Quarandiaries

At the Port Melbourne dock, the smell of stagnant seaweed and salt swirls in the air. The frigid waters of Port Phillip Bay lap against the barnacled stumps of the piers. Discoloured from decades of seawater and stripped of their paint, they endure, standing defiant. Overhead, seagulls circle, squawking and squabbling over the few scraps of food discarded on the shore. The Spirit of Tasmania, the last remaining mode of transport between the Australian mainland and Tasmania, sounds its horn. The bellowing hoot echoes through the vacant streets. On this chilly evening in July 2020, Melbourne is two days into another lockdown, and there are fewer people outside than usual.

The hulking vessel eases out of the docks and, as it moves southward, the lights of Melbourne fade into the night. From Williamstown to St Kilda and all down the southeast coast, the lights of apartment blocks and homes flicker and wink and then disappear altogether. It will be some time before we meet again. On this cool winter’s night, the deep, dark waters of Bass Strait are unusually calm. The overnight crossing is notoriously rough, and every seat comes with a seasickness bag. Some passengers are preempting their reaction and are outside on the deck, braving the chilled air. Yet they need not worry. In these increasingly unusual times, the undulating waters rock us to sleep as the vessel glides effortlessly towards the Apple Isle. All is calm.

Farewell Melbourne: Aboard the Spirit of Tasmania

Day 1, Saturday: At Devonport, the ship eases into port. The sun is yet to rise, and despite the smooth conditions, we are all in various states of sleepiness. We walk single file down the planks, all wearing the now familiar N95 facemasks. This journey is one of anti-travel. A trip to nowhere. A stationary voyage. We are about to enter hotel quarantine. A fortnight inside.

A police officer in a blue uniform hands me forms to complete, though they are not immigration forms. Another asks for identification documents and questions me about my movements and contacts. Yet this is not Amman, or Kuala Lumpur, or Nairobi. There is no adventure awaiting me on the other side. This is Devonport, Tasmania, and all that awaits is a hotel room. After the biosecurity officers complete their information gathering and health checks, they shepherd us to a bus, and we depart for the Gateway Hotel. On the streets of Devonport, life continues as normal. People are walking their dogs, buying a Saturday morning paper, and a few brave souls are jogging. The four storey hotel appears a pleasant abode, and a step above my usual accommodation choices. Bio-security officers help us with our bags as we are ushered from the bus in small groups.

Their helpfulness is oddly pleasant, and different from Elmina, San Cristobal, or Chiang Mai. Among the group of anti-travellers are a young couple from the mainland, an international student from China, and a middle-aged hippie with a ponytail and guitar. At check-in, the small town pleasantries continue, and they make us feel like regular guests and not hazardous outcasts from the mainland.

‘You are in room eight, sir. If you need anything, simply dial nine on the phone in your room.’

At room eight, the electronic pass beeps and I drag my bags inside before letting the door swing shut. The handle clicks into place and so begins 14 days of anti-travel.

Day 2, Sunday: I have chosen the Patrick Bateman approach to quarantine. For those unfamiliar, Patrick Bateman is the chief protagonist of the 1991 novel American Psycho. Christian Bale portrays the Wall Street investment banker turned serial killer in the 2000 film adaptation. Now, the Partick Bateman approach to hotel quarantine does not include running naked through the hallways, covered in blood, hunting people with a chainsaw, as Bale does in the movie. Rather, it focuses on a calm approach to confinement. Slow, deliberate and focused self-care.

‘I believe in taking care of myself,’ Bateman / Bale coolly explains at the beginning of the film, ‘and a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I'll put on an ice pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now.’ While the target of one thousand stomach crunches may elude me, a morning routine is critical to giving structure to the days and avoiding a slide into boredom and nihilism.

‘After I remove the ice pack,’ Bateman continues, ‘I use a deep pore-cleanser lotion. In the shower, I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply a herb mint facial masque which I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after-shave lotion with little or no alcohol because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturiser, then an anti-aging eye balm, followed by a final moisturising protective lotion.’ I search YouTube for videos of stretching routines and find one that suits. Every morning, this, and a diluted version of Bateman’s skincare routine, become mine. It fills most of an hour, leaving only 23 more.

Day 2: Relaxing while watching the footy

Day 3, Monday: After my morning exercises, shower, and skin care routine, there is a knock on the door. Breakfast. Meals are delivered three times a day, accompanied by a knock, sometimes loud, sometimes subtle. The packs are placed on a chair outside the door for collection, sometimes in a paper bag, sometimes in a recyclable box. Breakfast is a cereal sachet and a piece of fruit, and there are options for lunch, dinner, and dessert. Almost every meal comes with a bottle of soft drink or fruit juice. The quality of food has been above average throughout the first two days, so when I open the paper bag and see a sachet of Coco Pops, a wave of disappointment rushes over me. As a child, I would have fought my brothers for the Coco Pops in the shared mini packs, now I’m disgusted by them. I want to stay as healthy in mind and body as possible in the 14 days. This does not include eating Coco Pops. In a stroke of good fortune, the Spirit of Tasmania was under booked and over catered, so I was able to pinch my absent neighbour’s food pack. The surplus sachet of Just Right is exactly that, and the Coco Pops are left unopened.

