Vacuna Matata: The Trip Home

SV Hanalei is all tucked in for Panama’s rainy season. It’s time to go home.

Twenty-nine Hours Before My Appointment

Tocumen International Airport, Panama

Check-in for the flight means two hours masked in a long, snaking line. All passengers must produce negative Covid PCR tests, dated within three days of departure. 

Two days ago, an EMT arrived at SV Hanalei suited up to take our samples. By morning we had emails from the lab confirming we were clean. 

Panama’s still in vaccination Phase Two. Unless they are essential workers or senior citizens, nobody in this line has been near the Covid vaccine, known as la vacuna.

We fill out health declarations that deny any Covid exposure. I’m positive that other people’s hugs go unreported–a going-away party, a last goodbye before they escape.

If I had run across someone who tested positive, would I self-report? Step out of line? Give up my privilege once to keep a stranger safe?

Twenty-four Hours Until Vaccination

Miami

Our right to flee comes from great privilege. Twice in the past year, I’ve packed up, masked up, and boarded planes to fix whatever’s wrong, be it Peruvian lockdown or a Customs problem or missing my children.

Eighty-five percent of Earth’s people are waiting for vaccines: Pfizer, Sputnik, Astra Zeneca, Moderna, J&J. Even the Chinese vaccine, with 50% efficacy, is better than nothing.

We didn’t feel like waiting eight more weeks.

I barely question how I deserve this or why someone else doesn’t.

“Eighty-five percent of Earth’s people are still waiting for vaccines.”

The vaccine clinic at District 8-7, Panama City.

On board, there’s more to worry about, like who is sitting next to us. 

The woman across the aisle from Stephan coughs deeply behind her mask. Cold or Covid?

Travel used to be fun. Still could be, I guess, if you don’t care about meeting new people or interesting conversations. 

Six months of isolation on the boat rusted my social skills like salt water on cheap metal. 

I miss talking to people but I am afraid of them.

Pfizer Minus Eighteen Hours

Dallas

I’m lonely.

In evolutionary terms (thanks, Drew!) our lonely brains equate isolation with being cast out. We resent what feels like punishment. Worse, it makes us lose our trust. 

Trust was never my strong suit. 

Each flight we board, passengers crush together in a narrow aisle. The Brazilian variant has taken hold in South America. It’s spiking in Costa Rica, on the rise in Guatemala and Honduras. Who’s bringing it aboard with carry-on? I’m teetering on panic.

A man removes his mask to sneeze. Where has he been?

Does he feel that way about me?

“If I had run across someone who tested positive, would I self-report? Step out of line? Give up my privilege once to keep a stranger safe?”

Fourteen Hours Left

Seattle

The day progresses as all pandemic days have–one hour, one snack, one meal at a time..

Panamanians are tired of lockdowns, isolation, and uncertainty, too. No one’s giving most of them the option to leave, fly somewhere else where it’s their turn for la vacuna. In Panama City, vaccination clinics prioritize regions by virus severity. Newspapers, television and social media all publicize the district being vaccinated. This week it was district 8-7, home to Panama City’s marinas and anchorages. 

There’s no calling around to find appointments. National identity card (cedula) or foreign passport numbers set the date and time. 

I made my appointment online. 

What about people without computers?

Eleven Hours To Go

Bellingham

My vaccine will be effective, its cold chain monitored. The second appointment will go into a computer.

I’ll nearly be safe. 

Hakuna Matata. No worries. 

But what about the rest of the world, places like Isla del Rey? Its cold chain challenges will be daunting. Remote areas are difficult enough to reach; sending medical staff back with second doses taxes scarce resources.

No one is really safe until everyone is, and that means access to vaccines.

What I want from la vacuna is the moon. Waning loneliness and fear. Gibbous hope and trust. 

I want no Vacuna Matata, no more vaccine worries. For anyone.

After that,  I want a LOT of hugs.

Thanks! 

Shoutout here to Caren, skipper of sv Serenity, who graciously gave her left arm for the vaccine and coolly documented the experience.

Fair Winds,

Christine

Do Tell!

Congratulations if you’re fully vaccinated. Who can you help to get their vaccines?