Since the last time I wrote, the world has changed dramatically in ways I am not even entirely clear on yet. COVID-19 has snuck into our lives… smashing daily routines. Separating families/friends/coworkers. Attacking the most vulnerable. Filling people with fear. Life has come to a standstill. Comparisons to great acts of war or legendary plagues are bandied about pretty often. World War II. 9/11. Black Death. Flu of 1918. The economic impact alone will likely eclipse any recession in my lifetime. In some way, the virus will likely touch every human on the planet.
It’s been approximately 19 days since life ground to a halt for me personally. (And maybe a handful more since I first panicked that the virus might be a game-changer after an especially terrifying and confusing Oval Office speech from 45).
On March 17, I was living in a cute little poolside hotel room in Koh Tao, two hours from the mainland of Thailand. I was about to embark on three days of dive training. Remote Year had just cancelled our transition to Japan, which I had begrudgingly decided I would join a few days before. Even though international travel was being greatly discouraged (and it seemed like an optics nightmare), Remote Year seemed confident that Kyoto would be safe and most likely pretty relaxed since there were no major outbreaks of the virus there and most of the tourists had gone home.
But that Tuesday, Remote Year put all transitions for all groups on hold. They assured us they would continue to provide housing in the cities we were in and support from city teams until it was safe to travel to our next destinations. (All of that would fall apart even more in the next few days as they advised us to get somewhere we felt safe and the pandemic picked up steam).
My travel sister Ashley (who got an honorable mention in the Brač biking debacle post) had joined me in Koh Tao for dive training. After the Remote Year announcement, we stayed up late talking – the only patrons at a tiny poolside bar three hotels down the path from our room, discussing our options since travel to Japan was cancelled and people were starting to panic and fly home. Should we stay in Koh Tao? Get back to Koh Samui where a group of our remote friends were posted up? Make our way to Krabi, near Phuket? Maybe it would be smarter to be in a relatively urban place with international airports and world-class hospitals? We both felt safe on this tiny island of a couple thousand people, where no cases had been reported and life seemed to be humming along as usual, if not a little quiet. But what if the ferries cut off the islands? What if we got sick here where there would be very few health care options? What if the airlines stopped making international flights at all and we couldn’t get home? We finally decided we needed to sleep, and would continue with SCUBA training in the morning. We made no major decisions.
But I didn’t sleep that night. I spent it Facetiming with my California family, chatting with Sabra and Andrea while they hiked, weighing my options, waffling between panic and resolution in my room, and basically being kind of a nut. I cancelled all my work meetings, and called probably a half dozen friends to ask what I should do. No one seemed especially concerned about the US yet. And no one said I should absolutely come home… In fact, most people didn’t seem that worried at all.
Ashley emerged from her room around 8 a.m. pretty convinced that soon there would be no way to return to the U.S. because airports would close and flights would likely be cancelled. She had made the decision to leave the next morning, and planned to travel through three international airports before touching down at home in Denver — which seemed like an epic odyssey to me, but was also where I would be heading if I were to leave. I called my sister AGAIN, who assured me that international air travel would never just end, and even if the airports did close temporarily, they would eventually reopen. She also said I sounded pretty unhinged and likely needed to sleep.
“Um – have you slept yet?”
“You mean like — today?”
I begrudgingly passed out for a few hours.
When I woke up that afternoon, I decided I wouldn’t leave because I was afraid. I had leaned into every experience this year that had scared me, and this would not be different. I went to the staff at the dive school to confirm that I was going to actually start my PADI certification the next day — this time at least mildly rested.
Ashley knocked on my door and hugged me goodbye at 6 a.m. the next morning, both of us welling with tears, probably because neither of us were sure we were making the right decision. After she departed, I awoke in the late morning, alone on a tiny island in the Gulf of Thailand. I’d worked most of the night shift, trying to pretend everything was normal, but worrying occasionally about the health of my parents and siblings, the ongoing stress on my sister, and whether I could live with what felt was a mildly selfish decision to stay on a beach island in Thailand during a global pandemic instead of trying to get home. I just couldn’t stomach returning to the US where I have no healthcare, no real home of my own, and it’s still snowing.
