The only small drama I have getting out of Australia was at the airline check-in counter. They ask to see a medical certificate which shows that I’m safe to fly. Check. But there seems to be an issue with my visa.
I have a spouse visa which allows me to travel but to the check-in attendant it looks to be out of date.
“It can’t be,” I say, “it was only issued in the last 6 months.”
The date of issue is printed on the visa, 16.10.2019. The maximum stay, also displayed, is 12 months but there’s another date, Must Be Used Before 14.01.2020, suggesting it is out date.
The attendant takes my passport to her boss, who decides it is a problem for Indonesian authorities to deal with, not her and I’m good to go.
In contrast to my flight from Indonesia the plane to Bali is carrying a total of 11 passengers, including myself.
Alot has changed in the space of a month.
Once in the air the cabin crew spread themselves out in business class while we passengers are treated to lunch from the business class menu and free movies.
Now, I’ve already pre-paid for the inflight movie option and my first impulse to demand a refund. But international airlines are currently hemorrhaging money and the number of people on this flight is not even going to cover the cost of fuel. So I take a big sip of my business class wine and tell myself to chill the hell out.
The plane touches down six hours later in Denpasar, Indonesia. The arrival hall and Immigration checkpoints, which are normally bursting at the seams with noisy holiday makers, are completely deserted.
It’s like walking through a post-apocalyptic scene frome a low-budget Hollywood movie.
I walk straight up to the first immigration counter and I’m on my way to baggage collection in under a minute.
I clear Customs just as quickly and make my way through to the exit. Threre too, the normally chaotic ensemble of taxi drivers, tour operators and touts is replaced by a handful of people who barely give me a second glance.
It isn’t until I arrive at the domestic terminal that the Indonesia I’m familiar with comes into view.
People everywhere. Going about their business as if a global pandemic is something that affects other people, not them.
Completely surreal.
I arrive in Lombok at 4.30pm and Dewi’s nephews, Ian and Fajar, are waiting at the airport to pick me up.
I’ll be staying at the house we’ve been renting while setting up the guesthouse for the next fourteen days.
Dewi’s aunts have left beef rendang and rice in a container on the kitchen table.
Ian and Fajar have already stocked the fridge with large bottles of Bintang and Australian Chardonnay.
Dewi messages me on whatsapp.
Welcome home sayang (sweetheart).
It’s not the homecoming I was expecting but it could be worse. I’ve made it back to Indonesia on one of the last flights out of Australia.
What’s another fourteen days of nothing to do in the grand scheme of things?
I string a hammock off the front verandah and settle in with a cold Bintang.
My next door neighbour arrives home and sees me.
“Kapan pulang?” (When did you get back?) he asks.
“Tadi sore, Pak.” (Late this afternoon) I reply.
“Sendirian?” (You’re alone? Inference, where is your wife?)
“Ya Pak. Isteri saya sudah pindah ke guesthouse kami. Saya harus isolasi diri dua minggu dulu.” (Yes. My wife has already moved to our guesthouse. I need to self isolate for two weeks first.)
With that he nods and goes inside.
It’s been a long day. I devour my beef rendang and whatsapp Dewi as I enjoy a glass or two of white wine.
And then I’m ready for bed.
The next morning I’m sitting on the front verandah drinking my first Lombok coffee in nearly a month and I’m aware of alot of activity out in the street.
Talking mainly, low pitched but intent.
Our property has a high fence at the front which prevents me from seeing what is going on. But suddenly there’s a woman at our front gate, talking to me.
I’ve never seen her before and I’m not fully focused on what she is saying but I reply, “Ya Bu.” (Yes ma’am.)
She asks me some other questions which I also dont really understand but she seems to be someone in some type of authority.
I ask her where she is from and she tells me she is from the “kelurahan”, a kind of neighbourhood council that oversees the activities of a village, or in this case, a sub-district of the inner city.
I give her a deferential nod.
She asks what I’m doing here and I tell her my wife and I live here. She asks where my wife is and I tell her that she’s living in our guesthouse near Cemara Market.
She then asks if I informed the kelurahan that I would be coming. I reply that the head of the kelurahan told my wife that I need to come here to self isolate for fourteen days.
She appears uncertain about this and I quickly realise that the guesthouse and our rental house are probably located in neighbouring kelurahan. I give her Dewi’s phone number and tell her it will be better if she speaks about this with my wife.
She is happy with this and she is gone.
Outside my gate, its clear that all the neighbours have been listening in and taking in every word. And now they’re chattering away.
Suddenly I’m not happy.
They all think I’ve bought the coronavirus with me from Australia and I’ve bought it into their street.
I’ve just come out of two weeks self isolation in Australia, where I did everything in my power to minimise the spread of infection to anyone else, in a nursing home environment, on the off chance I might have been infected.
And now I’m self isolating again. For the greater good.
“It will be best for all of us”, Dewi told me.
Try explaining that to this bunch.
I call Dewi and tell her what has just happened and what is currently going on outside our fence. I also ask her if she let Pak RT (the kelurahan’s representative for the street, a respected elder) know that I was coming.
She hadn’t.
I tell her she needs to make that call and she needs to make sure he understands that I don’t have coronavirus and that I’m simply staying here out of an abundance of caution.
