Peru III: Lockdown Beneath The Visiting Moon

Lima was our halfway point and we spent a week there in a small apartment in Barranco. It was very bohemian with leafy streets and colonial homes and close to the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. Pferdi had various repairs done at a mechanic’s which was mostly successful but shockingly expensive. This was partly due to the wheels spending a couple of hours at a local spokes guy who seemed to have been forewarned that the ‘Yanks Were Coming’. Apart from that, we enjoyed exploring, having a kitchen and sleeping in the same bed for more than two nights. Looking back, spending a lot of time ‘at home’ was the best thing we could have done.

On Sunday, March 15th we drove 300 km south along the coast to Ica. We’d booked for 2 nights. Even though we were aware of the Coronavirus, it hadn’t arrived in full force in South America yet. On that day, there were 71 cases in Peru, 60 of which were in Lima. However, Ecuador had recently closed its borders so I thought I’d better catch-up on the Moto Support news. It was a good thing I did. Peru’s president was making an announcement that evening and suddenly the virus was staring us in the face.

It all happened very quickly after that. The president declared a “State of Emergency” for the whole country. There would be obligatory domestic isolation for 15 days, effective from midnight that night. Everyone was going to have to stay home. We could go to the grocery store, the pharmacy, the bank and the gas station but that was it and all public spaces would be closed. Only essential workers were allowed out to work. The moto group sent out a notice telling us that under the ‘State of Emergency’ certain rights would be suspended so if we were caught driving between cities our vehicle could be confiscated and there’d be nothing we could do about it. So that was that, locked down for two weeks. We looked around and for the first time really took stock of our surroundings.

We’d got very lucky. Ica borders the Atacama desert and is surrounded by large sand dunes. It’s a popular tourist spot for sand surfing and dune buggying but now it was off-season so it was quiet. For short stops we’re normally not too fussy about where we stay but Fran had picked a winner this time. The hotel was small, 10 rooms only with a pool, patio and parking. As is the local building style, everything was enclosed inside four high, red brick walls with a gate at one end. There was also a small kitchen and open-air dining room. Best of all we were the only guests and since the rest of the country was under a stay-in-place order, we didn’t expect any more check-ins. So it was just us and a young manager and his girlfriend, both from Venezuela. Situated outside of town, the sandy streets were empty, just more red brick walls enclosing nothing and a couple of hotels whose doors never opened. A short walk up the road brought us to the base of the dunes and Huacachina, a village in a green oasis. We couldn’t have found a nicer place.

The next day, March 16, Peru closed its international borders at midnight and people were scrambling to get to Lima to fly home. We went to the supermarket. It was too far to walk and even if we wanted to, it was too darn hot. There was a surprising amount of traffic out and tons of tuk-tuks. The supermarket parking lot was empty, the gate open only to pedestrians so all the cars were parked outside. We’d got there early but by the time we left there was a line waiting to get in and everyone was standing really close to each other. Worse, those exiting had to go out the same, narrow gate which meant brushing past the in-liners making the entire process both pointless and dangerous. Inside shelves were well-stocked but the produce section was a bit sparse. Still, we still got plenty. Back at the hotel we were able to store our food in the airshaft behind our room which was tiled and airy. It was great not to have to sleep with the eggplants and bags of pasta.

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Three days into the lockdown people were still socializing so a curfew was imposed between 8 PM and 5 AM. The next day Peru had its first deaths, three of them, and the cases had jumped to 234. People were being detained all over the country for breaking the rules. My sister sent articles from the Irish media reporting on holidaymakers “trapped” in Peru. They were accounts mostly from Lima and Cusco and their inaccuracies annoyed me. Encounters with hostile locals were the general theme but none were experienced directly by those interviewed. The reports of masked police and soldiers implied a more menacing demeanor than that of officials simply trying to protect themselves against a dangerous virus. I read at least two mentions of Peru being under Martial Law which was simply not true and there was plenty of innuendo on what might happen should these visitors not be taken home as soon as possible. I was surprised the reporters hadn’t checked the facts, but then I’m probably naïve. While Pitchforks at the Gate made for dramatic reading, it was not a Peru we’d ever seen, and still haven’t.

It was a peaceful first week. Ica is one of the driest places on earth so the sky was always blue, the air hot and dry. We took evening walks to the dunes even though exercise is not mentioned in the rules of allowed activities. Climbing to the top, music and voices drifted up from the oasis below but after the second day there was silence, all left no doubt under escort to seek repatriation. There was a roadblock at the entrance to Huacachina and the cops passed several times but didn’t bother us. We eventually cut out the late stroll, it was too hot, and resolved to get up early in the mornings instead.

On Sunday the managers were swapped out and that afternoon two people checked-in. Our private oasis of peace was shattered. The State of Emergency had been in effect for a week and nobody was supposed to have been travelling. After 8 days in quarantine we now had four new bodies in our midst. I could see how easy it would be to start getting suspicious of every new contact. But the new guests kept their distance and they hadn’t come far. They’d been in a hostel in town for a week when the owner decided to close and they were left with nowhere to go. Enrique is Spanish and his girlfriend is from Chile. They were allowed to check-in here only after proving they hadn’t been abroad recently. On the second front, we missed our old managers Deiby and Scarli. The new couple acted like they were here on holiday. Before the first day was out, they had a visitor, one who didn’t leave. She was an older woman and spent the night in their room, and the next, and the next…. On Friday morning three young guys showed-up, the music was switched-on and they began to unload groceries. We had no idea who they were. It was like walking into your home to find total strangers cooking in your kitchen and relaxing in your living room. After a while Enrique called the owners and that was the end of the party. And the mother’s visit, or whoever she was.

