My mental state ebbs and flows. Never before have I had the chance to run an experiment like this, to sit for weeks on end in the same place, largely determining what each second of my day looks like. These conditions can precipitate out the good and toxic elements that flavor each day. This is what it looks like.
The city is quite quiet. There are no cars, no people after 6pm. A voice speaking any language other than Spanish or a car that sounds abnormal bring me to the window to look out. I have seen five different species of bird in Lima that I did not know existed beforehand – I wake up each morning to their raucous calls and songs as if I am in the jungle. These emerald and cerulean birds were always here, they didn’t migrate with the virus, they were simply rendered mute by the urban machine. I live several blocks from the beach and my bedroom now sounds like I am on the beach each night; I can tell when a swell comes in from how loud the waves are as they tumble the rocks along the coast.
It has been impressive how quickly the measures that we are enduring have become reasonably normalized. The initial discomfort that resulted from the repressive confinement has faded and has been replaced by a mere ennui. There have now been multiple days in a row when I haven’t left my apartment and haven’t really felt much of an urge to do so. Every couple of days the government imposes even more draconian policies and each time it bothers me less. We are at the point where I can only legally go outside during two days this week – just for groceries and while wearing a mask. These are strange times though. Everyone wears masks. We all avoid one another in the street. No two people walk together. I see a video online of a body or person being removed from a building two blocks away from me on a stretcher enclosed in a clear plastic bubble.
Each morning I get up to meditate. I feel inordinately sensitive to everything that happens around me. I imagine that this is a direct result of the sensory deprivation that I am experiencing. I observe the doves that roost outside my window as they gather materials to build their nest. I watch the flies and bugs that live in my apartment with intense curiosity. I slowly approach them to avoid spooking them, bringing my eye close for a macroview. I have even caught myself speaking to them, in jest I tell myself, but maybe this is how insanity begins?
My mental state is directly correlated to how much I stare at the amidst whirling media vortex that gathers up – often without regard for the dubiousness of its origin – and spews forth medical reports without sufficient explanation, information about unproven cures, geopolitical propaganda related to the crisis, anecdotes from frontline workers, reports of shortages, recipes for quarantine comfort foods, reports of surpluses, reports of boredom, reports of exhaustion, reports of bodies in the street, fun craft projects, discussions of how to dress for online meetings, reports of stock markets surging, and reports of economies collapsing. Charlatans become scientists. New comedic geniuses arise. Politicians proclaim themselves doctors and epidemiologists. Those pandering false hope become heroes. Doomsayers become prophets.
I have started having frequent nightmares about the virus, earthquakes and the death of loved ones. I woke up screaming once this week. My quotidian existence though is relatively mundane. Weekends are a meaningless concept. I regularly lose track of what day of the week it is as it is irrelevant. I do little laundry as most of my days are spent in my underwear or my pajamas.
I met a girl – Olga – a few weeks before the quarantine started that was here in Lima for a work project for several months. We are very different people, but when the quarantine was imposed, we found ourselves trapped in our respective apartments alone. Her work promptly laid her off and she is working to find her way back to Santiago. We began visiting one another to have company, moving between one another’s apartments by taking specific routes on which we are less likely to encounter police with our addresses memorized and grocery shopping bags in hand. We now spend several days each week together cooking, reading, watching movies, drinking wine and helping each other to navigate these strange and difficult times. We have become close friends, forced together under the circumstances to openly share our lives with on another.
I watch other countries with horror as I sit feeling relatively safe in Peru due to the stringent measures that have been imposed. Ecuador serves as a reminder of what could happen here. I find myself thinking about exit strategies for Peru, about political/economic/medical measures to strike a manageable balance between cases, medical resources, and the need for a functional economy. I wonder about what travel will look like three months from now: without a vaccine how can global travel function?
These are strange times in good ways as well. Each evening I head up to the barren concrete roof that caps my building to watch the sunset. A few nights ago, there was a rare clear sky above Lima. Olga and I finished a bottle of wine as we looked up at the stars and fantasized about what we will do and where we will travel when this is all over. We talk about how good we truly have it in this very moment, that it is all just a matter of perspective.