STICKING THE PLAN
Two expat Canadians navigate their new country’s pandemic regulations
My husband, Lowell, and I recently sold our home in quaint Bowmanville, Ont., and purchased one in the small beach community of Coronado, Panama. Marley, our English bulldog, accompanied us and has adapted to our new country. Believing that everyone has a story to tell, we opened an Airbnb that caters to writers and provides a space where I can offer writing workshops to expats.
Each day was another beautiful summer day in paradise and stepping out of my bedroom door onto our back porch, I considered myself fortunate to enjoy outdoor living. Our home soon became busy with guests. In less than 13 months we had visitors from 19 countries. Some nights we barely had a bed to crawl into ourselves.
The internationals who live here are well-travelled with many life experiences, so they have much to write about. A small writing community formed around a monthly breakfast at a trendy local restaurant called Picasso’s, whose artsy name and delicious breakfasts provided space to support, encourage and educate writers. A critique group branched off and provided writing feedback. My next step was to arrange “word tours” to explore and write at Panama’s lovely beaches, waterfalls and mountaintops.
Then overnight, COVID-19 became a reality in Panama. Tourists were sent home and we had no guests—just bills to pay, including our caretaker’s salary. A husband and father of two children, we kept him employed so his family didn’t starve.
We cleaned and closed down our rental rooms and listened to the news. Prime Minister Trudeau advised us to come home. We said goodbye to many of our friends who decided to return to their countries of origin. The airports closed and, as humanitarian flights flew to Canada without us, we hoped we’d made the right decision in staying. We were fine. Panama is our home now.
The Playa Coronado community became quiet. Aside from the caretakers, people noises had disappeared and we were the only people living on our street. We heard a lot more birds and the cicadas grew louder, too. We looked at the upside. For a time, we could enjoy our home to ourselves, I could finish writing my novella and other writing projects. We would even complete the needed repairs and upgrades while we had no guests.
All but essential services shut down and we could not purchase necessary supplies or employ the locals. We were in lockdown. We could only leave our home to purchase groceries or medication in a two-hour
period on assigned gender days. Police sang and danced in the streets to boost the morale of families quarantined in hot and humid apartments. Marley walked himself and I kept an eye on him from the end of my driveway. If a vehicle passed, I waved like a hysterical person and pointed at him so drivers would see him.
A NO-NONSENSE QUARANTINE
As an introverted-extrovert, I knew I would both love and hate my confinement. I grew concerned about the sagging economy and wondered how long the shutdown would last. The worst part was that not a single person could tell us. We missed our walking and hiking groups and tried not to think about how we couldn’t go to the beach. Only a few people in the area contracted the virus but we were instructed to wear masks, sanitize our shoes and hands, and have our temperatures taken before heading to the grocery store. A policewoman holding a rifle blocked my entry to the store and carded me to prove I was shopping in my allocated time. The government instituted prohibition.
Armed police monitored the streets for rule-breakers. My acculturation hadn’t included public shaming. I cringed when quarantine violators were paraded down the street and made to clean the roads. Others were given machetes to clear out cemetery grounds and a few were put in stocks for hours in the humidity and hot sun. Many were fined and couldn’t afford to pay, so they were arrested.
We were told quarantine was good for us. We could keep the numbers down. We could flatten the curve. Others argued for herd immunity. Our mental health suffered with long-term confinement and the numbers rose. After four months of quarantine, we craved freedom.
I also lightened up my Facebook page with funny quips, pictures and videos about being quarantined, using our dog’s voice. “When out of the house, don’t lick your nose,” “Wash your hands and don’t touch your jowls,” and “Resting will help keep your immune system strong so don’t even raise an eyebrow. And try not to drool on the sheets.” When I didn’t post, people said they missed him and I brought him back to the page.
We donated money and purchased food for those in need and tried to ignore people who suggested the hungry would soon be stealing. The police came to our home twice and instructed us to keep our gate closed and our door locked so we wouldn’t get robbed at gunpoint. Between quieting my concern for those who could starve, my sister’s poor health, and my mother-in-law in a nursing home with a COVID-19 outbreak, I stayed true to my value that writing is cathartic. I connected with writing friends who helped me finish some works-in-progress and start writing something new.
Finally, a small relaxing of the quarantine came and we are allowed to walk our dogs close to home. I am now receiving texts from a few expats who remain. Not for me. For Marley. “Can I borrow Marley?” and “Please give Marley directions to my house!” If I can keep my guilt over how fortunate I am from consuming me, I can hold out until new travellers come to tour, stay and write. For those of us who remain in Panama, our writing community is providing support online via ZOOM meetings and through our Facebook group. We can resume our in-person meetings with those who remain in the country once our sharedpublicspacesreopenandwecanfully resume once the expats, who returned to their country of origin, return to Panama.