez-faire approach of western
countries, Germany, Italy, Canada, New Zealand and Australia notwithstanding, seem
at least a little more mindful of an individual rights, with a few hundred
years of civil liberties exposure on the books.
The first hints of the diverging approaches between East and
West came at Istanbul Airport appropriately enough, with Turkey long regarded
the geographical and cultural middleman between these non-overlapping magisteria.
Foreigners were required to join a separate queue where we completed forms that
signed away our freedom of movement upon arrival. On the plane, a Korean middle-aged
lady gesticulated angrily at my loose mask fitting, and then before arrival there
were more forms to complete. As our sixteen-hour flight came to an end, we were
greeted by a frenetic welcoming party of Korean staff decked out in full hazmat
suits and face shield, and then after a slow-moving queue, there were only four
additional forms to complete for foreigners (two for Koreans); a mere twelve
forms total, and a small price to pay for our protection from a deadly virus. Only
one or two or three more hours until home I told myself as my hand cramped from
writing my address for the umpteenth time. Still, no anal swabs – yet.
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| Form, forms and more forms |
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Signing away one's freedoms:
the government's tracking application
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| Post-flight queues and the welcoming committee |
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| Arrivals Assembly |
Airside, a final challenge awaited my girlfriend and me.
More disaster movie larpers kitted out in full end-of-the-world standard-issue
uniforms explained that we had two options getting home: the first option
involved taking a private bus to our respective regions of Seoul, with only the
most trivial of caveats that this bus had now stopped running. The second
option was an 85, 000 KRW ($60) private taxi. Looking around the arrivals hall,
it was hard not to spot the Boeing 747’s worth of people slumped over, in their
manifold contorted forms, like features of a terrible Hogarth painting or an
Alan Seeger sonnet showing the Somme; a troupe of travellers occupying their own
tranche of Dante’s Inferno, awaiting their names to be called like listless
drunks, some perhaps, in the fog of misadventure, consigning themselves and
their families to a restless night under the bright lights and hard seat of the
arrivals hall. We jumped into the inferno and took our seats, quite fittingly, outside
a McDonald’s.
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| The chauffeur's assistant: explaining the private taxi options with prices. |
On day three of my quarantine, I tested positive for Covid-19, despite having recovered from Omicron three weeks previously, and with multiple negative tests in the intervening period (dead or attenuated viral antigens can remain in the upper respiratory tract long after recovery). This event precipitated a flood of messages, emails, and calls from
my employer (a higher education intuition), local government nurses, contact
tracers and other government officials. I was also party to the visit of a delightful
security guard who pounded my door like he was the lead investigator on a major
drug sting. One message from my employer bore the subject “emergency situation,”
which sounded quite exciting until I realised, I was it. The email said,
because I was “suspecting of having Covid… the police can come to find you”. The
fear-o-metre cranked up to levels not seen until the following moment when, owing
to jet lag, I woke up to eight missed calls from the local health office, a
nurse, the university and God knows who else. When I called the local
authority, I was told that there was a nearby Covid camp humbly awaiting my
visitation. In a separate message not long after, a nurse told me about my
delightful single room (which I wrongfully interpreted as a private room) and
the bountiful excesses of vegetarian food available. As a vegetarian, I must
say I found this quite alluring. I breathed in a deep, lung-replenishing
breath, closed my eyes and tried to recall the satisfied expression on the
face of Highland cow’s face when I fed him an apple.
A conversation with a nurse, pre-facility
I was taken to the facility by ambulance, an ambulance which
offered me the full bells and whistles approach to transportation: siren, flashing
lights, a sick bag, and a new friend! A Covid-positive pilgrim, as luck would
have it, heading to the same place a me. “So where did you contract Covid?” I thought
of asking. “In a bar? Out with friends? Which strain? Omicron? Oh cool, it’s
getting pretty popular these days. What’s your number? Do you like Highland
cows? I fed one an apple, only two weeks ago in fact.” Instead, I stared out the window, now car
sick at the steady stream of red lights we passed. We were dropped at a Marriott
hotel in the heart of Seoul and more dystopian NPCs explained in a smattering
of nouns and verbs that there would be more opportunities to expand our Covid-positive
gang with a new roommate. The cultural experience was even better than that
because you’d be fortunate enough to eat together, share the same bathroom and
witness each other in various states of dress and undress, for ten whole days. Plus,
you could combine your Covid strains and become a new genetically engineered superhero,
just like in the Marvel Universe. | 
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Facility rules (left), and a steady flow of new arrivals being processed (right)
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We were told immediately on arrival that
“this is not a hotel,” but that we would be invited to a chest X-ray the following morning - on
the house! - and so I couldn’t help but think about complementary bathroom sets
in fancy hotels. This was just like that! Except with complimentary
exposure to high-frequency ionizing radiation instead of dinky, fragrant soaps.
