Memory is amber. It encases fragments of time and holds them in place. ¶ Our sharpest memories can often be the smallest bits. A long-ago summer day may be preserved as the feel of soggy sand at low tide. Huge events can be pared down to personal slivers. For me, the immensity of the Asian tsunami in 2004 will always be represented by the pale-blue color of a school ID that I spotted stuck in a fence. The young girl who carried the card was swept away. ¶ The coronavirus pandemic will have these types of tightly framed memories for people around the world. A random object, a few overheard words, a small gesture, a whiff of home cooking, dappled light through cherry blossoms — such things will become part of how we remember the era of covid-19. ¶ Washington Post contributors and correspondents share some of their moments.
Lucien Chauvin
Lima
The smells of Lima have vanished. While enticing for some and off-putting for others, different smells define this city morning, noon and night. Food vendors and their ubiquitous carts have disappeared since the coronavirus lockdown began March 16 — and, with them, a part of Lima.
Absent are the gentle hints of cinnamon and pineapple I would catch early each morning wafting from a brown-green syrupy beverage, emoliente, served at three competing corner stands where I fetched the daily papers.
Gone, too, is the tart aroma coming from ceviche dished out at lunchtime from a line of carts outside the nearby market. So are the scents of charcoal, spices and skewered chunks of cow heart that float from anticucho grills as soon as the sun sets.
Today, instead of being enticed by familiar smells, marketgoers get an occasional whiff from a passing bus. The shoppers are moved along by police officers, barking orders for people to stay six feet apart.
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Peruvians are the original “foodies,” fusing cuisines long before it was fashionable, and they will find a way to keep the aromas alive at home. For the moment, the aromas waft from windows instead of bustling corners.
Min Joo Kim
Seoul
My head was spinning as a long plastic stick poked deep into my nostril. Would this swab find the coronavirus? During my covid-19 test at a Seoul hospital, I was worried not only about how an infection would affect my health. I was also fretting about how I would tell my family and friends, and about having my pre-quarantine movements posted online.
In South Korea, coronavirus patients are required to inform contact-tracing officers about the people they met and places they visited before being diagnosed. The patient’s “travel record” is published to help citizens determine if they’ve crossed paths with a virus carrier.
I woke with a sore throat earlier this month. It could have been a symptom of the regular flu, but I decided to get tested. If I was positive, the impact would go beyond me. The weekend before the sore throat hit, I had stepped out briefly to a cherry blossom trail in my neighborhood.
What if the trail got shut down because of me? While waiting anxiously for the test result, I told myself I would strictly stick to social distancing with no exception.
The test came back the next day. Negative. I have since been admiring the cherry blossoms through a window of my home.
Max Bearak
Nairobi
Throughout “this whole thing,” there have been reminders of how the coronavirus is largely a problem for humans, while the rest of the planet is getting on with its natural rhythms.
One of these moments came along as I was working on my patio in Nairobi.
The wind picked up suddenly. Before I knew it, the biggest squall I’d ever seen cut its path right over my house. It’s rainy season here. But this was something else. For 30 minutes, it was all hail and flying branches and horizontal sheets of rain.
My house is lovely, but a bit rickety. Rainwater poured through spots in the ceiling. The power was out. It was 6:20 p.m. — 40 minutes until the curfew that Kenya imposed to promote social distancing.
I decided I’d try my chances and dash to the house of a friend, one I trusted was taking every precaution to stay virus-free.
I slept poorly, tossing and turning, thinking of my waterlogged house, of an article I was anxious about, of the people who were without friends to take them in, cook them fish soup and offer them a warm bed in a guest room. Of the people who never have electricity, whose homes are swept away in every squall; of those who suffer the pandemic curfew not as an impediment to moving around, but as a pretext for police to come beat them while enforcing it.
Life in Nairobi is a brutal hustle for most of its residents. With my house and my big car and my job, I have it as easy as can be.
When I got back home to survey the damage, I was happy to see that it would mainly require a mop and some plaster to fix. On my patio sat the neighborhood monkey I call Bro for his nonchalant attitude. I waved at him. He ambled into the garden. Just one night without me there and he thought he was the man of my house.
Mariana Alfaro
San Salvador
Most of the city is shuttered. The familiar sounds of buses, bicycles and pedestrians passing my home are long gone, replaced by the singing of this season’s cicadas.
With the grass overgrown and the humans nowhere to be found, birds have become less inhibited. Some of my friends have spotted toucans sitting outside their windows, and a few turquoise-tipped torogozes have made their way into my backyard.
Taking a walk outside is not really an option, because we risk running into a police officer who could take us to a detention center where many of those who break the “stay-at-home” rules are held.
Only one person per family is allowed to shop for groceries. Most vehicles on the streets appear to be motorcycles delivering food for the remaining restaurants that will sell it. I’m thankful for them. My family likes the burritos sold at a restaurant just five blocks away.
We are lucky enough to have an enclosed yard and an excellent view of our most famous volcano, known as El Boquerón. We spend our time basking in the sunlight, dreaming of the day when we’ll once again be able to go for a hike.
