This means that I am the only one in our
household authorized to leave the house to buy food and/or medicine during the
quarantine.
There are no debates about whose name goes on
the pass. My husband is our sole breadwinner and he is working from home. Also,
I have always managed the house and run the household.
Feeling relieved that I finally have something
to show should I run into a checkpoint, I decide to go on my first supermarket run
since the quarantine.
What do you know. I emerge from the village and
run smack into a checkpoint set up just outside the gate on a road that has
become unrecognizable. Men in military uniform ask to see my pass. “Mag grocery
lang po,” I tell them when asked where I am going.
They let me through and I drive very slowly
along a deserted road. All the stores and stalls, save for a very few, are
closed. This is the same road I pass almost every day. I have never found it
deserted, even during the few times I had to return home from work very late at
night.
I see the bakeshop is open, although no one is
buying. The drugstore at the end of the street, too. There is no sign of
activity. I see another checkpoint where
the road intersects the service road and I roll down my window again to show
my pass and to tell the men I am going to the supermarket of a mall nearby.
Before they wave me through, I ask them if I
would be allowed to pass through later, after doing the groceries. The man’s
hesitation deepens my fear. But he tells me that as long as I have a pass and I
am wearing a face mask, it would be no problem.
It is the shortest drive I have ever made to
the supermarket. There is very little traffic.
The traffic is inside. I am greeted by a spurt of alcohol at the
entrance and a temperature reading before I am led to chairs set a meter apart
inside the mall. I am sooooo glad it is going to be a comfortable wait.
Batch by batch, we are sent up to the ground
level, where the supermarket is located. When my batch is called, I get quite
excited. We pass by a guard who sprays our hands yet again then we are led to chairs
set a meter apart in front of the row of cashiers. Again, our hands are sprayed and I am
beginning to think I should not have showered before this, when our batch
finally gets called in.
I get almost all items on my list and chat up
the cashier and the bagger. I learn that
the supermarket closes at 7 p.m., giving the workers just an hour to get home before
the 8 p.m. curfew. “Almost all of us leave at 7:30 p.m.,” says the bagger.
Wouldn’t it be better if the mall closed at 6
p.m. then? I ask. The cashier says it certainly would, but immediately says it’s
ok. “I am just glad to be working,” she says. The bagger agrees, saying that many
of their friends working as cashier, merchandiser, promodiser and utility at
the mall’s department store are not as lucky.
On the way home, I pass a smaller supermarket
where people are standing in line by the side of the road.
The men stop me at the checkpoint but only to
direct me to another road to get to our village. Much relieved, I start to
drive away then impulsively pull out a pack of biscuits which I leave with the
startled man in uniform. He shouts his thanks and I see his fellow soldiers
approach him as I pull away.
It is a good feeling, but I am not planning on
making another supermarket run anytime soon. I think I will stick close to
home.
DoH
update: As of this writing, the Philippines has reported 552 confirmed corona
virus cases, including 20 recoveries and 35 deaths.
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