friday the 13th

I open my eyes, outside the sky appears lighter ahead and off to the side, sunrise? Or just the glare of the city beyond the horizon, light spilling from the streets and climbing into obscure skies where stars are only hints and possibilities in the unclear dome of the heavens. Time passes beyond closed eyelids, the light remains the same, the clock says 0506, half an hour or so to go, too early for sunrise, close my eyes again, but briefly, the sounds changing around me.


Upon the edge of the city now, flyovers and complex geometries of roads winding patterns illuminated by headlights, early morning traffic, the sun almost risen, a sudden fiery itch on my ankles, a mosquito bite as we move further into the swamplands of Bangkok. We slow and stop at suburban stations, moving towards the centre, the city closing as we approach, shanties appropriating the narrow strip of land between the tracks and the temple walls beyond. Light shining through small openings, slants of corrugated iron for roofs and walls, figures already moving through the dark, others washing in the open air, life upon the periphery of the changing city. Ahead of us I see the risen skyline, new towers rising above the old city, changed from memory, symbols or symptoms of prosperity… I'm still not sure, but we move closer, into their shadows as tracks multiply around us, burned out carriages and graffiti, electric light illuminating the platform waiting for our arrival.

Stepping out into the dawn, down escalators to the MRT, cooling air as we buy our tickets onwards, back out into the open, halted at a checkpoint, temperatures taken before we're allowed to continue towards the skytrain. At the airport another temperature check, handwash, time to kill before the flight as the weariness of the restless night is carried through veins, deposits of grime around the eyes as we wait for the counter to open for the flight, rid ourselves of rucksacks and head towards security. Again it's quiet, numbers are down, the virus casting doubts upon travel. Boarding the plane it's half empty, vacant seats, room to stretch out in, the first time I've seen a flight to Taipei so quiet, masks are ubiquitous now, staff and passengers, a feeling of distance and sterility.

Back in Taipei airport, a sense of urgency and organisation, forms to fill out registering the journey and phone number, authorities winding the threads of travellers, casting a net to prevent the spread of the virus, an attempt to minimise and contain. Another checkpoint, temperature taken, guided through the quiet corridors where more desks and checks await, everybody masked. Waiting upon the bus, the timetable changed, less frequent since we left, no need for as much transit, journeys postponed, the airport the quietest I've ever seen it, handwash before exiting. And the bus is also empty, five passengers, normally it's almost full, the motorway back to the city scarce of cars, as if the city has slowed itself, is running on minimal movement. On the MRT every face is masked, the carriage is still busy but it's early rush hour and we've got on the first train to arrive, sometimes it takes three or four before you can find space but today it's different, it's quieter, no one's talking except for one Italian woman making a phone call under a quiet barrage of disapproving looks. And then we're back. At the door more handwash, smiles behind masks, streets quiet.

Later we set off for some food, a local place, one of my favourite places to eat anywhere I've been. But it's Friday night and it can get busy, sometimes even a little rowdy in a good natured and welcoming way. A place where you can sit all night around a table, beer's almost as cheap as the supermarket and there's a box where, if you bring your own bottle, you can leave it with your name marked upon it and it'll still be there upon the next visit. But tonight it's empty. Two tables have one person each at them, sitting apart, we take a table equidistant from them, order some small plates. Before we leave another three people arrive, taking a back table, keeping their distance from us and the others, only removing their masks when their food arrives.

Walking home, the rain falling upon the street, cold, the temperature twenty degrees cooler than last night, again few people to be seen, other eateries quiet, the seven eleven almost empty, one person in the cafe and no one lingering outside. Across the road the sound of the MRT, a train arriving but no one around the station. But it's been a long journey these last 24 hours, or at least it feels like it, my brain's tired, not really taking much in, other than a sense of difference to before we left.