St. Maarten under the threat of coronavirus and hunger

Hurricane Irma was devastating. But many residents of St. Maarten believe that the corona pandemic can turn out to be even more disastrous for the island. The fear of becoming infected is less for many than the fear of losing a job or company. Hundreds of residents are already without income, they have to survive in anticipation of help and better times. A report.

Early in the morning, a man is bathing himself in the waves of Great Bay in Philipsburg. His pants and shirt are on the beach.

A hundred yards away, a man walks around aimlessly. He has no home and no income since the beach and jet ski operators had to stop working due to COVID-19. More than two weeks have now passed. He still wears the same dark pants and gray t-shirt.

Prime Minister Silveria Jacobs of St. Maarten declared a state of emergency on Saturday April 4. The entire population must remain indoors 24 hours a day for two weeks. The measure, which starts at midnight that day, comes unexpected to many. Those who do not have internet cannot follow the Prime Minister’s updates. Moreover, she only speaks in English. Communication in Spanish and Patois follows three days later. Officials tie a large speaker on the roof of a vehicle and drive to Cape Bay, a remote area with many Haitians and Dominicans, to announce the emergency measure in multiple languages.

On the eve of the total lockdown, people who have heard the prime minister try to do as much last minute shopping as possible. Crowds of people gather in front of supermarkets, there is hardly any social distancing. The following day, Sunday, April 5, all shops and businesses are closed, except for two gas stations where police, navy and ambulance drivers can get gas. That Sunday, the otherwise busy Bush Road and the road to Marigot are used by some motorists as a race track. Also breaking the curfew are a few noisy motorcyclists in Cay Hill, a short distance from St. Maarten Medical Center, the only hospital on the Dutch side of the island. The navy has hastily erected a large tent there for the treatment and care of corona patients. The terrain is further leveled with a caterpillar, a pick-up arrives with building material, and preparations are made inside the tent for the arrival of additional Intensive Care beds and medical equipment from the Netherlands later that day.

A group of mountain bikers race down from Cay Hill in uniform, as if it were an ordinary Sunday. Next to the footpath is a blue rubber glove, a few meters away another. I will come across more, up to Maho about twenty, blue and white. In the bushes I see a few facemasks.

At the top of Cay Hill are two billboards: one from the government and telecom company Telem explaining social distancing, next to it one from the National Recovery Program Bureau that is working with World Bank money to rebuild St. Maarten, which was destroyed by Hurricane Irma in 2017. “Building Back Better”, it says in big letters.

COVID-19 has almost completely shut down the tourism-dependent economy of St. Maarten. Within three to six months, 45 percent of all private sector employees will lose their jobs, a survey of 580 companies by the St. Maarten Hospitality and Trade Association (SHTA) concluded. The organization has calculated that the total number of unemployed can reach nine thousand. “It can be said with certainty that no one in our society will be spared,” said SHTA, who is pushing for a comprehensive plan to prevent acute job losses, household income loss and long-term economic deterioration.

In March of this year, the Central Bank of Curaçao and St. Maarten (CBCS) calculated that the economy of St. Maarten would, in the worst case, shrink between 5.7 percent (after one month) and 29.2 percent (after six months) due to the closure of airspace and sea borders. A total lockdown because of the local spread of the virus had not yet been taken into account. Also in March it was not yet known that cruise ships will be banned from US ports, including Puerto Rico, for at least 100 days, which raises the question whether cruise lines will be able to maintain their fleet without the US passengers.

The Caribbean members of the Board of Financial Supervision are convinced that outside assistance is essential to save the fragile economies of St. Maarten and the other islands in the Kingdom. On Thursday, April 9, during a live-streamed press conference in The Hague, Minister of Interior Affairs and Kingdom Relations Raymond Knops announced that the requests for financial support from the BES islands, Aruba, Curaçao and St. Maarten will be honored. Minister Knops emphasizes the role of the Kingdom. “We are all in this situation together and we will work it out together. We will help you.”

