It turns out the Chinese couple have been travelling outside of China for the past few months and they have passport stamps to prove it. They originally book for two nights but extend for a week and spend their days relaxing on the side terrace, holding cross-cultural conversations with our western guests and wandering around the garden, taking photos of tropical flowers and butterflies.
But even with that little drama neatly sorted, there is still alot of uncertainty around what the future holds in store and how we were best going to be able to manage the question of Chinese tourists and coronavirus, moving forward.
For now though, it is time for me to pack my bags and make a trip back to Australia.
I haven’t been back in about six months, when Dewi and I made the journey to say our final farewells to my father, who had been struggling, for a number of years, with a chronic, asbestos related disease. He passed away two days after we arrived and I believe he waited until he had all his family around him before choosing to to let go.
Writing this nearly two years on, I miss him more than ever. But more than anything, I draw strength from his humility, his quiet resolve and his dry sense of humour. May he rest in peace.
And now mum is turning 85. She is also dealing with a health battle of her own now but with the gueshouse opening and my credit cards full stretched, I didn’t get to see her at Christmas. So I need be there for her birthday.
This time however, Dewi won’t be joining me. The guesthouse is close to full and our crack team of keen, yet inexperienced family members are going to need some guidance, so she will be staying behind.
We are also about to begin building a house on site. The guesthouse sits on a large L-shaped block and we have plans for the unused section of land that sweeps away at the rear of the property. And for now, Dewi and her Uncle Harry are the project managers.
As I make my final preparations to leave, I’m not really thinking about whether or not this virus is going to turn the world on its head. Perhaps I’m too consumed saying goodbye to Dewi and assuring her that she and Harry can oversee the job without me. (I’ll be gone less than two weeks, after all…)
Back in Melbourne, my pub manager, Toby, is, as always, covering the angles.
In an email I received from him on Feb 21 he writes,
“Probably more concerning though is developments on the Coronavirus front. Plenty of our neighbours can work from home given the need and it’s worth considering options on how to keep our head above water if everyone goes into lockdown. It’d be arrogant to assume come winter we don’t cop it here, if not earlier. Airlines are already responding to this by winding back operations and recruiting.
We’re gonna have a meeting of the brains trust on Tuesday, but look at basic stuff from hygeine, options to switching to single use containers if things do escalate, all the way to running a delivery food and booze service if it goes full Wuhan.
Hope for the best but plan for the worst, that old chestnut. “
I say goodbye to Dewi at Lombok International Airport at around 9am on Sunday March 1. My flight to Bali takes half an hour but I don’t fly out of the country until 11.35pm, which means I’ll be cooling my heels for about 12 hours at the International Airport in Denpasar.
While I’m tempted to leave the airport for a few hours – I know of several good sreet eateries and beachfront bars in some of the less touristed parts of Kuta, I decide to err on the side of caution. Dewi was quite adamant before I left that nowhere is safe and, to be honest, I’m reluctant to test her theory.
So I sit in the departure hall for about eight hours, mask on, checking emails, playing Sudoku and chatting to Dewi on whatsapp.
The departure hall is not the bustling place it normally is, but everything seems calm, orderly and relaxed.
Certainly, no one looks to be in a rush to leave. The only people apart from me wearing face masks appear to be young, Asian, and on closer inspection, I decide, Chinese tourists.
After several hours of idle people watching and switching, even more idly, between sudoko puzzles and my handphone, I’m ready to head through the Customs and Immigration checkpoints and on to the departure gates.
I, (rather foolishly) pay five Australian Dollars for a bottle of Duty Free water. I even had to show my passport to some haughty young woman, who smiled imperiously at me from the counter, when I questioned the price. Now, I completely understand the haughty woman, and the imperious smile, as stupid foreigners pay more for a bottle of water than she will make in a day’s wage but I still wonder how I allowed myself to be found in a situation like that!
After a last Indonesian meal in one of the departure areas more reasonably priced cafes, (I choose the beef rendang), l move on to the smokers area, conveniently located next to the Jestar Australia departure gate.
The plane is full, as you would expect, of Australians returning home from their tropical island escape.
Yet I’m struck by two things. One, very few people on the plane are wearing masks, which makes me realise how cautious my family in Indonesia really are.
And two, I’m feeling like, by wearing a mask, the people on the plane, my countrymen, (and women) could very well be looking at me and wondering if I’m wearing a mask because I’m infectious.
Nevertheless, I continue wearing the mask until my meal arrives but after that I allow myself to slip into the false comfort of a familiar, Australian refrain.
She’ll be right mate.