It's 5.45m on Sunday 29th March. I've been waiting on the road in front of the spectacular tree in Yucay's Plaza Mayor for 45 minutes. Only the thought of having to bang on the newly padlocked gate of the guest house, my prison for 3 weeks, stops me slinking back to bed. Papa Inti is well up into the sky when, finally, a bus bearing a Union Jack appears.
It turns out there has been a kerfuffle at the first stop in Urubamba because some Brits on the list didn’t show and others not on the list were desperate for a ride. The driver was adamant “Not on list, not go”. People were left behind. At my stop, same thing; the driver has two people on his list but I’m alone. Never mind. On to the next village, Huayabamba. Two young girls are on the side of the road. Although I have only spoken to her on the phone I assume this is Pablo’s daughter Valentina, and her friend. I am looking forward to meeting her, but wait… she isn’t on the list either. This is getting farcical. Pablo launched the petition to bring us home, we can’t leave his teenage daughter stranded. She has a seat on the plane and there is clearly an unclaimed bus seat. Another half hour of heated debate follows; it's a stressful and thankless task for the driver. Luckily, reason prevails and the list is jettisoned. Nonetheless, this scene is repeated all up the Sacred Valley, we even turn round a few times to look for people. Finally at our last stop Pisaq, a full complement, listed or not (including a baby with mega baby paraphernalia), sets off for Cusco, where we arrive three hours late.
Being late isn’t a problem as such, the planes (yes, we have two) aren’t scheduled to take off before 10.30. But it means we're right at the back of the queue. And not just a small queue of Brits, there’s an Argentine plane headed for Buenos Aires, a Canadian one for Montreal, a Japanese one, and various others. And since we are being policed into proper social distancing, it means the queue winds all around the perimeter of Cusco’s tiny airport. And everyone (absolutely everyone) is also policed into wearing face masks. If you don’t have one you must improvise so there are some weird bandana things, or strips of sheet. I don’t know if they're any use but they do concentrate the mind that, in Peru, Corona is a very serious matter. Every official is in masks and gloves.
As I stand there, shuffling slowly towards the terminal, I have plenty of time to reflect that “I haven’t even seen historic Cusco, a Spanish colonial city built on the capital of the Inca Empire.” “I haven’t seen the Plaza de Armas with its arcades and Inca wall ruins, I haven’t seen the convent of Santo Domingo built over the Inca Temple of the Sun, I haven’t seen the narrow streets and markets of San Blas, I haven’t seen the nearby Inca citadel of Saqsaywaman with its vast stones perfectly chiselled to fit without mortar, I haven’t seen… “
My thoughts are interrupted by a Peruvian official needing to check my passport with his list. After ninety minutes the back of the queue has advanced nearly to the Airport gates. He looks and looks at the list, hands it to a female colleague, but no… OMG it’s me who’s not on the list! She gestures me to the side to wait with some downcast-looking youngsters. This can’t be happening. In the back of my mind, I suspect I was never meant to be on this plane. Finally a bloke from the Embassy turns up. He confirms the others don’t have a seat on the plane. Not to worry there may be another, he says. Then it’s my turn. After what seems an age he finds my name. I had kept telling the Peruvian officials that Wright begins with W not an R but, blow me, there I am on the list under R.
This has taken so long that now I’m playing catch up. All the people on my bus have disappeared. I rush through the medical check. They’re taking temperatures with a plastic gun to the forehead. I’m OK. My thoughts turn to the people who tested positive for Corona in a Cusco backpackers hostel. They face months of quarantine together with other inmates unlucky enough to be staying there, ten Brits among them. To add insult to injury, I’d heard they’re getting a touch of the ‘Cocolitzli blame treatment’ I mentioned in my first blog. Inside the terminal, another checklist; infiltrators are still being weeded out. The two planes are taking off half an hour apart, both are now running two hours late. I’m on the first one which is already boarding, so need to get my skates on. On board I’m dismayed to discover there is no food or water, nonetheless I sink gratefully into my seat knowing there will be no list to face until Lima. I fall asleep immediately and wake two hours later at a Peruvian military base. Next to us on the tarmac is a huge British Airways plane.
