A Short Trip To Peru, Part 4

There must be better ways to make friends than to sob for three weeks, then get sick.

A doctor from the Air Base pinches my arm. The skin folds into a peak like it’s bread dough, stays there a moment before returning to its proper place.

He says I am dehydrated due to a bacterial gut infection, then starts naming what Stephan should pick up at the pharmacy. He stops when he realizes my husband’s Spanish isn’t up to this. “We’ll go together.”

I stay in bed, connecting dots between my illness and a glass of water from the kitchen tap.

They come back with a carton of supplies: antibiotics, anti-diarrheal medicine, rehydration fluid and an IV drip system.

What if you have to drink the water and can’t pay for medicine?

The doctor sets up the IV, then stays another hour to make sure it’s working. Four hours total.

What does that all this have to do with making friends?

Margarita

Until now I’ve struggled with isolation, thinking nonstop about my problems. Now I’m on the verge of a perspective shift.

Margarita, who’s warm and serene no matter what, looks after me. She says God will protect us from the coronavirus. Besides, there’s no virus here (yet).

It’s hard to believe in something you can’t see.

I watch tv. Public service announcements show me how to stay safe: keep two meters apart, stay home, wash my hands frequently and wear a mask. Everyone in town wears a mask outdoors, where it’s mandatory.

Things are different indoors. The news shows families and those in need, crowded together in neighborhoods without running water.

How are they supposed to wash their hands?

Margarita says the new case in the market must have come from a foreigner.

It’s only a matter of time.

To cheer me up, she leaves towels she’s transformed into elephants.

“So many different beliefs, each new and strange to someone. Now we’re united by a terrible enemy.”

Family Hug

President Vizcarra is on tv, too. He exhorts his people to care for themselves and their loved ones by staying home. He reminds us all Peruvians are one family.

That includes foreigners. Peru has extended all our visas indefinitely.

hugyou later.png — **“Because I want to hug you later, is why I distance myself now.”**

– Martin Vizcarra, President of Perú

I could use a hug.

I envy all the hugging among other guests, but they seem unapproachable. They’re the cool girls, who drum and dance on the roof, conduct full-moon ceremonies, talk about traditional medicines. It’s new to me, and strange.

Since when did new and strange make me uneasy? When did I get so judgy about the unknown? Do I think I’m superior, dismissing other paths? Aren’t we all in this together?

Maybe I’m the one who’s unapproachable.

The Terrible Enemy

As Peru’s death rate spikes, a special message airs on tv. Prayers are offered by a Catholic nun, a Bishop, Jewish rabbi, Orthodox priest, Protestant pastor, Buddhist nun, Brahma Kumari and Muslim imam. They pray for the pandemic victims and their families, sanitary workers, medical professionals, government leaders, firefighters, police, and the military.

So many different beliefs, each new and strange to someone else. Now we’re united by a terrible enemy.

Breakfast Club

It’s time to stop rolling my eyes and drop the barrier. Stephan and I join the other three at breakfast.

We meet Vivian, who’s trying to keep her art film house afloat. She uses lockdown to write grants, hold meetings, and evolve her business for a virtual audience.

Caroline, a massage therapist and body love coach, teaches something called naked yoga in the UK. She’s staying because of her Peruvian sweetheart, quarantined deep in the jungle, who occasionally manages a visit.

Charlie, an astrologer who Zoom counsels her U.K. clients, is also a kambo practitioner.

Whatever that means.

All In This Together

Over the next two weeks we’re welcomed into this community, much the way cruisers accept and aid each other. All three have wisdom of a different kind than I know.

Shaun arrives from deeper in the jungle, where he’s been volunteering as part of one-year world tour. It’s too late to get a flight to Canada, not that he wants to go home.

Now we are six.

It feels good to let my guard down. I book a massage with Caroline and experience her healing touch.

I talk to Charlie about kambo, a traditional medicine of the Amazon. Turns out to be a purgative made from frog secretions. She says it helps depression and withdrawal from medication, boosts the immune system, removes dark energy, and gives strength to warriors.

What’s not to like (except the purgative part)?

Perhaps the others see us differently too, more than marooned sailors pining for their boat.

Each blurry photo of SV Hanalei feels like a postcard from a child in exile.

Where’s the Boat?

Cocoviche sends us reassuring updates from Ecuador saying all is well on SV Hanalei. Each blurry photo feels like a postcard from a child in exile. Our temporary import will expire the same day quarantine does.

I send another letter to Customs, asking what we can do with the border closed. I get an automated response about the grace period. Whenever the state of emergency ends, SV Hanalei will have a month to leave.

They don’t say when that date might be.

If we can’t make it to the boat, we might as well go home. We barely notice our entitlement.

On April 23, three days before our temporary import expires, the quarantine is extended two more weeks. There won’t be any flights to Ecuador, not that it’s safe. The pandemic is raging there, big time.

Our solidarity has limits. It’s time for us to leave.

Americans Stuck in Peru sends word of a flight May 7. Like city folk abandoning the plague for summer homes, we’ll wave goodbye and leave Peru to its fate.

Before we do, I make a kambo date with Charlie.

Gerson “El Mudo” and Lucho work wasaí (açai) berries in the kitchen. The juice goes into plastic bags (bottom right) for lunch.

Wasaí People, ¡Gracias!

Five Wasaí staff have cared for us during a horrendous plague. They’ve kept the lodge up, clean rooms, work the front desk, stand guard watches, cook meals for first responders and strandees. They’ve treated all of us with more respect than I showed them at first.

Margarita can do anything with grace, especially loving strangers. Lucho, her husband, is the mechanical fixer. Gerson, el mudo, crushes açai berries, cleans the pool, knocks down coconuts and slices off their tops. Before the pandemic, Keller sold packaged tours to guests. He understands the computer, cash register, and culture. Now he’s sommelier, night manager, and guard. Valeria, from Argentina, knows Amazonian butterflies. She manages the front desk, foreign guests, and young twin daughters. Elki the cook worked at the now-closed jungle lodge. He jokes and teases and zooms with his sister, a medical student in Lima. Hundreds of doctors have contracted Covid and she’s been called up to work the pandemic.

What will happen to all of you?

THANK YOU!

See how Margarita makes these elephants here.

Next week, my kambo session!

Fair winds,

Christine

Do Tell!

I’ve made so many memorable connections through travel. Who has enriched your life?