Thoughts on Traveling, the Coronavirus and Uncertainty

Four days ago, Charlie and I woke up in the Amazon jungle and listened for the sound of rain falling on our thatch roof hut. Rain meant we could go back to sleep instead of dragging ourselves out from under our mosquito net to meet Martín, our jungle guide, for a sunrise boat ride on the river. I was hoping for the heavy thud of raindrops outside, while scolding myself for not being more motivated to maximize our short time in the Amazon. We’d been looking forward to this tour for months – but after two flights immediately followed by a two hour car ride, a two hour boat ride to the lodge, and several more hours of wildlife watching and river exploring in a rickety old canoe – we were toast. We’d also gone on a nighttime jungle hike that was every bit as terrifying as it sounds. That morning however, there was no rain, so we coated ourselves in bug spray and headed down to the dock.

We motored out to a spot in the middle of the river which looked more like a giant glassy lake reflecting soft, pastel clouds above. We sat floating there for a long while, watching gentle ripples form as pink dolphins glided along the silky surface. I felt stunned by the stillness around me – such a contrast to the previous day’s chaos. Just hours before, the jungle had been bursting with life – full of manic monkeys and clapping thunderstorms – but in that moment, all was quiet. As our wooden boat creaked and rocked in the calm water, my tired mind grew impatient and I longed to go back to bed. Had I known that later that day, I’d be reentering a world full of confusion and mayhem, I might have tried harder to quiet my thoughts – to savor that moment of perfect peace before I knew – before my heart filled with concern and sank with uncertainty.

Hours later, after fishing for piranhas and wading through knee-deep jungle water looking for snakes, we headed two hours by boat to the closest village, then road tripped back to the town of Iquitos and caught a flight to Lima. Once there, we found a cozy spot to settle in for our six hour layover before our flight to Tumbes in northern Peru. From Tumbes we’d take a taxi two hours to the surf town of Máncora, and there we would finally rest, eat fresh ceviche and chill. My focus all morning had been on making it to Máncora, our respite, but that was all about to change.

Once back on wifi, the first text I received was from Phil. It said, “Ashley, you asked your coronavirus question a few days too early.” I traced my brain back to our text conversation the night before we left Medellín – the last time we had wifi contact. Up until that point, news of the virus had seemed concerning, but distant. Reports of the toilet paper craze were shocking, but mostly amusing. My impression from afar – from a country with no reported cases – was mixed with suspicion. Is the media hyping it up, like so many people say? Is there a real threat, or are people over-reacting? That’s what I had asked Phil. He wasn’t sure either. I left for the jungle with unanswered questions, but in no way was I questioning our ability to get home, or whether we should even go home at all. I wasn’t anticipating a dramatic shift in the vibe of our adventure, or for quarantines and government restrictions to dominate the rest of our experience. None of those thoughts had entered my mind until we sat with our laptops in an airport cafe reading news reports of border closures and world-wide shut-downs. Until that point, we’d considered it safer to be in Peru or Colombia until things died down in the rest of the world. But the more I read, the more it hit me that the real threat for us wasn’t catching the virus, it was getting stuck indefinitely in Peru as case numbers spread like wildfire through over-crowded cities with limited resources and healthcare.

In our two allotted hours of free airport wifi, we had a lot to comprehend and serious decisions to make. On the flight earlier that morning, Charlie had mentioned the idea of ending our trip early if we needed to, and it had felt like a smack in the face. I wasn’t ready to think or talk about it. But it was time to face reality, and fast. Things we knew: Our bags were already en route to Máncora. Peru’s borders were closed to European countries but not the US. We had over a month left of our trip – maybe things would settle down by then anyway. Getting stuck in Peru on a beautiful beach didn’t seem that bad. And flying back to the US that day or the next was a guaranteed nightmare, if even possible. What we didn’t know was if or when Peru would suspend travel with the US and for how long. In the end, we decided to take our chances, head to Máncora and work on getting flights home from there.

The next morning, Peru closed all international and domestic travel. If we had booked a flight out of Lima, it would have been cancelled, and we would have been stuck in a city of ten million people. Instead, we are safe and sound in a secluded beach bungalow feeling an ocean breeze and listening to waves crash on the shore. We are lucky to be in such peaceful surroundings, though I still feel a weight on my chest. Our option to leave at will has been taken away, and though the borders are only closed for 15 days, there’s no way to know if the closure will be extended. All businesses are closed and every day new restrictions are imposed. The main street is guarded by military police with guns to ensure people are only going straight to buy food and then home. Wearing a mask is mandatory, and the food market hours get shorter each day. Police trucks drive up and down the beach and twice now, I’ve been politely told to go back inside. The vibe is calm, but serious. Peru has taken swift and thorough action to try and prevent what could be a nation-wide disaster, and I have complete respect for how it’s being handled.

The weight I feel is from something else, something deeper. People all over the world are experiencing something profound and all at the same time. My 90 year old grandfather is lonely in his room at the retirement home and not allowed visitors. My best friend is more anxious over the fast-approaching birth of her first baby. My patients at dialysis have compromised immune systems but still must venture out three days a week for treatment, and many healthcare workers are quarantined from their own families. I feel the heaviness of these things and know that billions of other people are feeling them too. I feel isolated out here on this little stretch of beach, but so deeply connected at the same time. We are all living with uncertainty which is never easy, but no one is alone in how they feel.

In my life, uncertainty has been a powerful teacher. It’s taught me to let go of my own ideas of how things should be and trust that a loving force is directing my life. It’s taught me to follow my intuition and look inward for answers rather than search for them outside. It’s helped me fully appreciate the present moment, which is all I really have. And most importantly, it’s helped me make peace with not knowing. Giving up the need to know will always restore balance and clarity, no matter how painful or scary it feels at first. As I sit here with uncertainty, I know that I am safe, guided and loved. And Max, the one year old slobbering goober who is keeping me company, wants you to know that you are too.