Changing planes goes smoothly, the ground operation is directed by the previously elusive HM Ambassador herself. The list routine is painless. We identify our luggage and board. The plane is divided into classes like a normal commercial airline. The First Class is already spoken for; it looks like a hospital. The patients are mostly Wrinklies, some with wheelchairs, others on crutches, but there also younger people with legs/arms/heads in plaster. Victims of Andean climbing accidents perhaps?
The next compartment is Business but when we try to sit down we’re shepherded to the back, into Economy which is full to bursting. My heart sinks, tt’s a 13-hour flight. Inspired by the walking wounded in First Class, I turn to the steward: “Terribly sorry, officer. I’m 77, with two dodgy arthritic knees”. “Come this way, Madame” he replies, and leads me to the front row of Business with all that marvellous leg room. How shameless! To my right, a bloke is already seated by the window. I ask him how he got his seat. He says he has a fear of flying and goes ape without a window seat and plenty of space. I must remember that one for next time, not as demeaning as playing the wrinkly card. Then the nice couple with the baby who were on my bus are ushered into the seats next to me. Aha, is this my come-uppance? The baby had cried all the way down the Valley.
Soon it becomes clear why Business was empty. The steward announces we are waiting for sixty passengers driving over the mountains from Arequipa, a 24-hour bus ride. They should be arriving any minute. Over an hour later, a group of exhausted, dishevelled, travellers stagger onto the plane and flop into their seats behind us. The smell emanating from them en masse is hard to describe. It fills he cabin.
Never mind, at least we can take off. It’s nearly 6 o’clock. Thirteen hours since I left Yucay, with nothing to eat. A rumour has gone round that we're only getting a bag of crisps for dinner. Thank God, it's not true. In fact, we get a whole goody bag with chocolate, shortbread, cake, juice and a delicious chicken tikka wrap. Heaven! The whole trip is heaven. The in-flight entertainment doesn’t work but I have a comfy seat that tips right back and a foot rest, a warm blanket and a soft pillow. A glass of wine would be good… but notwithstanding I have the most brilliant sleep I’ve ever had on a plane. Eight hours later, I turn to the baby’s mum, “Wow, that was great, Olivia must have slept like a log.” “No”, she says, “she cried all night, you slept like a log”. Bit of luck, or what?What more is there to say? That huge operation went according to plan, although not at all to schedule.
One odd thing did happen. As soon as we got on the BA plane, almost everybody took off the face masks they’d been policed into wearing in Peru. As if, oh it’s alright now, we’re in the UK. And hardly anyone put them on at Heathrow either when in fact we’d flown into the eye of the storm. There was barely a soul at Terminal Five except to check passports. No one to give information about how to behave in the UK with respect to Coronavirus. We all just mingled, milled about, then drifted off into buses and cars as if Coronavirus didn’t exists.
Valentina, Esme and me
POST POSTSCRIPT
In Peru, the lock-in has been extended to 26 April. The government has used non-compliance as a reason to tighten up restrictions. 60,000 people have been arrested and charged with Public Health Offences which bring with them a criminal record. Curiously the sexes have been separated so that only men can go out Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, women on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and nobody at all on Sundays. The measures seem to be working as there are still less than 3,000 confirmed cases and 107 deaths. But people worry that the President, who has not been elected, will take advantage of the situation to extend his powers to be able to rule by decree for a considerable time.
And that’s not only a worry for Peruvians. Naomi Klein has described how the predatory wealthy and large corporations exploit major social, economic or environmental crises to extend their dominance. More mega-mining, more oil and gas exploration (with climate change concerns conveniently eclipsed), more privatized utilities, more corporate capture of public services. Conversely, though, such disasters can spur an upturn of social solidarity and human compassion. The question for us all is how to grasp and nurture this moment of courage and creativity, as new forms of human organization emerge to make the world a better place. It's up to us to fight hard for the latter scenario.
And Yucay? The name means "Place that casts a spell on you". I certainly did that to me. I can't wait to get back and spend time there and make real the places on Betty's virtual tour.
