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Why I've felt safer in Africa than in Europe during the pandemic

On game drives across Kenya's Maasai Mara Sarah was reminded that the world keeps turning  - Sarah Marshall
On game drives across Kenya's Maasai Mara Sarah was reminded that the world keeps turning - Sarah Marshall

On a map of the UK Government’s current Covid ‘no-go’ nations, sub-Saharan Africa rages alarmingly red. To date, 17 countries have been designated viral hotbeds, forcing returning travellers to fork out for overpriced mandatory stints in government managed hotels – not the sort of staycation any of us are keen to take.

From the outside, most of the continent looks like a corona danger zone. Yet for large parts of the pandemic Africa has been my safe place.

Since October last year, I’ve been hopping across the equator, watching waves rise, fall and ebb away as a tsunami of cases flooded Europe.

At home, in London, I felt forever shadowed by a dark cloud, dragged down by daily death counts, poor political judgements and the fear this disaster would never end.

Africa afforded some desperately needed escapism: skies were clearer, the sun shone brighter, and attitudes to life – and death – were as refreshing as the vast open spaces and clean air.

Africa afforded some desperately needed escapism - RENATO GRANIERI
Africa afforded some desperately needed escapism - RENATO GRANIERI

In the very early stages of the pandemic, it was assumed ‘poor’ African countries would be unable to cope. True, many hospitals are under-resourced, and millions of people walk a tightrope along the poverty line. But any shortfall in funds is countered by experience; medics have dealt with deadly diseases such as AIDS, Ebola and tuberculosis for decades and many laboratories already had suitable protocols in place.

Countries like Kenya, Botswana and Uganda locked down immediately, closing borders and airports when cases were still relatively low. Too arrogant to take heed, it took us ten months to wake up and do the same – and we regretfully paid the price.

On two occasions in the last six months I’ve travelled through Rwanda, taking multiple, easily accessible PCR tests to visit chimps and gorillas. From office workers to agriculturalists, everyone wore masks and even the shabbiest market stalls had a freestanding wash basin and sanitiser station set up. For a few blissful days, I floated in my own little bubble. With so much citizen compliance – and so few cases – I’m baffled why Rwanda remains on our 'red list'.

There were times when I almost forgot about the pandemic. In Lamu, an archipelago below Somalia on the Kenya’s Swahili coast, I met dozens of British escapees holed up in private villas and yoga retreats. In this parallel universe, life carried on as normal; donkeys trotted down sandy streets, dhows drifted along the coast and beach bars bellowed with laughter and noise.

“It’s too hot here for Covid,” one resident insisted. “Besides, we all live outside.”

In Lamu, Sarah met dozens of British escapees holed up in private villas and yoga retreats - Sarah Marshall
In Lamu, Sarah met dozens of British escapees holed up in private villas and yoga retreats - Sarah Marshall

I had to admire such blind, foolhardy optimism – but perhaps they had a point. Remote outdoor living is Africa’s greatest trump card, a remedy for both physical and spiritual health. On game drives across the Maasai Mara I revelled in big skies and endless horizons, while the thunder of wildebeest hooves across the Serengeti was a stirring reminder of a world I’d forgotten could still turn.

Confined to small spaces, it’s too easy to lose perspective.

When my boyfriend accompanied me on a chimp trek through Rwanda’s Nyungwe Forest, he started to cry, and I know he was moved by more than the beauty of the place. Locked down for so many months and subsequently hammered by clinical depression, the sense of freedom was simply too much to comprehend.

Make no mistake, Covid does exist in Africa. Cases are rising once again in Kenya and countries such as Tanzania and Burundi are largely in denial. But death rates are still much lower than in Europe and a race is already on to vaccinate populations.

In Zimbabwe, every adult in the Victoria Falls region has been inoculated; Kenya is hurriedly dishing out doses to workers in the hospitality industry; and the Ugandan Wildlife Authority hope to have their staff covered with at least one shot by the end of May. If western governments were to waive debilitating intellectual property rules and allow a ‘People’s Vaccine’, I’m sure the take up would accelerate.

Although swift reflexes and strict controls are encouraging, I’ve also found reassurance in the spirit and resilience of African communities.

When death knocks almost daily at the door and putting food on the table is a constant concern, there’s no time for moping or mass hysteria. So many people I met had diversified into other industries: a Tanzanian tour guide kept chickens; Ugandan craftswomen worked in farms; retrenched hotel staff planted trees.

Covid has financially crippled so many people in Africa, far more than the disease itself. But few ever complain. There’s an admirable acceptance some things are simply beyond human control.

That ability to get on with life has reframed my own thoughts about the virus, helping me see beyond the deadlock of doom and devastation and renewing a sense of possibility I thought had long gone. When travel resumes, I’d urge anyone to visit Africa. Sometimes, in the most unlikely of places, it’s possible to find the greatest sanctuary.