Tranquility was restored but beyond the walls stranded tourists were still trying to get home. The international airport in Lima was closed so all evacuation planes were flying in to the military airport. The end of the month came and went and domestic isolation was extended until April 12. People were still misbehaving and the numbers detained reached 36,000. Our curfew hours now began at 6 PM instead of 8 PM, with some particularly reckless regions reduced to 4 PM. On April 1 the Lima bullfighting ring was converted into a temporary shelter for the homeless and two days later new rules divided the week into male and female days. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays only men could go out while women had Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Sundays were off limits for everyone. Driving private vehicles was now forbidden and masks compulsory. They’re supposed to be given out for free but we don’t know where and every time we ask at the pharmacies, they don’t have any.

The driving ban doesn’t make sense from a health perspective. Instead of driving solo to the store, Fran now has to sit with a total stranger. Only one person per family is allowed out so he has taken over the shopping. (As cook, he claims he can make better decisions when faced with a depleted produce section.) That’s fine with me. Our manager calls the taxi and it’s always the same guy. We don’t think he’s a real taxi, he avoids the police-military checkpoints and parks on a side street where he waits for Fran to come lurching down, Quasimodo-style, lugging water bottles and pineapples. Each week there are more security guards, police and soldiers in the parking lot but they’re always a polite, even friendly presence. There have been a few other changes too: a security guard at the gate is now taking temperatures, the people in line have finally begun to distance out and there’s a separate exit. At the entrance to the store hands are sprayed with antiseptic but inside brought a sorry sight: a barricaded booze aisle. What a blow. How on earth will we get by without a little help from our friends?

Easter Sunday was our one month in Ica anniversary and everywhere was closing for the 4-day weekend. Fran rushed out on Wednesday for last minute supplies and bemoaned Men’s Day Out and their dreadful shopping habits of abandoning carts in the middle of aisles and dithering over what brand to buy (it was always going to be the wrong one so why waste time?) He said it was as bad as Thanksgiving morning at Ralphs (US grocery chain). Back at the fort I was starved for reports from the outside and pressed him for the tiniest details; Hail Pancho, what news from the front? Then, after all that, on Good Friday the government decided the men-women days weren’t working and further extended our isolation till April 26, the day our permits expire.

Not only am I locked down, I’m locked-in as well. I haven’t been outside the hotel since late March. We’d extended our walk in the direction of town but during the male-female weeks at least one of us was always illegal, and since we weren’t out for necessities, we were doubly violating the curfew. I decided we’d be pushing our luck if we continued so we retired inside. It’s no hardship. I can still see the sand dunes, at their most beautiful when the sun rises and sets, and from the second floor the view stretches towards the mountains. April brought a supermoon that blurred out all the stars and turned the garden to silver. Sitting beneath its white light, cocooned from a world falling apart, I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve this peace but thought it better not to ask.

Reading the State Department’s repatriation emails is interesting especially since they don’t apply to us. We are home. It’s wherever we’re parked and we’re already here. In the US, we were the ones who left, now we’re the ones who stayed behind. Though the borders were supposed to have closed on March 22, evacuation flights were still coming in from America and buses have passed close by picking up people in Nazca, Ica and Paracas. Some of the voices we heard drifting up from the Huacachina oasis were probably on board. For the long-term travelers like us, I didn’t quite understand this race to the hearth and mother’s arms, particularly if the hearth is hotter than the one you’ve just left. I can understand the initial urge to run for home but if you’re in a place that’s already begun to take safety measures, why rush back to a situation that’s still one of denial? The number of cases here is rising at a frightening rate, even with the lockdown, and in the early weeks of our confinement this rise brought with it the realization of what was ahead for our family and friends in the United States.

So for now, home is riding the shifting sands as best we can. We each have our own space and routine, sort of. Of the four guests it’s the men who go shopping and cook. Every 7 AM in what Fran calls Stone Breakers' Yard, I walk circles around Pferdi while he circumnavigates the pool. The Chile-Spain team wake later and exercise on their yoga mats. In the heat of the day Enrique sits on the canopied swing, smokes and calls Spain while Fran cooks beans, plays Gregorian chants and calls Ireland. The manager couples clean and call Venezuela. I’ve plenty to do, I just don’t always feel like doing it. There’s a terrible lack of motivation and Laziness is in a constant struggle with Guilt. The phone calls and texts take up more hours than I care to admit but maybe they are what love is in the time of Covid-19. It occurred to me that Fran and I are a lot more prepared for this situation than most. Life on the road is an isolating journey; always skimming the surface but rarely diving underneath. We drive all day and when we come to a new town there’s nobody waiting for us. Days, weeks go by without us speaking to anyone socially and when we do it’s usually something like “Oh! You have a hairdryer!” Restaurants provide fuel for the body but not for the soul and I can’t remember when we last had a night out or did anything truly silly. So….curfew? So what! We don’t need to learn how to be together 24/7, we’ve been practicing that for two years, seven months and eighteen days now. But that’s OK because we’re still truly, madly, deeply in love. I know that because we’ve never had to use Pferdi’s shovel as a domestic weapon. ‘Never even came close. (Fran says that’s only because I need to keep him alive as my driver.) So no, I don’t mind being locked down and no, I don’t miss a social life, but I do miss the road. It’s when they open the gates again that I’ll start to worry because I’m not sure there’s even a road out there anymore that’s waiting for us.

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