DAEGU, South Korea--At first glance, life in this post-pandemic southeastern city is gradually returning to normal, but scratch under the surface and traces of the COVID-19 crisis are hard to ignore.

“I spray disinfectant every time I drop off a passenger,” said a taxi driver in his 70s, explaining his new routine. “But I don't like to do it right away because I don’t want the passenger to notice and feel offended.”

Judging by the emptiness in a hub station in central Daegu on a weekday morning in late April, most people are still reluctant to travel in and out of the city.

Dozens of taxis continue to sit idle outside the station and drivers, with nothing to do, stand around chatting with each other.

A mass cluster of COVID-19 infection that occurred in Daegu in February emanated from a mass gathering of a religious cult that boasts 10,000 members in the city.

The South Korean government designated Daegu as a specially managed area to strengthen preventive measures against the deadly coronavirus.

Residents were told not to leave their homes, transforming Daegu, in the words of news media, into an “isolated island on land.”

Yet, the city recorded 741 cases on its peak day. Medical systems in the city were close to collapse.

But the tide changed in early April as restrictions took effect. The daily count of new COVID-19 cases has remained at less than 10 since then.

Nearly 7,000 people in Daegu have been infected with the disease to date.

REUNION OVER SPECIAL TREAT

The city’s historic Seomun Market, one of the country's largest markets and crammed with 5,000 or so shops, was shut down for a week for the first time during the pandemic’s peak period.

In late April, a large banner still hung at a major hospital nearby that stated: “We are a base hospital for treating the novel coronavirus. We are doing everything in our power to ensure the safety of people in the community.”

But it was an entirely different picture inside the market.

Dozens of cars were trying to enter the market’s parking lot.

Inside, shoppers wearing face masks were so densely packed that they were unable to pass each other without touching shoulders.

Seemingly without a care in the world, smiling shoppers chowed down on noodle soup dishes and munched snacks in close physical proximity as if the pandemic had never happened.

A 47-year-old shop owner who sells galbi-jjim, a sweet and spicy braised dish of beef or pork, at the market was forced by the authorities to shut down for a week from late February.

A month later, the government announced an economic package to provide emergency economic relief to 14 million households in the form of locally specific money coupons worth up to 1 million won (87,000 yen, or $ 814).

“Almost every customer pays with the coupon,” the galbi-jjim shop owner said.

A woman in her 50s ordered galbi-jjim after arriving in a group of five. The party members all attended the same high school and looked forward to the restart of their longstanding monthly reunions at the market. But they had to put the gatherings on hold for two months because of the pandemic.

“I can’t feel relaxed just yet,” the woman said. “But with my friends, I feel more encouraged.”

She was beside herself at being able to see her friends after two months. They even had a stayover at the home of one of the members before venturing to the market.

“We all enjoy shopping here,” the woman gushed.

According to a joint association that operates the market, about 50,000 people on average used to visit the shopping thoroughfare each weekday before the pandemic, with approximately 100,000 people turning up on Saturdays.

Numbers plummeted to zero during the pandemic, but have now bounced back to around 70 percent of pre-crisis levels.

For medical professionals in Daegu, the pandemic was a nightmare.

At the outset of the virus, about 90 percent of the COVID-19 patients were residents of the city, which was literally under a “lockdown.”

Then numbers mushroomed as the virus spread rapidly among followers of a cult religion, bringing the city’s medical system to the brink of collapse.

Min Pok-kee, a 51-year-old doctor who manages a hospital in Daegu, spearheaded the city’s anti-virus task force.

Since the containment of the virus, Min has been inundated with inquiries from doctors and administrative officials from Europe, North America and the Middle East, all wanting to know about testing and treatment.

But Min said he has received no such inquiries from Japan. Only some doctors with whom he is acquainted have made contact to confirm he is safe, Min added.

Min himself had exchanged information with and learned about the disease from doctors in China, where the outbreak started.

“I know that medical standards are high in Japan,” Min said, expressing concern about developments in Japan.

“But I believe sharing the challenge is the fastest way to solve the problem,” he said.