By HAU DINH
VUNG TAU, Vietnam (AP): I wake up when the speaker outside my window starts broadcasting to the community at 7am. I try to remember the date. The Vietnam Pandemic Blockade has been around for so long that I have lost track of time. Now I count for weeks.
This is the ninth time I’ve been stuck in Vung Tau, a spa located more than 1,500 kilometers (900 miles) from my home in Hanoi.
I get out of bed, following my yoga routine before breakfast. When he pulled the rug, the show broke the latest news on the pandemic and a propaganda-style song exploded: “Citizens, let’s join forces in this fight for COVID to disappear …”
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I arrived in Vung Tau for a long weekend to see my partner in mid-July.
In normal times, it is full of tourists fleeing the cities in search of fresh air, sunshine and delicious seafood.
When I started my travels, a new outbreak appeared in Vietnam, but I was confident, and I think the country was sure, that I would be able to stop it quickly, just like the previous ones. By then, Vietnam had reported just over 8,000 cases and 35 virus deaths and had won worldwide praise for its pandemic success.
The arrival of the delta variant changed everything.
Tension spread like wildfire through factories in industrial areas, to markets and communities across the country. In the city of Ho Chi Minh, the largest in the country with 10 million people, authorities ordered a city-wide closure. It soon expanded to include the entire southern region, where more than a third of the country’s 98 million people live.
Interprovincial public transportation was stopped and air travel from Ho Chi Minh City was suspended, including my flight back home. I was stranded in Vung Tau when the city announced its first COVID-19 case.
At first it didn’t seem like a big deal.
He was sure that the situation would be brought under control quickly; that he would only have to wait for the two-week closure and things would return to normal. It seemed like an opportunity to slow down and enjoy the time with my partner.
I grabbed an avocado seed from a recent meal, wrapped it in a damp paper towel, and put it in a bag to see if it would sprout before the closure ended.
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Currently, more than half of Vietnam’s people are locked up.
New daily cases have exceeded 10,000 and deaths are recorded in the hundreds. Of the nearly 16,000 fatalities of COVID-19 in Vietnam, more than 99% have come in this latest wave.
The government tightened restrictions even further this month, telling people to “stay where they are” to gain time to vaccinate more people.
Barricades and checkpoints were set up to make sure people could not take to the streets without a permit. In some communities, authorities locked the doors of every home.
Under the restrictions, people must stay at home, except those who work in a handful of companies classified as essential services. In high-risk areas, the military has mobilized to deliver food and commodities to every household. In lower-risk areas, such as where I am, each family is allowed to go shopping for food and medicine once a week in their small neighborhood.
This week the government said it was speeding up its vaccination program. Over the weekend, more than a million shots were fired in Hanoi alone and authorities intended to have 100% of eligible residents with at least one shot at the end of the week.
However, the overall vaccination rate remains low, with only 4% receiving two vaccines.
Vung Tau extended his block for the sixth time over the weekend, adding two more weeks.
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The lock day is long and the longer it lasts, the more it crawls.
From my balcony, every time I feel frustrated, I comfort myself thinking about the luck and privilege I have of not having to go through the closure in much less comfortable conditions, like millions of compatriots who stayed in small air-conditioned apartments in hot summer.
To avoid depression, I try to fill the days with other activities alongside work. I’m in love with Netflix with my partner, with whom I’ve never been together for so long in the last seven years. I spend more time learning my partner’s native French. I follow the workouts on YouTube, making up for the interruption of my marathon workout.
Before this wave, he felt that the pandemic was elsewhere. I didn’t know anyone who contracted the virus in Vietnam.
But the bad news began to rush in: a friend of mine got it, along with four others in her family. Three of them were taken to three different hospitals, while two stayed home due to their mild symptoms. On my Facebook channel, some changed their profile to black to mourn a lost loved one. The pandemic had become real to me.
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I do video chats almost every day with my parents, who are about 70 years old.
I am concerned that the virus has fallen on Hanoi Street; its neighbors were the last cases and its alley was closed with a “pandemic zone” sign. I breathed a little relieved when they finally received their first vaccine two weeks ago.
I also have a family group chat, including my three brothers and five nephews and nephews. We are very close and we are used to seeing each other often. We haven’t been able to meet since closing.
In marathons, there is a goal, a goal that helps me move forward. With the lock extended over and over again, it’s hard to predict when it might end. But without her, who knows what the death toll may be.
For now, I try to find solace in simpler things.
My avocado seed has sprouted and grown tall, faster than others I’ve sprouted in the past.
I have many plants in Hanoi. Unfortunately, many must have already died.
I didn’t think I would be that far away.