Day 5, Wednesday: The days are passing by, no slower and no quicker than usual. During the day I sit at the desk and work, as I would when working from home or the office. Though my commute time has reduced to about five seconds. I fill the new chunks of free time either side of nine and five by reading, watching TV series, writing, and so on.

Over the past couple of days, there has been talk of an exercise yard. No, not from the voices in my head. Paul, a health officer with a strong Scottish accent, and the reception staff have phoned each day to check in. Outside the window of my room, an area of the car park has been sectioned off with temporary fencing covered in blue sheets. It is underwhelming, but what was I expecting, a pop-up gymnasium? At 8:30, a security guard knocks on my door and invites me for a walk in the ‘exercise yard.’ It is a cool three degrees outside, a typical winter’s morning in Tasmania, yet I jump at the chance for my 20 minute exercise. The space is small (six car parks to be exact), and I feel a slight dizziness after only a few laps. I alter the direction of my walk, clockwise to anticlockwise, to figure eight, and continue to mix it up from there. The security guard pays little attention to me as he stares at his phone, and I fantasise about running away. Though to where and to what end? So, I continue to walk back and forth. The image of the last living Thylacine enters my mind. That famous grainy black and white footage of the soon to be extinct Tasmanian Tiger pacing its pen, caged and confused. After 20 minutes the security guard waves to me, time’s up, and I return obediently.

Day 7, Friday: Since the introduction of coronavirus restrictions, there have been numerous accounts of the experiences of those placed in hotel quarantine. At one end of the scale, some have described it as ‘worse than jail’ and have complained about cold meals, late meals, windows that don’t open, and the needs of the children going unmet. At the other end of the scale, some lucky folks in Melbourne had conjugal services provided free of charge. None of those have been part of my experience, however, with each passing hour and each passing day, I am becoming more aware of my reactions and behaviour.

Meal times have become an event. They provide the only variety to the day. I am keeping a strict routine of waking hours, sleeping hours, and working hours. The routine creates a sameness. I am looking at the same shades of white and brown in the room. The decor creates a sameness. Even the daily reported case numbers of coronavirus, while rising, continue to create a sameness. Each day feels much like the one before. Therefore, the thrice daily knock on the door is a spark, a jolt out of the sameness. What will be for breakfast? This week has been full of surprises – one day a croissant, another day a pancake, and another day was muesli with yoghurt, oh, what a day that was! What will be for lunch and dinner? Can I remember what I ordered from the day before? I like it when I don’t, when meals are a surprise. Meal times are also a reminder that even the most basic human interaction can be exciting during hotel quarantine. Sometimes I hurry to the door, perhaps I can catch a glimpse of my deliverer and wave to them down the hallway. Most times they prove to be a ghost.

I am also grasping for any kind of control that I can. It manifests in the form of sorting the waste from my meal packs. Soft plastics, recyclables, and landfill. Unfortunately, I cannot compost. I wash and keep the plastic containers, they can be reused, and the paper bags I fold and store. They can also be reused. I am unable to drink all the soft drinks and fruit juices which come twice a day, so they are gathering in the fridge. In different circumstances, it would be fair to label me a hoarder, ‘a persistent difficulty discarding or parting with possessions because of a perceived need to save them… excessive accumulation of items, regardless of actual value.’ Although, it’s likely that I will actually reuse the plastic containers for leftovers and lunches. I’m not yet saving juice bottles or milk cartons and will put these in the recycle bin when I’m released. I think I’ll be ok.

Day 9, Sunday: Today I wake with nothing to do and no ideas. I switch on the TV and soon switch it off again. I open a book, yet I’m restless and cannot concentrate, so I close it. I flick through the apps on my phone and am soon bored. This puts a new spin on the idea of a lazy Sunday morning. So, I make a coffee, open my laptop, and start writing.

Hotel quarantine, I soon conclude, is like the seven stages of grief, but in reverse. I entered quarantine nine days ago with acceptance and embracing the novelty factor. It’s not often one has the weekend to relax, watch football and movies, and have meals served three times a day. I happily accepted my position. I then set a strategy for how I would structure my days, and how I would spend my free time, also known as stage six – working through and (re)construction. It worked, for a time. The middle stage of grief is depression. I haven’t been anywhere close to depression while in quarantine, however, I have noticed over this weekend, the midpoint, an increase in boredom, and having to invent things to occupy myself. The importance of meal times has increased, as they are half an hour that I can tick off as filled, without any effort on my behalf. I also booked in one session each day for ‘exercise,’ and even the grey clouds and specks of rain on the windows did not stop me.

The early stages of grief, and the end stages of quarantine – anger, pain, and denial may come towards the end. It may be that as the end draws near, the anticipation and desire to leave may feel painful, and time may pass more slowly. Then again, it may not, as the hardest part, or longest stretch of time, is done. Shock is the second stage of grief. As I walk into the outside world, will I be shocked when once again I have to fend for myself? When I have to do my own cooking and my own laundry? And finally, denial, the first stage of grief. Whatever it is that I will be doing next Saturday – bushwalking, cooking, watching the footy, or riding a bike, I can deny all the boredom and slothfulness of the previous 14 days, and like a prisoner who has returned from ‘the hole’ remark that it was the easiest time I ever did.

Above the Clouds: Hiking Mera Peak