A day earlier, day four of the state of emergency, Downtown Philipsburg has a friendly atmosphere. Dozens of residents go out to chat with friends and acquaintances, take a walk on the beach or take a dip in the sea. Under a tree on the beach sits Anil Jean-Pierre, in normal times beach vendor. “I come here every day to see if my chairs and umbrellas are still there,” he says. I ask him how he can manage without money. He smiles. “My godmother makes me lunch. She lives in Fort William.” He points to the hill at the end of Great Bay Beach. “Every day, walking up to the house, children come out onto the street begging for food. Very sad!” He stares thoughtfully in front of him. Then, in a tone as if trying to convince himself: “The cruise ships will return on 12th of May. That’s in a month. Then we can make money again.”

On Front Street, Zongo is waiting for a lady who lives across the street and will throw a few dollars down for him from her balcony. Zongo has been living on the street for six years, he sleeps on Great Bay Beach. He is often under the influence of drugs, but not today, he looks bright and smiles broadly. “I’m not short of anything,” he says when I ask him how he is doing. “I eat three times a day; Indian, Chinese, Caribbean, people’s homemade food. Dushi, hombu.” His bed is a beach chair with mattress, which he has on loan from the owner. Now that the vendors are at home, he uses two market stalls on the beach as accommodation.

Zongo (52) was born in Curaçao, as Sesal Sambo. That cannot be verified because, he says, “The police have my passport and other papers.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter: I’m happy. Even without an ID.” He sits down on an office chair, the wheels pressing into the sand. “Corona is a lesson to humanity. Whether you are St. Maarten, Dominican, Jamaican or Indian, it affects everyone. Everyone is equal: color, origin, whether you are poor or rich, young or old, it doesn’t matter anymore. Everyone has to stay at home.” He frowns, continues: “I think it’s good. People are confronted with themselves and have to think. A lot will change. But that’s okay. No hay mal que por bien no venga. (Every disadvantage has its advantage, ed.)” He concludes, thoughtfully: “So far, much has been tried on St. Maarten, but little has been achieved. Now people will have to help each other to move forward.”

At home I make tea from Moringa leaves that Zongo brought. The sound of the waves breaks the silence. The sea throws a new load of sargassum onto the beach and swallows a large amount of sand. On occasion chained up hungry dogs whine, otherwise it is quiet in the neighborhood. A handicapped man who daily feeds chickens in the alley in front of his house complains that there is only a single chicken and rooster left. “People in the neighborhood are catching my chickens to eat,” he says despondently.

After a day without food, 71-year-old Weldon Richardson has new stock in the room in the guesthouse where he is staying. “The supermarket on Pondville Road is doing delivery, thank goodness,” he sighs. “I had a good breakfast this morning.” Richardson is a Yacht Delivery Captain from Bermuda, he had brought a sailing yacht to St. Maarten on behalf of the owners and was unable to fly back to Bermuda due to the closure of the airspace. Now he is sitting in his room all day or hanging over the railing of his balcony staring at passers-by who ignore the stay at home measure. “You are breaking curfew,” he shouts at me. I explain to him that I have a Media Disaster Pass and that I am doing news reports. Richardson eagerly starts to tell his story: “I’ve been bringing boats to various destinations around the world since I was eighteen. In Bermuda there are eleven sailing races with international participation. The owners of those yachts often don’t have time to return their boats home after the race, they leave that to Delivery Captains like me. The company that arranges the assignments also arranges the return flight. My flight has been canceled due to the lockdown.” He can’t afford to pay the rent for the room for weeks to come, Richardson says. “I hope the lockdown is not extended. I urgently need medication. I suffer from prostate cancer.”

Sailboats are anchored in Great Bay, a few hundred yards from the shore. Anil sits under a canopy watching a dinghy as it slowly approaches the beach. The dhingy is empty, a man swims in front of it and pulls it on a rope. He is a Russian man and got into trouble on the water, the onboard engine stopped. Tourists staying in a nearby apartment call the Coast Guard, to no avail. The man decides to pull his dhingy towards the pier at Walter Plantz Square and ask for help nearby.

“I wouldn’t be comfortable either stuck on a sailing boat for two weeks,” says Anil. “Those people are now hungry or need something else. I would like to do delivery of groceries with a jet ski. But the Coast Guard does not allow jet skis on the water.” The five dollars that delivery boys from Domino’s get would have been a welcome extra, Anil agrees. “And a free pizza for the people on the boat.” Mouthwatering: “Who wouldn’t want that?”