Triple Threat
Enduring the World’s Most Intense Ever Heatwave; China’s Biggest Covid Outbreak and an Earthquake for Good Measure Really Put Things in Perspective
17/08, 13:15, Chengdu.
I’m sitting at the living room table in the crossfire of two electric fans, trying my utmost not to move. The air is so wet and thick it feels like a physical weight. The dogs’ limp, panting bodies are splayed out at my feet, and Tamzin is lying in front of another fan on the sofa behind me.
While I didn’t know it at the time, I scribbled those words in my notebook during what scientists are calling the most intense heatwave ever recorded. Starting in the southeastern provinces in early June, the heat rapidly moved west, causing wildfires, droughts, mass heatstroke and crop failures as it went. By mid August, the entire country was issued an extreme weather warning, facing a heatwave to which “nothing in world climatic history… is even remotely comparable.” The Sichuan basin trapped in heat, making Chengdu one of the hottest places in China on 15th August, causing the Jialing river in neighbouring Chongqing to shrink dramatically.
The pavements became too hot to walk our dogs after early morning, and stray animals in our area all showed signs of dehydration. The local Fu canal, which was a carnival of paddling families, fishing men and swimming dogs in mid July, reduced to an acrid, chocolate brown trickle. Out of fear for students’ safety, our school prolonged the summer holiday (which already started two weeks early in mid July due an outbreak of the Omicron variant).
For the first time I can recall in China, talk of the climate emergency came up in everyday conversation. During a Chinese class via Zoom, our teacher dropped references to recent forest fires and the need for international cooperation on climate targets. And stepping into the lift one day I saw our neighbour Zhaolei, a gym-goer who rarely wears a shirt, sweating profusely while saying:
“The climate crisis is here, China is doomed. Let’s all emigrate to Siberia!”
Each day was dictated by the goal of staying cool, while maintaining as ‘normal’ a routine for the dogs as possible. We’d walk them by the canal around six, before the grey-orange sun inevitably rose over the high rises, making our skin prickle and soaking our clothes. After dropping the dogs off at home, we’d go out for the morning, in order to keep them in a regular routine (they have a history of separation anxiety, and need to stay accustomed to us leaving each day otherwise they’ll bark).
While our usual choice would be an air-conditioned coffee shop or mall, the heatwave had indirectly sabotaged these simple pleasures. 80% of Chengdu’s power comes from hydroelectricity, and in order to conserve energy during the drought, the government had ordered public buildings to limit their AC use, transforming all local hangouts into sweat lodges. This left us no choice but to commit the daily madness of sitting outside in the community garden for as long as we could bear, before rushing upstairs and straight into a cold shower.
19/08, 15:25, Chengdu.
The pavement beneath our balcony is a beige canvas, silent except for the incessant scream of cicadas. The only things moving are the dancing heat waves.
Author and climate campaigner Bill McKibben accurately described the human experience in heatwave-stricken zones as life “shrivelled to a single room.” (McKibben, 2019) Heat drives humans indoors and in front of screens, killing the social fabric of public space. But look a little closer, and not everyone has the privilege of staying inside. Delivery drivers — among China’s most overworked, precarious groups — would pull up to the community on electric scooters at mealtimes, often sprinting into the elevators as they punched the next order through on their apps. And our neighbours who are retired, or unable to work due to cognitive impairments, continued their daily practice of searching the compound bins for bottles or cans, to transport to the scrapyard on bicycles or hand-pulled carts. They are in direct competition for this resource with the official community cleaners, who also supplement their incomes by selling scrap. Explosive rows between the two groups became more common on the hottest days.
Even those with the means to escape the heat were effected. We were shocked to learn that the temperate mountains of Pengzhou, where Tamzin shot a cycling video in June, became a death trap recently, when an unexpected cloudburst caused by the heatwave killed seven people.
