Hi-speed wifi and spitting in a can: the technology of COVID-19

By Markandeya Karthik

Photo by Rudolfo Clix, courtesy of Pexels.

On a humid, mid-July afternoon in Mumbai, India, I stood in line outside the departure hall of the city's Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport for a mandatory temperature check, eager to enter the terminal and begin my journey to Kuala Lumpur, a stopover destination from where I would continue to Hong Kong.  I was finally on my way home, after a nationwide lockdown in India had turned a one-month visit into a six-month sojourn.

The usually bustling terminal was now akin to a scene from “Train to Busan” - inhabited only by a handful of travelers, airport staff, and a few Bisleri bottles that littered the ground. 

"Please show me your Aarogya Setu profile," a security officer asked in sharp words. I fished my phone out from my back pocket and fired up Aarogya Setu, India's national contact-tracing application, mandatory for all travelers to have on their mobile devices.

But the app’s familiar profile page was not displayed on the screen. Instead, it had re-directed me to a blank screen, consisting only of a small box that prompted me to enter a local number. The app rejected my Hong Kong sim card’s number outright.

More travelers were piling onto the lengthening line behind me, and I could feel the glares of impatient passengers against the back of my neck.

As it turned out, Aarogya Setu accepts only Indian phone numbers - despite its status as the biggest contact-tracing app in the world, with over 100 million downloads. And, with approximately 150,000 international travelers entering India between January and March alone, I was taken aback by this.

More travelers were piling onto the lengthening line behind me, and I could feel the glares of impatient passengers against the back of my neck. When I explained my dilemma to the security officer, he directed me to a separate area of the airport, where I would be cleared into the terminal the old-fashion way - by filling out a health declaration form on paper. After scribbling all the required information into the form and presenting it to the officer, I was then allowed into the terminal - and was only a jet bridge away from the first of three flights that made up my journey from Mumbai to Hong Kong.

As I sat outside the boarding gate, I couldn’t help but mull over the issue I had with Aarogya Setu. It wasn’t just the lack of international availability that made it a difficult app to use. Its built-in technology has consistently been under fire for a host of privacy concerns. While the vast majority of India's politicians have stated that the application would at no point cause any problem for the user, tech experts beg to differ.

Aarogya Setu stores location data - a feature that demands constant access to Bluetooth and makes the application open to privacy and security breaches as well as incorrect data. According to an article from CNET, "Bluetooth used in applications and technology after 2017 will have a better ability to travel through walls". This means that - even if a floor separates two individuals in a building, Aarogya Setu will show the individuals have met. As I pondered over these thoughts, the boarding call for my flight snapped me out of my trance.

Fast forward one day - after an uneventful overnight stopover in Delhi - I was ready for some shut-eye after landing in Kuala Lumpur in the dead of night. As I collapsed into the bed at the airport's transit hotel, I felt my phone vibrate from under the pillow. The light from the screen blinded my eyes immediately, but I was able to make out who had sent me the text - it was from a member of a WhatsApp group consisting of travelers who had returned to Hong Kong from India, and were now helping others undertake the perilous journey.

By this point, my eyelids were drooping - I was too tired to read the text in its entirety. I tossed my phone to the side and told myself I would take a look at it the next day.

When the sunlight flooded our room in the early hours of the morning, my iPhone clicked open to reveal the message: it was a link to the Hong Kong government-mandated, online health declaration form for incoming travelers.

I began work on the health declaration form with a cup of coffee at my side. I scrolled through the form, which posed relatively harmless questions - such as name, date of birth, flight numbers, travel history, and record of coronavirus symptoms. However, reading between the fine lines revealed that any misleading information provided could lead to a hefty fine or even imprisonment. After a couple of squints, head-scratches, and sips of caffeine, the form was complete, and a QR code flashed on my screen. This code was generated as a method for staff at Hong Kong airport to conduct vigilant screenings of all arriving passengers.

That evening, as we touched down in Hong Kong's Chek Lap Kok airport, the in-flight entertainment system automatically paused the episode of "Brooklyn-99" I was watching, replacing Andy Samberg's goofy grin with an animated airport security officer who wore a more somber look. A robotic voice instructed us how to use the QR code when we landed and assured us that if we followed the guidelines displayed on the screen, the entire arrival process would be as smooth as the aircraft's landing.

The process for this boasted no spectacular technology. Instead, it relied on an age-old method of testing - spitting into a can.

After a bumpy landing, all passengers rushed into the terminal to secure the first few spots of the health checkup line. However, the position a passenger was in the line ultimately proved insignificant - as the QR code worked wonders to provide a convenient mechanism for the health workers to confirm the safety of passengers. Since all respondent information was stored in a single, unique code, health staff were able to swiftly conduct checks of the passengers and hurdle bureaucratic safety measures within minutes - all through the simple scan of dots on a cellphone screen.

Now, although I was back in Hong Kong, I wasn't allowed to head home immediately. First, I had to be tested negative for the coronavirus. The process for this boasted no spectacular technology. Instead, it relied on an age-old method of testing - spitting into a can.

Arriving from India, which is classified by the Hong Kong government as a high-risk country, I was required to undergo fourteen days of government quarantine. I boarded an airport shuttle that took me to a quarantine center.

An hour later, I was in my quarantine room – a 150-square-foot space that I would call home for the next two weeks. It included all the basic facilities for 21st-century living: a kitchen, a toilet, two beds, and a few tables. When I spotted the wifi router lying on the floor, I knew that the quarantine experience wouldn't be as bad as I had originally made it out to be.

Technology was employed 24/7 at the quarantine center. The main method for communication between residents and staff was WhatsApp. Every other night, I would get a notification for a "bingo" session on Zoom, a science lesson on Skype, or even dance sessions on Google Hangouts. The endless media loop between Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat occupied many hours of my day. With the lightning-quick wifi speeds provided in the facility, streaming videos on platforms like Netflix or YouTube made my two-week quarantine feel like just a few days.

I rolled my suitcases into the building's elevator at 11:30 pm on the 13th night, finishing a nearly 17-day journey that would have taken eight hours in the pre-COVID era from door to door, a journey I used to do multiple times a year. Despite the many free wifi hours in quarantine, the overall experience was exhausting - I cannot imagine doing this again. And, for travel to truly recover from the blow of the pandemic it needs to evolve faster than the virus in making health monitoring technology and health declaration systems more comfortable to use while making customers feel safe.