On New Year’s Eve 2019, I arrived in Bali to visit Klems, an ex-flatmate. We spent time in different places, but Bali’s tourist scene was not completely to my taste. A few days later we visited Gili Air, one of the three Gilis (which means ‘islands’ in the local language). It’s a tiny island just off the coast of Lombok – two hours from Bali, by boat.

We landed in the harbour and headed to our room on the north side of the island. It was a rainy day and I remember hearing the Imam calling people to prayer as we passed the mosque, and seeing the palm trees and unfamiliar trees with big, green fruits hanging from them.

Arriving on the northern beach, I was struck by the size of the place. Yes, I knew it was small, but this was the first time I had experienced smallness. It takes only 15 minutes to walk from south to north – 5 minutes by bike. And there are no cars or motorbikes, no noise or danger, and no pollution.

That evening we met one of Klem’s friends, and he became the portal to every other person we met. As I listened to their stories and watched my first Gili sunset on the beach, I felt calm and present. Like everything was right. And that was it. Nothing more.

“I can’t see how I can go back to Bali in a couple of days, Klems”, I said. “We have another six days ’til I go back to Europe, and I want to spend them all here”. Klems agreed.

On grey rainy days, back in Brussels, where I am based, I often thought of ‘my island’. Now I knew that my idea of paradise existed. So I arranged to spend a year there…  

In September, after a business trip to Japan, I arrived in Gili Air for a 12-day stay and, in the following months, I renewed my passport and applied for an annual visa for Indonesia.

I spent Christmas with my parents in Greece and it was then I heard about an outbreak of a curious virus in China. I remember thinking, “What if this thing gets out of control and it becomes a global pandemic? How will life be in the Gilis?”

In January I returned to Brussels, packed up my apartment and I spent the last days before my flight on Valia’s couch.

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Arriving on Gili on January 29 was a moment of humble triumph. I had wanted to live in a tropical paradise since I was a kid. And now, I was doing exactly that. A feeling of accomplishment and a calling to make meaning in new ways breathed life into every cell. Going to the gym became effortless; journaling was a joy.

February came and the virus was already out of control in China, then in Korea and Japan, and then in Italy. By the end of the month, it was clear that it would become a pandemic. Tourists arrived and left, but the virus was still a remote topic with only a hint of worry. Everything was calm.

As days passed, the worry became more and more prominent in conversations. Italy was suffering and outbreaks seemed to be everywhere. I was reading about the virus and its mortality rate – thought to be a staggering 3.4% at that time. On March 11, the WHO declared a pandemic. OK, now this was worrying. In one of my voice messages to a friend on March 19, I said:

It’s a matter of time until the virus makes landing and, with a poor healthcare system, we will see deaths on the island. Many deaths. Are we ready for dozens of coffins? The hospitals in Lombok will be full; people will be dying. Food distribution will be disrupted and there’ll be panic buying… people will run out of food. We should prepare for a societal collapse and even raids from boatmen. That’s what happened here after the big 2018 earthquake.

I worried because mortality increases to 8% if patients are not hospitalized. I had read that somewhere and it reveals how little we knew about the virus back then. I messaged my islander friends asking them to come together to discuss it. I sent them a video of a dying patient on a ventilator; today I regret having sent it.

Most of us became uncertain about the monthly visa renewals. Will Indonesia ask us to leave? Should I stay here or go back where we have good hospitals? We were all checking what others would do. Uncertainty had taken over.

We were at Pockets and Pints – a bar restaurant – when news came in. Indonesia announced that all foreigners willing to stay, would have their visas stamped. Relieved and exalted, a few of us had tears in the eyes, understanding that now, if we stayed, the risk was all ours. No fingers to point, no-one making decisions for us.

One afternoon an unwelcome thought occurred. What if my father gets the virus and dies and I am on the other side of the world? Disturbing as it may be, it remains a frightening probability. I remember dancing it out in my room with loud music – Doused by DIIV.

The island locks the world out

On March 30, the authorities announced the three islands were shut to the rest of the world. No speedboat, no way in, and the only way out by slow boat. The next day, about 200 tourists crowded the quay to leave for Bali.