And when rain finally quenched the heat in Chengdu, our relief was replaced by numb horror as we watched its ripple-effect play out in Pakistan. Abnormally early and heavy monsoon rains caused devastating floods in one third of the country, killing over 1400 people including 400 children, and displacing 32 million. UN chief Antonio Guterres commented after a recent visit that he has “never seen climate carnage” on such a scale. In a country which contributed less than 1% to global carbon emissions, and whose poorest lie on the frontline of climate impacts thanks to Britain’s colonial legacy, the argument for immediate climate reparations is undeniable.**
02/09, Chengdu.
One giant butternut squash, three broken sweet potato halves, one bottle of soy sauce, one huge cabbage, five slightly shriveled potatoes, four pieces of ginger. I have no idea how long we’ll have to stretch these ingredients out for.
Just as it looked like we’d soon be heading back to work, we got news that another outbreak of the Omicron variant had begun rampaging throughout all of China. Sticking to its Zero Covid strategy, the government issued a lockdown: as of six o’clock that evening, only one person per household could leave for two hours, ‘in order to buy household supplies.’
If this daily allowance was intended to prevent panic buying, it had the opposite effect: my first trip to the marketplace was insane. I rode the electric scooter as far into the packed, narrow street as I could, before propping it on its kickstand and continuing through the throng of bodies on foot. I crunched along on a thick bed of bags, polystyrene and vegetable leaves, while elbows and bike handlebars jabbed me in the ribs. Most stalls looked like they’d been ransacked, with only herbs, spices or offal remaining.
The security guards maintained order by yelling into megaphones, but I felt they just exacerbated the tense atmosphere. As Xi Jinping said bluntly at the ‘Two Sessions’ conference earlier this year, “people of our generation remember hunger to a greater or lesser extent,” and the sight of older folks tussling over the remaining produce gave me anxiety.
Furtively grabbing the bits I could, I couldn’t help but see this as a precursor for other food shortages coming down the pipe. A 2021 NASA study predicted that global production of staple crops like maize and wheat could decline as early as 2030 due to climate change, and that doesn’t factor in the destruction of farmland caused in disasters as we just saw in Pakistan. China is fully aware that it is heating faster than the global average. Spurred perhaps by an awareness of the historical link between mass hunger and social unrest, President Xi is mounting a multi-pronged assault on food insecurity, by attempting to root out corruption in the food sector and stockpiling enough emergency grain to feed the Chinese population for 18 months.
Back at the community, a pandemic prevention team set up a gazebo where everyone would line up each day for mandatory nucleic acid tests. The community teemed with faces I didn’t recognise, half-hidden by masks. We know most of our elderly neighbours, who tend to hold the fort while their children are away working. But with businesses closed, their professional offspring were now grounded, pacing around in silk pyjamas with anxious eyes. Many, alarmed at the sight of foreigners, adjusted their masks and gave us a wide berth, as if we were fresh off a covid-ridden boat instead of living alongside their families for years. We’ve had this reaction a lot since 2019, but never quite learned to tolerate it.
We made the food last the best we could, and topped it up by ordering what groceries were available on a takeaway app. But the availability of food, and the lockdown rules, seemed to change minute to minute. One day, I’d be allowed to leave the compound alone, the next day I wouldn’t; one minute we’d be left alone while hanging out in the community, the next we’dget ushered inside; and one second we’d manage to order a bag of groceries to the compound and the next, all shops and restaurants in our area had disappeared from the app.
This sense of uncertainty was exacerbated by scrolling Chengdu WeChat groups, in which residents of other communities would report their situations, such as suddenly being barricaded in their individual tower blocks or running out of food. Our worst nightmare was being locked inside, unable to take the dogs out to pee. Or worse, somehow catching Covid and being forcibly taken to a quarantine facility. Separated from us, there’s no telling how distressing that scenario could be for our highly sensitive rescue dogs. At times it was a challenge to keep our minds from spiralling.
05/09, 13:00, Chengdu.
