Lessons in isolation: From the centre of the Pacific to the world’s loneliest town

Simon Parker on the takeaways of living in some of the most remote corners of the globe

Foula, in the Shetlands, as seen from the North Sea (Simon Parker)

A third of the world’s human population has been thrust into lockdown. From Madrid to Mumbai, Copenhagen to Cape Town, our once free-moving, gregarious modern lives have retreated behind closed doors in response to a sinister, invisible killer.

We can no longer amble into town for a lazy coffee, or lose a few hours at the park. And while our NHS front line combats coronavirus head-on, we must also play our own vital role: by either staying apart entirely, or by banding together in tightly knit social units.

For most of us, this has proven to be a jarring experience – at the antithesis of what we see as socially “normal.”

In fact, “social distancing” may have already become the oxymoron that defines our generation.

But as isolation becomes our new reality, and the initial grief of lockdown surpasses, can we take inspiration from people living in remote parts of the world, for whom isolation is entirely normal?

Saint Helena, south Atlantic

One of the remote homes on the even more remote island of Saint Helena (Saint Helena Tourism)

“Product shortages are a part of our lives,” says Derek Richards, chair of Saint Helena’s Tourism Association.

“We can go months without things like potatoes. Recently, though, someone grew a batch of new potatoes and instead of hoarding them, decided to share them among our tiny community. In isolation, it’s essential to rally together.”

Saint Helena’s remote population of just 4,500 people, living 1,200 miles west of Africa and 2,500 miles east of South America, have had centuries to master the art of self-sustainable living, irrespective of global tumult far beyond their shores.

In the UK right now, amid coronavirus lockdown, local radio is enjoying a spike in popularity, but in Saint Helena the good ol’ fashioned wireless has remained sacrosanct to island life since broadcasting began in 1967.

“Among a small population, radio has always been hugely popular,” says Richards. “There’s no other way to keep abreast of local news that matters to us.”

And it’s entirely true – along with the incessant chirps of mynah birds and a whistling Atlantic breeze, the crackly sound of Saint FM’s airwaves reverberate around almost every cafe, car and bar.

Foula, Shetland Islands

Foula resident Amy Ratter in her garden (Simon Parker)

You don’t have to venture 5,000 miles to discover an isolated British enclave, cut off from the outside world.

Foula – some 20 miles west of mainland Shetland – has gained a reputation as “Britain’s most isolated island”, with its population of 30 full-time human residents outnumbered by sheep by a ratio of 35-1.

As a travel writer, I have seldom discovered anywhere on the planet quite so calming, and many of Foula’s residents consider the isolation of this 4.88 square-mile outcrop as the key to a long and stress-free life.

“Here, you can be your own master and do as you please,” says twenty-something Robert Gear, who returned to the island in 2018 after several years travelling the planet in the merchant navy.

“People wonder if I get cabin fever on Foula, but in reality, it’s the outside world that gives me that.”

Foula’s tiny population knows that, in order to survive and prosper, altruism is the key to their shared success as a remote community.

“I love giving my food away and seeing people’s faces light up when they eat fresh Shetland veg,” says Foula’s keenest horticulturist, Amy Ratter.

Svalbard, Arctic Norway

The remote mountain ranges of Svalbard (istock)

In times of unprecedented home-based boredom, many of us appear to be self-medicating with booze. In the United States, alcohol sales jumped by 55 per cent in the third week of March, while in the UK the spike was 22 per cent – creating a windfall of £199m for British supermarkets.

Quarantine is never easy, but our lockdown has, at least, coincided with longer spring days and balmy weather. Now ask yourself, honestly: would you turn to the bottle (even more) if it was dark outside, 24 hours a day?

In Svalbard – a Norwegian archipelago surrounded by the frigid Arctic Ocean – the sun sets in November and doesn’t reappear for four pitch-black months. Perhaps no surprise, then, that its population consumes more alcohol than anywhere else in Norway.

“Heavy drinking became part of the wild west-like culture that once existed here – especially during dark winter,” says Jim, tour guide to “Coal Mine 3” – an eerie, abandoned vestige of Svalbard’s once thriving coal industry.

“It was dark above and below ground for months. This place could turn any man to drink.”

Centre of the north Pacific

In the rough seas of the Pacific (Simon Parker)

We’ve been forcibly confined to our homes, and asked to live every waking hour alongside our friends and relatives, while a global death toll creeps up around us. Inside, we attempt to create a cocoon of calm, despite rising interpersonal tensions. Beyond our four walls, danger lurks.

It’s a terrifying, claustrophobic time. My mind has, naturally, started to drift back to the tempestuous centre of the Pacific Ocean – the most ghastly place I’ve ever had the displeasure of reporting from – on board a Clipper yacht.

Debilitated with seasickness, and unable to keep a meal in my quaking stomach, our topsy-turvy China to USA voyage caused me to lose almost 10kg in just 28 days. Coronavirus lockdown feels like a wellness retreat, in contrast to a stripped-down 70ft racing yacht careering across 7,000 miles of open ocean.

“It doesn’t just stop when we get fed up,” I was told by fellow ocean racer Andrew Kerrison, as we surfed up and over mountainous Pacific rollers, just days after one of our competitors was lost at sea in a ginormous storm.

“I’ve already covered well over 20,000 miles on this [round-the-world] trip. It ends when it ends.”

Personally, I’ve never witnessed human resilience quite like it – and now, during times of anxiety, I know that nothing will compare to that dank and hostile part of our planet.

As breast cancer survivor and fellow sailor, Catherine Anderson, taught me: “You just have to grit your teeth and get on with it.”