Truth is in the thermometer
By Jason Leow
BEIJING - I saw my first star on Tuesday night. As I stepped out of an unusually quiet Guangxi restaurant and looked up into an even more unusual Beijing sky, I witnessed a lone star smiling brilliantly.
This scenario, if you have not gathered, is a miracle. In my 21 months of living in the Chinese capital, I have inhaled mostly tepid air, let alone seen a transparent sky.
But in the past week, I have enjoyed almost resort-like freshness and tranquillity in this city of 14 million residents and many more cars. This is no exaggeration.
Beijing has broken free from the shackles of people, cars and therefore noise. In the day, mostly the homeless roam the streets. At night, only determined lovers dare to venture out - for some public kissing, truly a fascinating new trend among the young and even middled-aged Chinese.
Out on the street also are hungry diners like me, who cannot stomach their own cooking and must hunt down, even if alone, good restaurants against the onslaught of a globe- trotting mysterious killer.
Sars has seared panic into the hearts of Beijing residents. In the past two weeks, they have displayed enough fear to qualify as extras in a war movie.
Last week, they made hearts stop by stomping into every supermarket in sight to buy up meat, vegetables, eggs, rice, instant noodles, salt, oil, vinegar - and yes, disinfectant.
But who could blame them, as rumours fanned across the city that an over-reacting government would impose lockdown measures and a curfew.
Both turned out to be true.
Major exits from the city into other towns are being policed by thermometer-wielding officers, who turn back people dressed like migrant workers or the poor, even if they are in top physical health.
The central government is concerned that the poor with Sars may carry the disease further afield, triggering a countrywide pandemic.
Yet, as roadblocks litter the highways, train stations in Beijing have been curiously lax in the way they allowed thousands of farmers and construction workers to board trains back to their villages.
A time bomb awaits the nation as observers like me wonder how many of those who left town also transported Sars back to their families.
As the hackneyed saying goes, only time will tell.
Funnily enough, the city has been more tightly policed than at any other time I have been here. While the government has avoided imposing martial law, it has nonetheless ordered health clubs, Internet and karaoke bars, discos, theatres and bowling alleys to shut.
Because tea-houses and restaurants are not considered entertainment outlets, they have been spared the heavy-handedness. But many of them have closed, anyway, as there are not many customers to serve.
As icing on the cake, the local government has even taken the chance to mould public behaviour. Spitting has been decreed a health scourge, and fines of up to 1,000 yuan (S$215), up from the usual 250 yuan, await the inconsiderate spitter.
It must come as a shock to be told that spitting is sordid. You must understand that spitting is to Beijing what nit-picking is to Shanghai.
A cultural necessity, spitting is despised by even out-of-town mainlanders. But it is a lifestyle choice in Beijing.
The decree to stop spitting must have left some residents with a deep sense of unease. No wonder they have locked themselves up at home. But the upshot of their dislocation is that you get empty streets and cleanliness.
Unlike last week, though, some calm has returned. A semblance of human tide is swelling in shopping malls. And cars are back on the streets, although not enough to form traffic jams.
People finally understand the extent of infection in this city. They know what it takes to avoid catching the disease. They have even been told which areas are sealed off because there are suspected Sars patients.
In short, they have information.
There is supreme irony in this fact. On April 20, Beijing residents were given true information about the disease, for the first time, by the Health Ministry, which revealed there were almost 10 times more cases than officially admitted.
The revelation petrified residents, leading observers to wonder if Chinese citizens would have been better off hiding under a rock instead of being given facts to make informed decisions.
But that was two weeks ago. Newspapers and state television are no longer playing hide-and-seek with information.
The same residents who threw up their hands in horror because of what they knew also feel more assured now that they are getting real information.
Observers who still insist the Chinese cannot handle transparency must review their premise.
Of course, there are still pockets of the paranoid.
Last Monday, I hopped into a cab feeling like I had come down with a parched throat. Having just taken my temperature, I knew I did not have a fever. But I did cough - repeatedly.
That was enough to stop the driver in his tracks. He accused me of infecting his cab with Sars and asked for compensation. I called him a mercenary.
In this battle of wills, only a thermometer spoke the truth. I whipped out my electronic device, jabbed it under my armpit, and roundly won the argument.
Then I left the cab, slammed the door and walked home with my dignity intact.
(Jason Leow is the Straits Times China Correspondent.)
