A Short Trip To Peru, Part 9—Seriously?

Part 9? Seriously?

I know. You didn’t sign up for a boxed set of Winchester Mystery House.

Neither did I.

Hang in there if you can. The story insists on its own pace. If this were a normal disaster movie, I’d be the one holding the sign that reads The End Is Near.

Optional Recap of Parts 1-8

1. In March, 2020, we left our boat, SV Hanalei, anchored in Ecuador while we made a short trip to Peru.

2. We ended up in pandemic lockdown in the Amazon for seven weeks.

3. Borders, airports and roads are still closed. The boat’s permission to remain has probably expired. Ecuador is not returning calls.

4. After mountains of paperwork and logistical challenges, we’re evacuating to the U.S. Or trying to.

5. The good news is we have tickets from Lima to Miami; the bad news is that Lima is twenty-nine hours away.

6. We secured a nine-hour ride to Cusco, where I again had altitude sickness.

7. Our charter bus from Cusco to Lima was held up for twenty-four hours by a landslide.

8. Looks like we’re going to miss our flight.

Ready?

On the Road. Again.

It’s night when the bus reaches the disaster, but the scene is lit up like an oil rig. We skirt the landslide on a hastily-constructed bypass, silently take in a close-up view of devastation unleashed by climate on geology.

(This drone shot is the best I can do.)

That’s when reality hits. Not climate change—though that end really is near—but an even quicker, nearer end. Had we arrived ten minutes earlier, we might have surfed a following sea of mud down to the nearest river. Delays in Cusco may have saved our lives.

I won’t complain about being behind schedule ever again. I can’t complain about a 40-hour bus ride, either; we only have thirteen hours left. I don't complain when we resume our climb over the world’s second-highest mountain range.

There will be more complaints.

Altitudia

You may recall from Part 1–a long, long time ago–the reason we fled Cusco in the first place was altitude sickness.

Notice I didn’t mention altitudia once in twenty-four hours we stuck beside the road? That’s not me not complaining. Altitude sickness–another problem we don't have at sea–didn’t raise its gasping head.

Why not?

Good question.

The elevation at Abancay, where we were stuck, was 7,800 feet (think Aspen). Chief Engineer informs me that’s too low to get sick. He knows the magic minimum is 8,000 feet because of aircraft cabin pressure.

You don’t want to hear why he knows this. He has a dark engineering past.

Starting now, we'll gain another 7,800 feet.

• Altitudia-avoidance wisdom says you're only supposed to add 1,000 feet per day. That gives your body time to make extra red blood cells. At that rate, it would take more than a week to cross without resting.

• You’re also supposed to rest a day every 3,000 feet, preferably at a lower altitude. We should be on a two-week plan, not an overnight special.

Sorry. I said I wouldn’t complain about schedules.

The beginning of our route up from Abancay.

Like altimeter clockwork, my symptoms come roaring back at 9,000 feet.

• Dry mouth

• Shallow breath

• Dull roar of oncoming headache

At 11,000 feet (Mt. Baker), we add

• Tightness in chest

• Sense of impending doom*

What the view looks like in daylight, courtesy of Google Street View.

*Impending doom might be Hungry Myers Syndrome, but the other symptoms are more palpable.

By 12,000 feet, the advertised headache arrives like a bullet train inside the tunnel of my brain. My face is squashed against the window’s ventilation crack, taking in fresh air that's just as thin.

Either the Chief Engineer or Google noted that, in airplanes that aren’t pressurized, 12,000 feet means a pilot needs constant oxygen.

No joke. I’m sucking on the Oxy-Force like it’s a hookah.

My anxiety rises as quickly as the road does. I’m not going to last another five hours and 3,000 feet. My lungs and brain will fill with fluid. Is there a prayer of med-evac? I’ll be in a coma by morning.

I’ve made it as far as fetal position when Ande taps me on the shoulder. She’s the curly-haired American whose year of world travel was derailed at its first stop. Like nearly all the passengers, Ande quarantined for seven weeks at 11,000 feet. She’s used to altitude. She’s noticed me frantically puffing oxygen, slurping coca tea and popping ibuprofen. It’s hard to sleep when the person across the aisle keeps moaning.

Like a pharmaceutical fairy godmother, Ande is here to help. “I have altitude sickness pills. Would you like some?”

Ande’s drugs let me traverse the Andes. Thank you!

I down one with an Oxy-Force chaser.

By the time we reach 13,000 feet, I no longer wish for a camelback of oxygen. Around 14,000 feet (Mt. Ranier), my head still throbs but I can breathe. Outside, a landscape that may be picturesque in daylight seems bleak and empty in our headlights.

Maybe that’s just me.

The rocky pass at 15,000 feet (Mont Blanc) appears surreal, oddly white-gray in a bleached, stark world.

Or maybe that’s me, too.

As long as I'm (reasonably) sure I won’t stop breathing, I’m going to sleep.

Google Street View tells me I missed a herd of grazing vicuña.

This Is Not A Dream

Rewind to this morning, after the landslide. We are all in agreement—all meaning twelve ticket holders, volunteers and embassy staff—that our flight must be delayed twenty-four hours.

This was before I swore off complaining about schedules.

Frantic calls and texts go out to that effect. Our mere survival entitles us to special consideration, right? We make a cry-for-help video for the press and relevant authorities. Someone has to help us.

Air Force?

With commercial airports closed, the Peruvian Air Force handles evacuation flights out of Grupo 8 Air Base. Civilian guests will be arriving any minute. They have lists to verify and cross-reference: confirmed passengers with passport numbers; airline employees to issue boarding passes; Customs and Immigration and Health officials; embassy staff with their cell phones and endless bottles of water.

No. Move along.

LAN Chile, the airline?

The equipment is on the ground, with permission to depart Lima and land at Miami.

Apply again and risk someone changing their mind? No, thanks.

What about Solange Reps, the travel agency?

Hundreds of other passengers would push back. Hadn’t they been in Peru as long as we had? Why should they bear the inconvenience and expense of another night in locked-down Lima?

You’re kidding, right?

Then someone gets creative. What if the passengers on next week’s flight were offered the chance to leave today? If Grupo 8 allowed it, would twelve people trade seats and leave on a few hours’ notice? 

Extraordinary times enable extraordinary measures. Might as well give it a shot.

The WhatsApp cheerleaders pull off a miracle. The flight departs with twelve new passengers on board.

No way would this happen in the U.S. without a voucher for free airfare.

Thick Air

We’re back at sea level, under the influence of lower altitude.

Who knew thicker air could be exhilarating?

The bus is full of cheerful, celebratory noises. Once-strangers organize into impromptu pods for the week. Passengers on phones whoop when they score accommodation on short notice in a shut-down city during a pandemic. No one complains about another week of waiting, even if they haven’t promised not to.

So we begin the period referred to by Chief Engineer as Days 3-10 of our four-day trip home. 

It feels like finishing an ocean passage. All I want is an end to the bouncing ride, a long walk on land, and a horizontal bed. As I said, The End Is Near.

Fair winds,

Christine

Do Tell!

Cruising sailors often say the most dangerous item on a boat is a calendar. What do you think? Is time on your side?