How I Almost Got Stuck in Tunisia because of COVID-19… and Still Haven’t Been Able to Go Home Yet
In mid-March, I was wrapping up travels in Tunisia as the coronavirus hit Europe and North America. President Trump’s misleading announcement of America’s travel ban spurred the rest of the world to respond rapidly in handling their own outbreaks. Within two days, the Tunisian government had ordered non-essential activities to halt by 4 p.m., sealed all maritime borders, and was in the process of stopping flights. It had seemed like I would be able to fly home until it didn’t– my flight back to the states missed the cutoff by a few hours. The prospects of being stuck in north Africa alone, without anyone that I really knew, during an unprecedented shutdown forced me into problem-solving mode. A kind couscous restaurant owner had given me his contact information, saying that if I really had no way to leave, he would be happy to help me out. My experience from doing fieldwork as an ecologist kicked in– there was no time for hesitation as things were moving fast. Feeling stressed out was beyond the point, given how little control I had any over the developing situation. All I could do was contingency plan.
At that point, any flights with layovers in Europe were not an option. I couldn’t find any direct flights from north Africa to the US. I even looked into getting into Algeria somehow and flying from there, but nothing seemed viable. Libya was out of the question, and Morocco was sealing its own borders. My options for leaving Tunisia dwindled down to flights across the African continent. I’d lived in Nairobi, Kenya back in 2018, working as a freelance photojournalist covering stories of technological impact on human dynamics with the natural world. The comforting thought of returning to a somewhat familiar place, where I still have a community, made the most sense. It felt like the forces of the universe were finally on my side. Within 24 hours I’d booked and boarded a flight to Nairobi. Everything went without a hitch as I miraculously obtained a visa on arrival, just hours before Kenya sealed its own borders, and was reunited with my friend in a startlingly empty airport. I spent the next two weeks self-quarantining before strict lockdown directives were issued by President Uhuru Kenyatta.
My brain slowly, reluctantly processed the depth of COVID-19 repercussions. I could no longer fool myself into thinking that this was just a “thing” that would “blow-over” soon. As it became clear no one was going anywhere in the near future, I used this opportunity to practice not having desires. Wrestle with my innate restlessness. I tried to keep up with developments in the northeast, where my parents live, as streets quieted down, shops closed, and the non-stop cycle of bad developments sustained a low hum of menace. My mother wrote a family email saying, “It’s a different world here now. Before we went to every store, it was always full of customers and goods on all the shelves.” My brother quickly responded- “Please stay calm… stores will be back in stock within a few weeks. This is the United States, not a third world developing country. Everyone is panic buying, of course the shelves will be temporarily empty.” I felt disconnected from both realities because of how unrepresentative bite-sized news seemed to be for both Kenya and the US. Friends asked me how the locusts were in East Africa, while I stood in the aisles of Carrefour in town, the shelves bursting with pasta, beans, and hand-sanitizer.
Back at home, protests over mask-wearing emerged as select citizens view issues of collective public health and safety as hindrances to personal freedom. Of all the things to pick a bone about, this seemed like an inane one considering the initial logarithmic rise of COVID-19 cases in the US. Meanwhile on April 6th, President Kenyatta had announced restricted movement for 21 days in and out of Nairobi Metropolitan Area and other virus hotspots, including Kilifi and Mombasa counties. Face masks and social-distancing were required in public places, along with a curfew from 7pm — 5am. These directives, which have since been gazetted, were accepted by the people. Failure to abide results in a fine and/or time in prison, and possibly corporeal punishment by the police. My friends here joke, “beatings are the African way.” It’s a shame, but an effective one. People here may grumble and be forced into compliance, but the Kenyan government’s authoritarianism has in a way reaffirmed the way in which orders are not questioned. The orderliness of sanitization procedures when entering shops does lend some psychological trust to the process. At some establishments, you wash your hands, then use hand sanitizer, and have your temperature taken before you are allowed entrance. As of May 10th, there were 632 COVID-19 cases and 32 deaths– the strict restrictions have certainly seemed to mitigate COVID-19 to some extent.
But there’s been backlash from those who see the Kenyan government’s tunnel-vision handling of coronavirus as a distraction from everything else that needs dire attention. On May 7th, at least 194 Kenyans were killed from flash floods. Floods that happen every year. The indignation over mask-wearing is far from something worth complaining about to most Kenyans.
In America, we collectively realized that the US had not just botched the handling of COVID-19, but utterly failed to protect its citizens. Still, Americans demand that their voices be heard, and aim to make a point in the process. It’s that funny thing that comes with America’s particular abstract concept of freedom and individuality– we believe that other people should always respect our opinions. Even in the middle of a pandemic. Nevertheless, the country’s systemic failures have never been made more clear. Growing pains from this paradigm-shift regarding the non-superiority of the American government only fuel general pandemic fear.
On May 16th, Kenyatta announced that the lockdown would be extended by another 3 weeks minimum until June 6th (that’s just for internal movement– no one has any idea when international borders will open up). I felt silly for being disappointed about another extension– it was obviously a possibility. Morale at my friend’s place where I’ve been staying– a quarantine household of four– was low that weekend. I went to bed and slept for 12 hours. A couple days after that, I met someone on a walk around the neighbourhood- he went on and on about how the lockdown would probably continue being extended, since the cases continue to rise. Over the past few weeks, businesses have been starting up again and streets filling out with people going about their normal business. The extreme financial limitations of gig-economy Kenyans means that a significant portion of the population live hand-to-mouth. Such extended order-in-place directives are impossible to maintain. Moreover, Tanzania, which lies south of Kenya, has had very little quarantine measures put in place. The border is largely porous and allows carriers to bring in the virus from there, undoing everything that Kenya has been trying so carefully to protect.
I’m trying to figure out why I feel this need to go home. As someone who has been living a fairly itinerant life for the past few years, I usually don’t feel homesick. And that’s not even what I’m feeling right now. I’m one of the lucky ones; I have remote work and have been trying to make the best of these times, just like everyone else. But not being able to go home– somehow, that lends a different light to the situation. I think about how close I was to becoming a global reject back in March, where it felt like I was in some warped no-man’s land, running through closed doors. Some things you don’t ever want to experience again. I tell myself to find calm from inside. What needs to happen will eventually come to pass. Yet another month slips away.
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Sources
https://www.avert.org/professionals/hiv-around-world/sub-saharan-africa/kenya
