Penny’s Bay diary: Dante’s Inferno? Hardly. But whisky with the neighbours will have to wait as life in a Spartan dorm room commences
- The Post’s managing editor settles in for his seven days at the government quarantine facility – after making the acquaintance of a couple spending their honeymoon there
- The room is better than expected, the staff kind and efficient thus far, but the adventure is only beginning
After two weeks in the high-risk hot zone of the United States, and after two tests, there is no evidence yet of a personal infection from the Delta, Omicron or any other variant of Covid-19.
And so I queue to collect my reward: A brief bus ride across Lantau Island to the confines of the government quarantine centre at Penny’s Bay. It is time to put this pandemic internment centre’s notorious reputation to the test.
Will it be a walk in the park? Or, perhaps more like Dante: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”?
Like many things in life, it will prove to be somewhere in between.
I’m staying solo and steeled by two previous rounds of quarantine – once for 14 days at home in 2020 when restrictions were still quite lax, another in August 2021 featuring 21 long days in a hotel.
Now, the first week for all us high-risk arrivals is spent in Penny’s Bay, with daily testing, after which – provided we test negative – we head off to hotels for the final two weeks.
The quarantine shuttle sped past that other Lantau landmark – Hong Kong Disneyland – offering a subtly ironic reminder that, while a near miss, we were not destined for “the happiest place on earth”.
The less happy green metal gates of Penny’s Bay stood ajar as the coach stopped for inspection. From this point on, anyone who is not an inmate is dressed to the nines in protective pandemic gear: blue head-to-toe disposable gown and matching cap, plexiglass face covering, gloves and surgical masks.
Through the gates, and for what seemed like a long time, the bus passed phalanxes of two-story quarantine quarters, row after row of changing colours – yellow, forest green, blue and orange, before settling into pastels.
They colour over what appear at first glance to be stacked shipping containers fashioned into cells for arriving passengers. The dormitory-style buildings were actually constructed using prefabricated components.
The brief bus ride with fellow soon-to-be inmates offers a humbling lesson that, in spite of my being caught out by the tightened quarantine policies, it could always be worse.
Your plight is always relative. Take my fellow passengers and Hong Kong residents Diego and Priscilla. After two pandemic years away from family, the couple had returned to their home in Central America for reunions and … to get married.
They had been prepared for 14 days quarantine, but Omicron and passing through California suddenly meant an extra week tacked on, and in the illustrious confines of Penny’s Bay no less. They somehow managed to retain their senses of humour.
“It’s going to be a great honeymoon,” the groom said with a smile.
“So romantic,” Priscilla deadpanned. “Welcome to our container flats.”
The hazmat welcome wagon unloaded the luggage and (… searches for apt nickname …) the Blue Meanies checked us in. Except that name quickly proved to be inappropriate: everyone working here is kind and helpful.
Working with the best Hong Kong efficiency, they rapidly checked us into our units – do you want upstairs or downstairs? (I’m up) – and read off the list of dos and don’ts from a large picture book.
“Stay in your room at all times to prevent infection”. “No cooking”. “Do not remove the plastic mattress cover.” (What about the mattress tags, I wonder).
Jokes aside, those who break the strictest of the rules – don’t leave your room – face tens of thousands of dollars in fines and up to a half year in jail.
I wheeled my bags to hospital-green unit 197. I normally only travel with but one bag. However, these days you must pack five-weeks for a two week trip once you factor in quarantine, and I had taken winter clothes for the Rocky Mountain-level snows of Idaho. The upstairs walk-up suddenly lost some of its charm.
As required, I placed my name tag and room/inmate number 197-17 in the slot on the door and sent a message to their WhatsApp number. (This will prove quite handy as I will outline in a later instalment.)
The window next to my door is meant to be the only point of contact I have with the outside world. For the coming week, all food and sundries will be delivered to the shelf outside that two foot square of glass for me to collect.
Abandoning all hope, I pass into my cell for the next seven days and turn the lock behind me. The room is Spartan. Utilitarian. Perhaps 8 or 9 feet by 16. An en-suite bathroom. Better than expected.
The overwhelming smell of disinfectant offers a sobering reminder of why we are here. Omicron is spreading rapidly and easily around the globe, riding the wake of the deadly Delta variant of a pandemic that has killed and infected millions.
A message from my newlywed neighbour Diego arrives with a kind offer to share a glass of fine whisky. Inviting as it is, it will have to wait: The warnings include one against deliveries of alcohol or tobacco, but shared libations are really thwarted by the logistics of obtaining the beverage without leaving your room.
Barring a reprieve via government policy change, a happy hour with others is forbidden. We agree to meet up when we are on the outside.
I have some experience already with quarantines and forced confinement. Still, that whisky was inviting, and I can’t prevent the image popping into my head of Steve McQueen in The Great Escape heading into solitary.
All that’s missing is the baseball mitt, the ball and an escape plan.
Next up: The Suites at Penny’s Bay.