She understands.
When she calls me back ten minutes later I have mostly regained my composure.
The woman from the kelurahan has already called and Dewi has cleared up any confusion.
It appears that when the woman first spoke to me at the gate I confirmed that I had flown into Lombok via Jakarta.
Ya Bu.
The Indonesian government initially denied and then played down early reports of infection in the capital for fear of setting off panic in the community.
But Jakarta is now the epicentre of the outbreak in Indonesia and daily case numbers are rising rapidly.
So it is an obvious red flag to everyone standing out on the street when I unwittingly confirm that I have flown in from Jakarta.
I also understand now, that when I told my next door neighbour I have to self isolate for two weeks, that it has a different meaning to him than I am simply taking precautions.
Why would you need to self isolate if you you are not infectious?
And why would your wife not want to stay with you?
Because I have just crossed between two international jurisdictions and have potentially had numerous points of exposure.
And because I was told to.
All the same, we should have let someone here know I was coming.
Traps for young players.
Dewi promises to call the street elder, Pak RT, and apologise for any misunderstanding.
A short time later, Ian arrives with lunch.
Battered prawns, mixed vegetables and rice.
Washed down of course with a glass or two of Australian Chardonnay.
The next morning as I am drinking my coffee, Pak RT appears at the front gate. He tells me that they want to check my temperature. It seems that someone from the local hospital will be here shortly.
As I am explaining to Pak RT that I am not sick and that I don’t have coronavirus a small, black van rounds the corner into our street.
I immediately imagine the worst and padlock the front gate.
If they’re coming to take me away they’re going to have to hoist me over the top.
Let them try.
I can remember a time when Indonesia lived under the rule of President Suharto, a highly decorated and highly respected ex-General of the Indonesian Army and leader of a bloodless coup against the nation’s revered first President, Sukarno, who was put under house arrest, and where he was to spend his remaining days, accused of being a communist sympathiser.
To the outside world , Suharto looked and acted like a kindly old grandfather but his humble smile belied the steely heart of a pragmatic and ruthless mercenary, who, for the next 30 years, ruled the military and through it, the entire nation with an iron fist.
Indonesia is not the same country today that it was back then but still I’m taking no chances.
I know the freedoms I enjoy in this country are not the same ones I am afforded in Australia.
And Pak RT bears the most striking resemblance to the former dictator-President.
I call Dewi so she knows what is going on and keep her on the line just in case she needs to come and mount a rescue effort.
Two Indonesian medical personnel step out of the van wearing full PPE gear and I realise that, for now at least, there will be no uprisings or body hoistings attempted today.
The medical attendants check my temperature and Pak RT sees that it is normal.
I let them know I have just completed fourteen days of self isolation in Australia and have a medical certificate issued two days ago that shows I was carrying no symptoms.
I go inside to retrieve it and one of the attendants takes a photo for their records. Pak RT sees it but doesn’t read English. At least I think he now understands that I am not visiting a plague upon his street.
Nevertheless, the front gate stays padlocked for the remainder of my time in isolation.
The pandemic has quickly gained a foothold in the US and commander in chief, Donald Trump has just announced a $US2 trillion relief package. By the end of the week the Australian Prime Minister has announced a $AUD130 billion support package to subsidise the cost of keeping people employed during the lockdown.
Penny and I draw against our mortgage to fund the first month’s payments to our staff after which time the Australian Tax Office reimburses the business monthly. Although there are some employers who claim the payments but don’t pass them on to their staff, this level of support is the way in which many thousands of Australian businesses like ours are able to survive the extended lockdowns and disruption bought about by the pandemic.
Our landlords have also been very supportive and have offered us three months free rent.
In the days that follow I slip into a simple routine.
Mornings on the front verandah drinking Lombok coffee, messaging Dewi and smoking Indonesian cigarettes.
Washing and drying the previous day’s food containers ready for hand over to Ian.
Exchanging the previous day’s food containers for fresh food packages delivered by Ian.
Exchanging love you’s and hand-blown kisses from a distance with Dewi when she arrives with Ian the car.
An ice cold Bintang to accompany lunch and an occasional second to go on with.
Hammock time in the afternoon or a nap in the air-conditioned bedroom if the heat gets too much or if the beer makes me feel sleepy.
A cold beer come early evening, white wine to go with dinner.
Smoking, messaging, drinking white wine on the porch, enjoying the tropical evening warmth and occasional gentle breeze until I’m ready to fall asleep.
In this way, my two consecutive stints in mandatory self isolation slowly but surely draw to a close.
Before I leave I need to go and thank Pak RT and let him know I will be leaving today.
When he comes to the door we shake hands
“Saya mau pamit hari ini, Pak.” I tell him. (I am ready to leave today.)
“Sudah sembuh?” he enquires. (You have already recovered?)
“Saya tidak pernah sakit pak. Saya cuman menurut protocol” (I was never ill, sir. I was merely following procedure.)
He nods in a sign that he understands, though it’s clear that he doesn’t and probably never will.
I could try and explain but it would be a waste of both our time.
I will forever be remembered as the foreigner who bought coronavirus to his door.
Ian and Dewi are waiting for me in the car.
37 days after a trip that was originally planned to last 12, I am finally reunited with my beautiful wife.