Carin, another one of my travel sisters, showed up during these first uncertain days in Koh Tao, in need of some dive time. At 150-ish logged dives, she finds it comforting. She was a flurry of energy (and a bit of anxiety), and we circled endlessly about what we should do. We rehashed some of the same conversations I’d had with Ashley – should we stay? Should we go someplace else? Was this tiny 8-square-mile island a safe place to wait out a virus shitstorm?
In the end, we decided to stay together and get a house in Koh Tao. We had made a few connections in the diving community, and for some asinine reason, we were convinced the dive shops would likely re-open in a few days when the virus scare blew over, so we would have something to occupy our time. (This is not something that would actually happen until late May).
But if Carin hadn’t stayed, I am not sure I would have stayed, either. I got PADI certified over the weekend and spent most of the next three days trying to manage our collective anxiety while she found us a house to rent for the month. Moving back to Samui, traveling to Krabi, all of those plans went out the window.
After my dive course finished, I made a pain-in-the-ass flight up to Bangkok to get the rest of our luggage, and then turned around and came back the next day. Because we had planned on meeting back up with our group on the way to Japan, we had only brought a handful of our things for a week or so on the islands, leaving the majority of our shit in a friend’s apartment in Bangkok. I barely made it back to Koh Tao before they shut down the daily ferry service. For 14 days after I returned, I had to check in with my landlord everyday for a temperature check and symptom assessment.
Every day in Thailand, there’s an English update on the situation here that they broadcast across social media. It’s grim, but focused. This many new cases in these locations. This many deaths. We worry about what to do when our visas run out. But although bars and restaurants are closed and the famous Koh Tao walking path is deserted, we feel safe and people are calm here.
I’ve tried to stop doomscrolling my social feeds every morning, but find it hard to disconnect from the situation back in the U.S. where almost every human I love lives. There are worse headlines from the U.S. every day. The White House is now predicting 100,000 to 240,000 deaths (And who can tell how accurate that is and wtf is with the massive 140,000 person spread in the range?). Hospitals are stretched thin — too many patients in need of ventilators. Schools and businesses are closed across the board. No one can leave the house. New York City is a virus warzone. Everyone who is able to is working from home. Getting groceries is an exercise in disinfection. For the first time, the CDC has recommended that everyone wear masks, something we’ve been doing in Asia for months, but has likely caused even more anxiety for a lot of people who aren’t used to seeing people in masks walking down the street.
And 19 days later, Carin and I are still here on Koh Tao. We’re both healthy, despite my ill-advised Bangkok run. There are no cases of the virus on the island.
We manage one problem at a time — fixing our visas, getting groceries, finding strong internet, renting scooters, setting goals for yoga or writing or working out. We get delivery food and work on our thatched-roof patio. We go snorkeling when we’re feeling stir crazy. Laze in the pool when our anxiety is low. I have video chats with my family most nights when I’m working, and I just billed the biggest month ever for Drizzle Digital. I know I am lucky and privileged as fuck to be spending this time overlooking palm trees and sand on Sairee Beach.
We can no longer leave the island. Ashley’s predictions have largely proved true. If we leave the island for any reason and try to get back on, you need to have evidence of a home, a work permit, a letter of good health and a reason to be here. Thailand has also shut most of the airports down until the end of April, so it would be tough to get back to the US if we wanted to. We are ostensibly trapped, but it doesn’t matter because we have no intention of leaving until borders are open and it’s relatively safe to travel again.
Everyday I wonder what the end of Coronaland looks like. Do we just go on to the next country? Pick up with the other Ramses remotes in South America? Go back to the US? Will Remote Year even survive this? Our visas look like they will hold out for the long haul since the Thai government has graciously offered 30-day visa extensions until this is over.
But how long will that be?