Covid19 in Indonesia

We made it to the Mentawai Islands, off the coast of Sumatra, when Covid19 struck. The Mentawais are a surfer’s paradise. Storms in the Indian Ocean produce large swell that break gently across the shallows on the west side of the islands, tempered by soft offshore winds. The result is some of the best waves in the world.

These waves were discovered by surfers from Australia, South Africa, and the U.S. in the 1990s and popularized in the last twenty years. There are dozens of surf charter boats that operate in the Mentawais each year, and as many resorts onshore ranging from funky homestays to multimillion dollar spots like the new Dreambeach Resort under construction around the corner from where we’re anchored.

We arrived here after a nearly 800-mile cruise from Phuket, Thailand, in early March. On March 20th Indonesia closed it’s border; a few days later surfing was banned, resorts closed up, and the ferry that services the islands shut down. We were in full lockdown, just like the rest of the world.

Lockdown in Paradise

I’ll be 100% honest. We’re in a much better situation than most people. Nevermind the thousands of people sick or dying, those who’ve lost loved ones, or less-privileged people (mostly minorities in big, developed countries like the U.S.) who are bearing the brunt of the crisis, and consider just your average white, middle-class family who’s shelter-in-place scenario means being stuck at home trying to homeschool while working remotely and after 40+ days of this is starting to pine for some outdoor time to replace all those Netflix hours. Yeah, we have it miles better than those folks. Sorry.

For one, we’re anchored up in a pretty beautiful location (2º s, 90º e), in a bay formed by three small islands on the edge of one bigger one, Sipora. Until the 20th we could surf, which the kids love and which kicks my butt (in a good way). Since then, we’ve consoled ourselves with free diving, snorkeling, and spearfishing. There’s a great reef about 2 miles away called Seten (and which we cavalierly call Satan) where we’ve speared some very large and very delicious dogtooth tuna. I’ve seen wahoo in the water there several times.

Our normal lives on a sailboat already looked a lot like the shelter-in-place lives that our friends and family are trying to settle into. We homeschool our kids. They are already in that groove and thriving. So, there was no jarring re-adjustment on the good ship Dafne. Also, our lives in terms of work and social connection are already reliant on remote. In fact, one thing we love about the current crisis is that it’s forcing our friends and families to be much more on the same wavelength and connect with us more frequently. We are loving the Zoom cocktails (usually a cocktail for our friends in the U.S. and a cappuccino for us) as well as being dialed in for passover seder, birthday parties, and yoga.

The biggest disruption for us is that we can’t leave this anchorage and simply cruise around. Shortly after Indonesia closed its borders the local water police here, Roland, stopped by in his motorboat with half a dozen officials from the health ministry. They came aboard, checked our temperatures and paperwork (we have the infamous 40-page Indonesian “green book” from when we checked into the country the first time in Biak last year), and told us that the harbor is closed. If we leave we cannot return. Since all other Indonesian ports are closed as well, and no other country for over 4000 miles is open, that means we’re stuck here for the duration.

Food and Fuel

As long as we inform Roland, we are able to visit the small village nearby, Tuapajet, to get provisions and fuel. For provisions we just WhatsApp Nel, the owner of a local store, with our shopping list. She puts it all together in a bag, and we can pull up our dinghy to the beach behind her place. With facemasks and clean hands, we hop ashore, gather the bags, and we’re gone. The result is super minimal contact once a week, and a grab-bag of fresh papaya and whatever might have come over from the mainland on the overnight supply ferry, which is still running.

Indonesia is starting to experience some food shortages caused in part by the crisis, but greatly exacerbated by climate change. So, we expect to see dwindling supplies of garlic, sugar, and maybe—weirdly—rice. One thing about living on a boat is that we always have tons of stores onboard. This is especially true at the moment because our big plan was to cross the Indian Ocean this summer and round South Africa in December on the way to the Caribbean. So, lots of miles through some pretty remote areas. In anticipation Lani filled the boat to the brim with pasta, rice, and other dry goods. I think I have ten cases of beer stored under the floorboard. So, I should be good.

The bigger issue locally is the cancellation of the surf season and profound questions about recovery for travel in general. Tuapajet depends on surf tourism dollars. In the short term the locals are unfazed. Most have family plots in the islands to where they’ve returned. They grow some pineapples and mangosteens and can catch a few fish. (We’ve seen many more local boats out at Seten lately.) In many ways, the virus has just thrown them back twenty years to rely on a way of life that sustained them for centuries. But, how long can that last? And how will the economic fallout of the crisis materially impact them in the long term? 

Future in the Time of Covid

While the day-to-day is pretty fantastic, our big issue is the future. We can’t sit here forever. At some point borders will reopen and our visa, which is in a time out, will start expiring. Sticking with our plan to cross the Indian Ocean may be technically feasible: The island nation of the Seychelles is set to open on June 1, and we are in touch with the authorities there to be able to arrive and clear by July. It’s a 2600 nautical-mile passage across open ocean, which is long for us but doable. But, what then? Will we be able to stay in the Seychelles for several months, or will there be a second wave and they decide to kick foreigners out. The Maldives, where about 15 boats have been stuck for 50 days, has recently had a spike in cases and is starting to tell boats to find other options. With Sri Lanka, India, and the Mascarenes all closed, they’re aren’t any.

But, even if we can stay in the Seychelles until the fall when the weather opens up for yachts to sail around South African to the Atlantic, will that be possible? South Africa is currently closed. Locals in Madagascar are worried about social unrest. The island stops in the South Atlantic—St. Helena and Ascension—are super remote. That’s great from the perspective of isolation; but, how will they feel about us sailing in?

In other words, the post-Covid world looks very murky.

Even if we do sort out our Indian Ocean crossing one thing is certain: It will look very different from normal ocean cruising. For example, I’ve been looking forward to stopping in the Chagos, a remote and uninhabited archipelago in the middle of the ocean, for over a decade. But, our request to visit was denied by the British government that administers the Chagos, due to the virus; and we would have to pass it by on the way to Seychelles. This is just one of many ways compromises that may make this once-in-a-lifetime experience less than ideal.

Our other option is to stay in Southeast Asia. Due to the visa restriction in Indonesia, that probably means returning back north to Thailand and Malaysia. Both countries are seeing their curve flatten and slope downward. But, as of this writing, it’s by no means clear when they will open up, nor what life will look like there? Will we be allowed to clear in? And, if so, will we be allowed ashore?

Lani and I mull these issues over every day until our minds muddy. Then, we go for a swim, watch documentaries with our kids, and cook fantastic meals until tomorrow when we do it over again. I mix it up with boat projects, consulting work, and plenty of naps. As long as the espresso holds out it’s a decent wait-and-see plan.