By Jason Leow
BEIJING - I saw my first star on Tuesday night. As I stepped out of an unusually quiet Guangxi restaurant and looked up into an even more unusual Beijing sky, I witnessed a lone star smiling brilliantly.
This scenario, if you have not gathered, is a miracle. In my 21 months of living in the Chinese capital, I have inhaled mostly tepid air, let alone seen a transparent sky.
But in the past week, I have enjoyed almost resort-like freshness and tranquillity in this city of 14 million residents and many more cars. This is no exaggeration.
Beijing has broken free from the shackles of people, cars and therefore noise. In the day, mostly the homeless roam the streets. At night, only determined lovers dare to venture out - for some public kissing, truly a fascinating new trend among the young and even middled-aged Chinese.
Out on the street also are hungry diners like me, who cannot stomach their own cooking and must hunt down, even if alone, good restaurants against the onslaught of a globe- trotting mysterious killer.
Sars has seared panic into the hearts of Beijing residents. In the past two weeks, they have displayed enough fear to qualify as extras in a war movie.
Last week, they made hearts stop by stomping into every supermarket in sight to buy up meat, vegetables, eggs, rice, instant noodles, salt, oil, vinegar - and yes, disinfectant.
But who could blame them, as rumours fanned across the city that an over-reacting government would impose lockdown measures and a curfew.
Both turned out to be true.
Major exits from the city into other towns are being policed by thermometer-wielding officers, who turn back people dressed like migrant workers or the poor, even if they are in top physical health.
The central government is concerned that the poor with Sars may carry the disease further afield, triggering a countrywide pandemic.
Yet, as roadblocks litter the highways, train stations in Beijing have been curiously lax in the way they allowed thousands of farmers and construction workers to board trains back to their villages.
A time bomb awaits the nation as observers like me wonder how many of those who left town also transported Sars back to their families.
As the hackneyed saying goes, only time will tell.
Funnily enough, the city has been more tightly policed than at any other time I have been here. While the government has avoided imposing martial law, it has nonetheless ordered health clubs, Internet and karaoke bars, discos, theatres and bowling alleys to shut.
Because tea-houses and restaurants are not considered entertainment outlets, they have been spared the heavy-handedness. But many of them have closed, anyway, as there are not many customers to serve.
As icing on the cake, the local government has even taken the chance to mould public behaviour. Spitting has been decreed a health scourge, and fines of up to 1,000 yuan (S$215), up from the usual 250 yuan, await the inconsiderate spitter.
It must come as a shock to be told that spitting is sordid. You must understand that spitting is to Beijing what nit-picking is to Shanghai.
A cultural necessity, spitting is despised by even out-of-town mainlanders. But it is a lifestyle choice in Beijing.
The decree to stop spitting must have left some residents with a deep sense of unease. No wonder they have locked themselves up at home. But the upshot of their dislocation is that you get empty streets and cleanliness.
Unlike last week, though, some calm has returned. A semblance of human tide is swelling in shopping malls. And cars are back on the streets, although not enough to form traffic jams.
People finally understand the extent of infection in this city. They know what it takes to avoid catching the disease. They have even been told which areas are sealed off because there are suspected Sars patients.
In short, they have information.
There is supreme irony in this fact. On April 20, Beijing residents were given true information about the disease, for the first time, by the Health Ministry, which revealed there were almost 10 times more cases than officially admitted.
The revelation petrified residents, leading observers to wonder if Chinese citizens would have been better off hiding under a rock instead of being given facts to make informed decisions.
But that was two weeks ago. Newspapers and state television are no longer playing hide-and-seek with information.
The same residents who threw up their hands in horror because of what they knew also feel more assured now that they are getting real information.
Observers who still insist the Chinese cannot handle transparency must review their premise.
Of course, there are still pockets of the paranoid.
Last Monday, I hopped into a cab feeling like I had come down with a parched throat. Having just taken my temperature, I knew I did not have a fever. But I did cough - repeatedly.
That was enough to stop the driver in his tracks. He accused me of infecting his cab with Sars and asked for compensation. I called him a mercenary.
In this battle of wills, only a thermometer spoke the truth. I whipped out my electronic device, jabbed it under my armpit, and roundly won the argument.
Then I left the cab, slammed the door and walked home with my dignity intact.
(Jason Leow is the Straits Times China Correspondent.)
