A Short Trip To Peru
Part I of the two-week excursion that became a two-month lockdown and nearly cost us our sailboat, SV Hanalei.
March 17, 2020
Puerto Maldonado, Peru
The cops arrived just after breakfast.
Margarita knocked on our door to let Stephan and me know that all the guests at Wasai Lodge were to assemble in the lobby. We should bring our passports.
Passports. Tickets.
Right now, we’re supposed to be in Lima, boarding a flight back to Ecuador after a short trip to Peru. But we’re not going anywhere.
Nobody is.
Night before last we checked into our hotel and turned on the TV. The news was big, with a surprise announcer: el Presidente Vizcarra himself. In a grave tone, he said the pandemic had landed in Peru. He’d ordered a cuarentena obligatoria–a two-week total lockdown–to begin today.
The airports are closed. All flights have been canceled.
Even if we could fly, we couldn’t make it home. We live on a sailboat, currently in Ecuador, and Ecuador has sealed her borders, too.
They’re waiting for us downstairs.
The lobby, dark and relatively cool, is thatched with interwoven palm fronds. It’s tall enough that a tree-dwelling pregnant sloth comfortably makes her morning circuit.
Wait, aren't we in Peru?
When you think of Peru, you think of the Andes, right?
Machu Picchu. Incas. Maybe Spanish colonial cities.
So did I.
You probably don’t think of the Amazon, neither its rain forest–the lungs of our planet–nor the world’s mightiest river.
I didn’t either. Not until we flew from Cusco to Puerto Maldonado, a remote Amazon market town, for a couple of days.
The downstairs lobby is packed. A half-dozen tourist police–some masked, all armed–mingle among two dozen guests. A Ministry of Tourism representative in an official MOT vest is reviewing the guest list with the manager. He calls names, looks up, waits as we each confirm our presence. Health workers in official Ministry of Health vests are handing out masks. A local official in no vest keeps tabs on the whole operation.
Wasai’s clientele brings to mind youth hostels and people who call themselves travelers, not tourists. Our fellow travelers are researchers and volunteers and seekers of enlightenment on private quests. They came to study animals, protect the rain forest, pursue the benefits of ayahuasca or kambo.
I don’t know any of this yet, only that they came with backpacks.
Human activity has shut down in the jungle, too. Yesterday, taxi and boat drivers in yellow vests were busy all day dropping off displaced adventurers.
Looks like they’re still arriving. Many of them seem to know each other. There are European greetings, hugs and double kisses.They huddle together on the couch, sharing information about who else might still be out there. The crowd seems nonchalant, certain their jungle isolation will protect them.
One of us could die before this is over. We shouldn’t treat it lightly.
Stephan and I step away from the chaos, but the tourist police beckon us back, gathering everyone closer so they can make an announcement.
No unauthorized travel is allowed by land, sea, air, or river. Hotels, restaurants and tourist venues are all closed, except Wasai Lodge. Wasai will remain open to accommodate the stranded foreigners. The hotel kitchen will prepare our meals. We may leave the hotel to seek health care, pick up medicine, buy groceries, or go to the bank. We must obey the curfew.
It’s tricky, fielding questions in five languages. They leave it to one person in each group to translate.
When my name is called a masked doctor approaches, aims an infra-red thermometer gun at my forehead. He records my temperature as normal.
They’re calling this a Covid test?
I’m directed to the lush indoor/outdoor lounge where two cops have set up shop around a table. One records my passport number, then goes back to texting. Just following orders. The virus is still far away. A case in Arequipa. Theoretical. A cluster in Lima. Imaginary. It won’t come to Puerto Maldonado unless a tourist brings it.
The other cop asks the questions. He wants my health history, especially any symptoms. My persistent cough is no cause for alarm. My temperature is normal.When did I arrive in Peru? Where did I come from in the United States? He doesn’t like my answer –Washington State, ground zero for the virus. I clarify that we’ve already spent three months in Ecuador. He nods, adjusts his uniform collar, and continues.
He asks me which Peruvian cities and sites I’ve visited.
My answer, Machu Picchu, brings a cringe. Thousands of us from all over the world took the train every day. We transferred to packed shuttle buses, grouped with guides according to language. Our guides encouraged us to press in close on narrow paths to make room for photo ops and faster groups.
Who’s more likely to carry the virus, a tourist or a first responder?
I don’t know.
At this point in the story, all I know is that we’ll be here two more weeks. The boat will be okay at anchor for that long.
Two days ago, we dipped our toes into the Amazon.
That’s figurative. I’m too afraid of snakes and crocodiles to dip any part of my body in this water. I was in it for the bragging rights. Now, after the jungle canopy, I’m obsessed with neon Blue Morpho butterflies, fascinated by the prehistoric Hoatzin bird. I wanted more time here.
Looks like I might get my wish.
Fair Winds,
Christine
Do Tell!
Tell me about your quarantine, whether it was voluntary or cuarantena obligatoria.
