About SARS, toothache, and frogs
Do you remember the SARS outbreak about 17 years ago? In those days, Paul and I were in the country of its origin, in the People’s Republic of China, albeit geographically, we were a bit on the sidelines of the SARS epidemic.
We were living in the Tibet Autonomous Region when in 2002-2003 the SARS virus found its way through mainland of China. SARS stands for Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome and is similar to the Corona virus.
It was, in February 2003, around the Tibetan New Year celebration when we learned about the SARS virus outbreak, but it took a while before it affected our daily routine. The then rather small expat community, consisting of delegates from aid organizations and foreign students, were at some point kindly requested to assemble for a meeting with the Lhasa health department representatives. In that meeting it was announced that the Tibet Autonomous Region had to be completely closed down. No one was allowed to enter the TAR… and no-one was allowed to leave…
This was not particularly reassuring news, because medical care back then, unlike today, was not really sophisticated. Each of us made sure that any hospital visits were postponed as much as possible and preferably, if at all possible, we chose to be treated in the big city of Chengdu, 2000 kilometers away. There were complaints that entire school classes were being vaccinated using one and the same needle, and it was said that patients in the hospital would rather bring their own sheets if they did not want to sleep in their predecessor’s used ones. We hoped and believed that these were vicious rumors. Yet we would avoid getting even a simple medical check-up.
The minute, when the friendly officer from the health department pointed out to us that it could take months to be allowed to travel again, one of Paul’s teeth ‘spoke up’ giving a clear message that it urgently needed a root canal treatment. However, visiting a dentist was definitely not an option for us in Lhasa at that time. Six months earlier my mother had a memorable experience. She was visiting and helping us at school. She worked on a theater play with our blind children, took them to the market, or whenever necessary, to a doctor. When Gyendsen, one of our students, had a severe toothache, she accompanied him to a local dentist.
There was no waiting room, once entered, they stood in the middle of the treatment room and, if you were a bit curious, you could stand right next to the dentist looking over his shoulder to see who had a tooth pulled and who got a drill pushed into his mouth.
In the best way possible, my mother and Gyendsen tried to stay in the back, otherwise she would have probably walked out again… It was not until it was Gyendsen’s turn that she could watch from the front row what was happening. The doctor was busy and there was no time to lose. Not even to disinfect the drill, which was simply wiped on the dirty apron and used for the next patient. It was highly efficient. There was no anesthetic and no crying, Tibetan children are tough. Between Gyendsen and the doctor stood a bucket with already drawn teeth and when Gyensen’s tooth also splashed in the bucket, it all seemed well, and he was sent home. That night however, he got a high fever. We luckily had a good connection with a doctor who worked at the military hospital, who offered help. That hospital was certainly better equipped and Gyendsen received a treatment the next morning.
But back to our meeting at the Health Department:
At first everything was rather relaxed. Everyone got their obligatory jasmine tea, and Kapse, Tibetan snacks were served as well. Besides disinfected floors, there had been no signs of specific hygiene measures.
The other expats, who, like us, had been familiar with the politically rather “rigid” system, had acquired a very specific behavior pattern. Drink tea, look seriously, make up your own mind, but do not speak up. Many of the foreign students, however, were new and completely innocent.
One of them stood up, I think it was an Italian: “There are rumours that SARS patients from the cities in mainland China are being brought to Tibet to hide them from WHO inspection, to avoid putting the Olympics in jeopardy. Is that true?”
None of us were prepared for such a question… Any slight form of criticism was taboo, we all had to learn that. So suddenly it was very quiet in the room. Not even a nervous cough or awkward scurrying of feet. None of us wanted to miss the answer to this ‘bold’ question. And then, somewhat hesitant, and with a suddenly shrill voice: “That’s not true! uhm, that can’t be! Here in Lhasa, we don’t even have the options to treat a SARS patient.”
This answer, as you can imagine caused quite some panic and another student immediately asked: “And how do you want to treat us then, if we get SARS?!”
Fortunately, the Tibetan plateau remained largely SARS free, which, according to virologists, could be due to the considerable high altitude (3500 +metres) and the associated strong UV radiation.
As a result, there was luckily no curfew within the city limits, and yet the city centre, with all its restaurants and bars, was deserted. I remember us both sitting in the Snowland restaurant. The Snowland was a special treat for us at that time. A yak steak cost about four dollars. Affordable for every tourist, but for us, who lived on app 50 dollars a month, we only went there for a special occasion to which we were very much looking forward the few times we had the pleasure.
Besides another couple, we were the only guests that evening. The owner knew us well and had been a regular supporter of the preparatory school for the blind, which we had set up in 1998. We sat at the table with him and while we ate, we heard rock songs from the 70s that were played as per our choice. Suddenly, the door flew open and several soldiers in full hazmat uniforms rushed into the dining room. No apologies, no explanation, but commands in Chinese that we did not understand filled the room. At that time, we had become accustomed to remaining calm in every difficult situation and not to ask any questions. Within no time, we were surrounded and before we understood what was going on, we as well as our long-awaited dish, were covered in a cloud of foul-smelling disinfecting mist. With a shock and a steak that lost its magic, we got away quite okay.
Many of our kantharis however had managed much worse crises. They had survived one or a combination of the following: civil war, violence, hunger and/or poverty. Some had to carry body bags with victims of the Ebola crisis to graveyards outside of their villages, while others have experienced cholera in overcrowded slums. All those who had been hit by epidemics spoke of the periods of uncertainty that followed, as well as the spread of myths and misinformation.
One of the kantharis summed it up: “Right now, what unites us is that we all are frogs. We are all affected by the same problem, but no one can really define it.” How a frog is linked to the Corona crisis, I will explain in a later blog post…