It was a little bit like war, those last days in Lima: long periods of boredom interrupted by short bursts of terror. Terror is an exaggeration but there was definitely an underlying angst, and long periods of uncertainty. While we knew we would get out of the country sometime, it was looking like it could take longer than we thought. So very little was within our control; everything seemed determined by the decisions of the Peruvian and other governments. The weather didn’t help either. Lima’s winter is grey and brown and the overcast sky smothered any glimmers of a sunrise or sunset. Some evenings while Fran cooked, I admit I turned on an extra gas burner just to thaw the hands, and let my red wine know it wasn’t a chilled white on a summer’s evening.
By early August the hospitals were overwhelmed and the states and provinces in extended quarantine now numbered fifteen. We were going backwards. Some referred to it as the second wave but in truth we never got out of the first. In Lima there were people still out and about, shopping and walking their dogs, but less than when we arrived three weeks ago, and the restaurants and shops on our street were still shut. The government reintroduced the Sunday 24-hour quarantine for the entire country and those caught outside risked arrest and heavy fines. It was a good thing we left Ica when we did because travelling between provinces now required an affidavit and negative Covid-19 test.
We’d picked an apartment within walking distance of the ocean but had been staying inside in our own self-imposed lockdown. I spent a good portion of my time standing at the window of our upstairs living-room watching the world go by. Life in this little corner of Miraflores was the picture of normality with its joggers, food delivery boys and toddlers in pink masks grasping their mothers’ hands as they waddled across the intersection. But with over half of the country’s active Covid-19 cases in Lima, we were afraid, at minimum, of getting a temperature, or even some minor illness, and being turned-away for our flight. The encounters with the shippers, craters and truck drivers during our first few days had made us nervous and as time went by we weren’t inclined to add any new acquaintances to the mix. With the news of Pferdi’s departure we exhaled a sigh so grateful it could have propelled him well onto the high seas had he been under sail. With only ourselves to think of, we’d just begun the countdown to our flight date in earnest when the Callao military base closed its airport to Lima’s repatriation flights. Rumour had it the National Institute of Civil Defense made this announcement quite out of the blue and now the government was scrambling to negotiate the use of the Jorge Chavez airport instead, which was still closed for international commercial flights. It didn’t help that the President had recently fired all of his ministers except one, and his choice for a new Prime Minister was delayed. All humanitarian flights scheduled for the first two weeks of August were temporarily suspended.
It was a blow. If there’s no airport, then there’s no planes. We were scheduled for August 24 and hadn’t received any notices so tried to remain optimistic. So much for that, checking online, instead of our booking, I found a pink box saying the flight had been cancelled. Calling customer service, it transpired the flight we’d been sold was not a repatriation flight at all, but a regular commercial one. The only snag was the borders were still closed and international flights would not be permitted into Peru until year-end or early 2021. After being offered another flight that wasn’t guaranteed, the sorry story unfolded. With no sign of international travel resuming in Peru, KLM had continued to sell unauthorized, commercial flights, and as the departure dates got closer, they simply cancelled them, leaving people like us stranded with over $3,500 in unused, un-refundable tickets. Worse, we’d lost over three weeks in the race for repatriation seats. I always thought the Dutch airline a reputable one but now I distinctly detected something rotten in the state of Holland.
When we’d contacted the Irish embassy for assistance with returning to Europe, they directed us to KLM. They did not mention Air France or the other airlines that were also flying, and they definitely did not warn against fictitious commercial flights. Finding ourselves suddenly with no reservation we felt very alone. It wasn’t like normal times when you could just go book yourself another and hang the cost. The few other people we knew in the same situation were all getting regular emails from their embassies with details on upcoming flights. We were beginning to wish we’d climbed into the crate with Pferdi with a thermos of tea and some sandwiches. I’d no idea what to do so I stomped my way up the food chain until I got a direct contact at the embassy in Chile (Lima only has a consulate). She was very kind but unfortunately there were not enough of us left in Peru to warrant a special assignment of seats, not even enough to justify setting-up an email list. However, she promised to keep us informed of the new departure dates once the humanitarian flights resumed, which they did on August 18. Each one had to get advance government approval and there were three flights that first week with most of the seats going to those who got cancelled in early August.