In April, restaurants, bars and shops closed down one after another. Dive centres were ordered closed. Workers from Lombok who lost their jobs vacated the island in hordes. In a matter of 10 days, the beach bars and the buzzing streets grew silent, and the calls to prayer grew louder.

A few days later, a hostel that would turn become accommodation for expats, threw a party. First thought was “That’s irresponsible”. Yeah, right. In times of stress all you need is accomplices. There was an eerie guilt for what we were doing, accompanied by a strange sense of liberation – the last moment of freedom. A bit like the convict’s last wish. Days after, somebody confessed to me he was dead scared that day. We were all scared.

Some would isolate. Some would continue life as normal. Others, like me, advocated that we could still meet but with distancing. I had moments of friction with younger fellows who defied risks and didn’t keep distance. And I was breaking my own rules every day until I stopped pretending that we should isolate.

With an empty island and a healthy supply of villas, prices fell. Villa owners, mostly Westerners, preferred to rent out their villas, to discourage burglaries. Private villas with pools became available for 130EUR per month. I moved into one, with a close friend, in early April.

That had an uplifting effect after all the stress. I had been staying in a bungalow for short-term tourists. It was not only company I had been missing, but also the amenities – a desk to work and a kitchen to cook.

Re-inventing a purpose for ourselves

In the following months we adapted to the island’s new normal, with a spectrum of different reactions. Some created a new purpose for themselves. A jobless dive instructor started creating videos of everyday life. Another organised an underwater photography competition [LINKS]. Darts tournaments started. Unplanned parties. A few crazy ones.

There was a farewell party every now and then. The island was shedding people and, by July, the farewells became weekly. Then by September they stopped. Everyone that was to leave had already left.

I remember the electronic music, sand at my feet and hanging lanterns above me. Peeing by the wave in the dark and watching the stars. Glorious nights full of sensuality, explosions, and freedom. Freedom from the virus and the measures. Freedom from worries.

The few restaurants still open tried to gather their remaining clientele with special evenings. They shortened the menu options. They paused staff. They sold their stock of cheese and other products in fire sale prices. A shop started making yogurt, another hummus. One bar installed a dart board – darts being one of this island’s sports. Local restaurants started promoting their meals on the island’s Facebook page. Everyone was striving to adapt.

Others fell into despair and alcohol consumption increased. People are still suffering from distress due to mortgages, falling savings, unemployment. Many local restaurants closed down and competition increased among those open. Solidarity among kin and friends started playing an important role – especially for the locals.

The pandemic affected people in different ways. Bikes rusted in bike shops but the island’s market owners coped better. Landowners had savings to fall on. The working class either migrated or entered austerity. Digital settlers with income from abroad were more stable. Dive instructors and business owners lost income – often a lot of income.

Re-inventing our island

Expats are now finding online jobs that earn them a decent income, given that expenses are low. And it’s possible to create something more valuable.

90% dependent on tourism, the island is among the hardest hit places in Indonesia. But it has a super-weapon.

We are now about 500 locals and 120 expats. In a 4-minute ride to the market, I usually greet 20 people I know personally. It makes me feel grounded, connected, and relevant.

With such a small community, the place is a breeding ground for collective projects. We have a writing group, a philosophers’ circle, a darts league, bingo and pub quizzes, and beach clean-ups. We have an acroyoga group, several boot camps in the gym, fire-spinners, and almost daily diving. Together we watch big global events, like the US elections and Attenborough documentaries, and sports like UFC and Moto GP. And even though some have returned home, we all participate in a vibrant community group on Facebook.

The next big project could be leaping from surviving to reviving our island. What if we gathered a legion of digital nomads and digital settlers?

I commit to continue writing on Medium, to invite your interest in our lively and welcoming island. It’s a little slice of paradise – mostly unknown to the rest of the world – with a vast potential for healing. I want to show you pictures and videos. I want to bust the myth that everything is perfect. But most of all, I want to tell the story of Gili Air during the pandemic.

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