We were given more freebies: a hazardous waste bucket and a box containing a pillowcase,
bedding, and other mystery goods. I took my room card and went up to the fourteenth
floor, an ascent with my second Covid-positive stranger of the night: an older American
gentleman with whom I completed my initiation. He was a tall, well-built, wearing
a flat cap and trench coat. He did not complain and walked with the air of
dignity which suggested a man resigned to the full weight of his circumstances.
He told me that he too was in quarantine in an apartment with a positive result
and that he too was forced into this facility. A story which, judging by the
experiences of British expatriates sharing their anecdotal accounts on a
Facebook page, appear all too common. “Well, at least it’s an interesting experience,
of sorts,” I said in the lift ride up. “I’ve had enough interesting experience
for one lifetime,” he replied. “Good luck Luke,” he added, disappearing into a one
of the smorgasbord of rooms of the tenth floor. The sense of foreboding was palpable,
and I felt truly sorry for him.
One-four-one seven. It was the right room, the right key
card, but as I tapped my key card on the door, in what was in hindsight a giant
stroke of fortune, the red light of the access pad flickered dimly, the door
remained shut, no sound except the pitter-patter of
telephone chatter on the other side of the
door: a Covid chum that I would never come to know. My solitary descent in the
lift back down to the car park allowed my disquiet to gestate enough into a
moment of clarity. “
Joneun yogiso salgo sipji anayo. Ganhosaga naege. Dooin
hansal dago malhessay,” I said with a shake to my voice in horribly broken
Korean, walking up the car park ramp back to the processing area. “I don’t want
to stay here
a moment longer,” I repeated in English, redundantly. I
remained on that enclosed car park forecourt for many moments longer; two hours’ worth
of moments in fact, which mostly involving phone call negotiations between myself,
my employer, my local health office, and the facility.
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| A makeshift toilet |
There were several firsts that evening and in the days that followed.
I’d never been forced to a government facility before. I’d never been with so
many people I knew had Covid before, and I had never threatened a government
official with urinating on their building site before, but as the hours passed,
and amidst and endless exchange of phone negotiations, my bladder swelled to
bursting point and I had little other choice. Perhaps uncomfortable with the
sight of a grown man chicken-dancing his way out of an unsightly puddle on the forecourt,
one worker took pity on me and handed over a white hazardous waste bucket with an
orange plastic bag inside. He escorted me to one of the few parts of the facility
without security cameras, the back of the indoor car park. I then handed him a happy
treat: a bucket full of urine, and before I knew it, found myself in another ambulance
speeding through red lights with sirens sounding, back to a building a stone’s
throw from the building that I usually reside in.
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| Predictable fine dining |
My new home was a dedicated quarantine facility ran by my
employer’s infectious disease committee. Usually, home to students whose Covid
status was unknown; namely, international students newly arrived. Here the
spirit of complementary gift giving continued with the delivery of one two-litre
bottle of water, which I didn’t know was to last me for three days. When the
water ran out, the stomach pains and itchiness from the drinking of tap water eased
my boredom and gave me something to do, and I learnt to reflect that my request
for instant coffee being refused was a blessing in disguise, as I’d only have
become dehydrated anyway. I was also grateful to receive three meals a day. And
I was grateful that the meals were identical, so as not to confuse me with unnecessary
ingredients: white rice, vegetables and tuna in the morning, white rice, vegetables
and soy sauce at lunch and white rice, vegetables and egg with a meat sauce for
dinner, and although I requested vegetarian food twice, picking fish and meat
out each time, was an activity that passed the time quite excellently, and for
which I was therefore grateful.
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| No Korean, No entry |
Two days after arrival in my new home, it was time to go. My employer didn't like a 'known' Covid case being on the premises, and so I
was to relocate from one part of Seoul to another, and in so doing change jurisdiction
from one local health authority to another. At first my new guardian did not want
me as my Korean proficiency was deemed to be inadequate. What does Korean
language proficiency have to do with one’s ability to self-isolate you might
wonder? Well, patients have not one but two apps to install on their phones,
plus daily calls from a health official. The next day after clarifying that I
would be staying with a Korean speaker, they accepted me. Better still, it was
my girlfriend who tested negative for Covid one week prior, and this Covid-positive, Covid-negative arrangement didn’t even raise an eyebrow. We had a Korean
speaker, after all, and another Covid success story.