By this time we were well and truly fed-up spending every day on the phone to KLM. We’d hold for 45 minutes then get cut-off, other times they were too busy and hung-up right away or we’d press 2 for English but get Spanish or French. One day the system simply crashed and on two out of every three calls Skype claimed the number was invalid. So it was all fun and games, only without the Pisco Sours. We were waiting for Monday the 17th when leftover seats for the August 22nd flight would be released but taking advantage of the quieter traffic outside, I dialed KLM/Air France on Sunday morning. I almost fell off my chair when the agent offered us seats on a flight on the 21st. Twenty minutes later we were booked to Paris, Amsterdam and Dublin and in a daze I hung-up. We still hadn’t had breakfast but in that moment I wanted something very strong to drink. The relief was huge, even more so the next morning when the Ministry of Transport announced that Peru’s land and air borders would remain closed until mid-2021.
Almost 5 weeks after we arrived in Lima, we left. Packing was easier now that all the big stuff like camping gear and tools had gone with the bike. Knowing we’d have limited internet in quarantine, we spent the last day downloading maps of Germany, Austria and Italy and deleting Peru and Chile. I think that’s when it really hit home we were leaving this continent unfinished. We were told to arrive at the airport 4 hours in advance, got there even earlier and had to wait outside for the doors to open. Only ticketed passengers were allowed into the terminal and everyone had to wear a mask and plastic face shield. There were white jump-suited personnel on entry taking temperatures and we answered health-related questions at check-in. Passing through immigration, we got stamped out of Peru four months after our visa expiration date. Everyone social distanced when in line and seats in the waiting area were cordoned off. No shops or restaurants were open and only two flights showed on the monitors: ours and a later one to Santiago, Chile. We had our temperature taken again before boarding and even though the plane appeared full, it seemed that the only people sitting side-by-side were couples or families. Everyone else within my view had an empty seat beside them. As the wheels lifted off the ground, poor Lima fell away in a brown haze. I leaned back in my seat and felt my body go limp. We’d made it. After one last glimpse of the Andes, we were gone.
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Twelve and a half hours later we in landed in Paris and everyone exited the plane as instructed; one row at a time. Following the signs for Transit Passengers our way was blocked by a young airport employee who wouldn’t let anyone through without checking their papers. We found ourselves in a small, close crowd of people and when we got up to the barrier she told us to go downstairs and get a Covid-19 test. We explained we were transiting but she was adamant. Eventually finding someone to ask, we were sent back up to where we’d started. The crowd was still around our ill-informed agent, shoulder to shoulder. It was a total mess and achieved nothing but the very situation everyone was trying to avoid. There were no social distancing markings in the lines to immigration or security and in the busy terminal we had to move seats twice because people behind us had removed their masks to carry out loud conversations. The flight to Amsterdam had plenty of unoccupied space but in spite of two empty seats opposite we had a man sitting beside us the entire journey. On landing, the crew repeated the request to stay seated until the row in front exited but this time everyone jumped-up and crowded the aisles. There were no floor markings inside this terminal either and people, distracted by their phones, forgot to distance. It was a relief when after passing through immigration we found ourselves totally alone in a long, silent concourse. Schiphol had entered the Twilight Zone.
The Dublin flight was half empty with everyone jammed into the back half of the plane. There were two lone figures up front. I moved there as soon as we were airborne because once again we were seated next to a third person, one who texted and sent photos all during take-off. Twice during the flight someone in the back had to be told to put his mask on properly. We were getting close to the end of the journey and heading towards Dublin at 10 PM the sky was still light with the horizon a fiery orange and black line. I knew once we crossed it our old life would be over and wanted to delay that moment as long as possible. Back in my seat on landing, it was the same chaos as before only worse. The disobedient passenger was now standing at our row, mask once again around his weak chin, claiming in a thick slurred voice that he’d so much booze in him sure the virus didn’t stand a chance. A 20-something female pushed herself into the already crowded aisle while the family of five in front couldn’t decide if they were staying or going. Welcome to Ireland.
And so, thirty hours, four airports and three flights later, it seemed we survived the journey but only time would tell for certain. I did find that my faith in airport operators, airlines and passengers to do the right thing to make travel safe was at best naïve. Catching a plane seems the most natural thing in the world and it’s almost impossible not to act as we used to always do when walking through an airport or boarding a plane. But it’s not business as usual and trying to remember what not to do is often the furthest thing from your mind. It was far too easy to find yourself in a situation that had you kicking yourself afterward. Walking towards Dublin immigration, we descended the same narrow steps that haven’t changed in the three decades I’ve been coming home. Arriving when there’s no one to meet you is always an anti-climax and we’d still two weeks of isolation ahead of us. Thinking back on the journey, I thought if we’d had a choice, we wouldn’t have flown. I don’t care what anyone says, nobody’s really ready for air travel yet, not even the so-called experts.