The outbreak in Guangzhou’s Haizhu District was still serious, and the promised end kept getting pushed back—three more days, then another three, until it somehow stretched to the 16th.
Even so, life inside the control zone was nowhere near as frightening as some of the videos online made it look. Mostly, it was just stifling.
On weekdays, time passed surprisingly fast. I’d get up around 8:30, switch on the computer at 9, eat breakfast while checking email, and then move straight into meetings and replies. Lunch was around 12:30, followed by a short nap. At 2 in the afternoon it was back to meetings and more email. Around 5, I’d head downstairs to queue for the daily PCR test, take a short walk, and pick up some groceries. After that, it was home for a shower, dinner, and TV.
After being stuck at home for five straight days, though, the weekend made me desperate for sunlight and fresh air. The authorities advised against using private cars, but in reality, if you drove out, there were no traffic police or neighborhood staff stopping you. The only trouble was the maze of metal barriers and water-filled barricades everywhere, so you had to stay alert and find your own way around.
I was grateful to find a good place nearby to wander around for a bit. There was almost no one there, apart from the occasional older man fishing. Out of curiosity, I went over for a look and realized the fish looked exactly like the ones sold in the market. I asked what kind they were.
“Mullet,” he said.
I asked if they were being sent to the market.
“Yes,” he replied. “We can catch more than ten jin a day. Once we’ve got enough, we send them over.”
I’d been wondering for a while how live fish were still making it into the markets with controls this strict. At least now that mystery was solved.
Once the eyes had had their feast, it was time to feed the stomach. Even a lockdown boundary lined with layer after layer of water barriers couldn’t stop people obsessed with food.
According to the unofficial survival guide for life inside locked-down Haizhu, the trick was to place an order on Meituan, mark the delivery address as the barriers at Changgang, and then use the errand pickup code to identify each other through the gap in the barricades—the customer on one side, the delivery rider in yellow on the other. That was enough to complete the handoff.
The whole exchange felt sneaky and hilarious at the same time, one of those strangely memorable experiences that only happen under unusual circumstances.