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| Held to ransom |
All that remained then was getting to my girlfriend’s place
was transportation. Being Covid-positive in the eyes of the authorities, I couldn’t
use public transport or a private taxi. So, what was this ostensibly Covid-positive lad to do? Hike down the hard shoulder of the motorway in full
PPE while ringing a leper’s bell? No, instead I was to use the government’s
favourite and most exclusive taxi service: an ambulance. I would need to pay
the taxi driver – I mean ambulance driver – 100, 000 won ($83.50) for this service,
for a journey which would usually cost 1, 500 won ($1.25) by subway or 10, 000
won ($8.35) by regular taxi. Walking through side streets packed full of busy
students, flanked by the hazmat-clad ambulance driver and a member of infectious
diseases team in a dapper navy-blue hazmat, I wondered how many people I could
infect, if I actually did have Covid. Indeed, how many people asymptomatically had Covid on these streets already and weren’t flanked by those in hazmat? I used
my grubby Covid paws to punch in my PIN number and extract ten crisp green
bills. I didn’t get a receipt, just what I presumed to be a smile of
satisfaction on the driver’s face, should I have been able to see it.
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| Ten days worth of PPE |
Upon arrival at my girlfriend’s house, I was told that my
quarantine had been extended by two days to reflect ten days from the receipt
of the positive test result. At this point I’d been told so many quarantines
end dates that I was exiting in a Schrodinger’s purgatory of simultaneously having
all quarantine end dates and none. And then on day seven of twelve quarantine
days, I received the following checklist of items from the government: Tylenol,
cold and flu medication, a pulse checker, batteries for the pulse checker, sanitiser
gel, sanitiser spray, four rapid antigen test kits, ten days’ worth of full
protective hospital overalls and face screens, ten N94 face masks. Thirteen
pages of information (written in Korean), two of which needed to be signed, dated,
and photographed. I would be asked to install one additional app in addition to
the one already installed for tracing my whereabouts and logging my symptoms
(twice daily). I might be tempted to ask the question why I would need full hazmat
gear given that I’m unable to meet others under the terms of my quarantine, but
I didn’t bother. I can only assume there the exhaustive supply of items paid
for by the Korean taxpayer was to be used a casual lounge wear, when watching
the news, for example, doing your Tabata workouts, or having a quarantine cocktail. |
| A Taxpayer-funded fun bag |
Let’s finish up by looking at the nonsensical rules which facilitated
this misadventure. For a start, if you catch Covid in Korea, you quarantine for
seven days but if you catch Covid from overseas, you must quarantine for ten
days. Is Covid caught from oversea deadlier than Covid caught in Korea? The
government seems to think so. This does not look like it will change, albeit belatedly.
But it is revelatory of the Korean government’s kneejerk xenophobic instinct, as
seen in the need for foreigners to apply for re-entry into the country, but
foreigners of Korean descent (those of “Korean blood”), not to do so. Secondly,
if you catch Covid inside Korea, you are entitled to claim government
compensation for inconvenience and lost earnings, but not so if you’re an
imported case. Foreign disease bad, Korean disease less bad? Next, those
living in dormitories and goshiwons (small, cheap apartments usually mostly used
by students and the working poor) must enter government facilities, but those
living in apartments or officetels (large buildings containing studio apartments)
do not. Apartment blocks in Korea can contain thousands of people, officetels
hundreds, but societies poorest and those least likely to find representation
in high offices of political power, such as foreigners, are removed. Finally, those lacking Korean language proficiency are treated like second-class citizens, and thrown into these camps. A documented case in the city of Cheonan-Asan took a foreigner quarantining at home in a three-bedroom apartment and placed him in a room with three strangers, all foreigners, in a dedicated-foreigner block. The room was small, the beds consisted of four padded mats strewn across the floor.
The overall experience could be summarised as a series of
unfortunate events laced with one or two moments of fortune. And yet, I and
many other foreigners like me, and Koreans for that matter recount similar such
escapades, made possible only by the magical combination of illogical government
rules, a fastidious commitment to enforcing these rules from within bureaucracies
that do not communicate within themselves or between competing jurisdictions. Most
government workers were polite in this whole process, (with one exception).
Most were trying their best. All were operating within a bloated government zealously
enforcing its diktats, keen to cling on to its reputation as one of the countries
that has dealt best with the pandemic, while demonstrating its failure to
protect the liberty of it’s citizens and discriminating further still against non-citizens.
International commentators regularly laud South Korea’s
achievements while neglecting to mention this hogwash: outdoor mask mandates,
vaccine passes, smartphone tracking, the monitoring of their telephone calls
and messages, their spending habits of its citizens, the prying interjection of
telephone calls thrice daily, the endless submission of details on the government’s
apps, and worse of all the conditioning of the citizenry to interpret this as all
a good thing. I hope that my experiences and the experiences of those like me can
shed enough light on the realities of testing positive for Covid in South Korea.
For me though, if it’s a choice between the nonchalant charisma of an
apple-munching Highland cow, or the preening, punctilious strong arm of government,
there can be only one winner.