It’s hard to write, because MoMo’s white, brown and black paw keeps reaching across the page and pulling my hand towards her. She’s sitting on the sofa beside me, wearing what looks like a manic smile but is actually an anxiety-induced grimace. She isn’t usually this needy, but has been demanding constant reassurance since the earthquake.
It started with a feeling in the stomach, like that recalibration the body does after walking out of a lift. But it quickly intensified to a jolting sensation, like sitting in a car with the brakes being slammed on repeatedly. I don’t know how long the tremor went on for, but it was enough for me and Tamzin to exchange are we about to die? looks.
Ceiling lights swung and a couple things fell over, but what put the fear in MoMo was the front door banging violently, as if someone were trying to rip it open. Panicked screams came from the neighbours’ flat and MoMo jumped up, teeth bared and hackles raised, looking like an angry hedgehog. Our other dog QiuQiu, stirred from a deep sleep, just yawned as the shakes subsided. The neighbours’ screams were soon replaced by relieved laughter.
Riding out the adrenaline dump on the floor by stroking the dogs, we quickly learned that a 6.8 magnitude earthquake had just hit Luding, a county 110 miles to the west of Chengdu. The epicenter was very near Hailuogou, ‘Sea Conch Valley,’ which I visited in July to explore a low altitude, climate change-threatened glacier. It was shocking to watch footage circulating of landslides in the area, as well as the Ming dynasty style streets of Moxi Old Town — where I stayed the night —collapsing. At least 93 people died, 423 were injured and 23 remain missing.
Sichuan is located on a faultline, where the Indian Subcontinent began colliding with the Eurasian plate around 40 million years ago, creating the Tibetan plateau and making the area naturally prone to earthquakes. However, extractive industries such as fracking are believed to have made them more common. And discussion about what may have caused the infamous 7.9 magnitude Wenchuan Earthquake, which claimed 30,000 lives in 2008, remain shrouded in controversy.
Regardless of the causes, this earthquake hit emergency services already stretched by the summer’s overlapping crises. Adhering to strict Covid rules complicated search and rescue efforts, and online fury erupted at footage of locked-down Chengdu residents who, on attempting to flee their apartment compounds, were blocked by security guards.
That evening, we took the dogs down to the community, where residents were strolling and chatting calmly. If they had been frightened by the quake, they didn’t show it. We went to a secluded spot behind the bike sheds, where the dogs released their energy by digging in a pile of construction sand.
Trying to process everything that had gone on over the past few weeks, I felt tired: not just from the moments of high drama, but from the boredom and monotony inbetween. Tamzin read out a comment from a WeChat group for Chengdu expats, which summed-up the mood perfectly:
Heatwave, lockdown, earthquake…I was about to say at least Chengdu isn’t boring, but… lockdown and heatwaves are super boring!
I feel strongly that if we don’t aggressively tackle climate change, those weird blank years on our calendars created by Covid will become the norm. On a heating planet, lives spent among what activist Roger Hallam describes as “long stretches of boredom, punctuated by moments of acute terror,” are becoming increasingly likely, at least for those of us lucky enough to have a place to take shelter. And while the impacts of global heating are wide-ranging and terrible, it is this lifetime spent indoors, waiting out an endless succession of overlapping disasters, that scares me the most. Because I’ve had a taste of it.
While there are some who may feel the need to mock this fear, I see it as strength. Because just like the memory of hunger and unrest motivating leaders in China to ensure it doesn’t happen again, these recent experiences have given me the clarity to dedicate my life fighting for a better world.
* Reference: Bill McKibben (2019) Falter: Has the Human Game Begun to Play Itself Out? Henry Holt & Co.
** Correction made on 27/09/2022: I previously wrote that two thirds of Pakistan's land surface was submerged, and that the flood was partially caused by the melting of glaciers. Both of these claims were widely circulated at the time, but are unproven.
Update: The Lockdown ended at midday on 15th September
Very much enjoyed this article! So descriptive, and vivid. Hope things get better! Or easier.