“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.”
Santiago Chile, was a hidden gem that I had only previously transited through. Now, I was able to spend some time exploring its hidden by-ways, cobbled streets and bustling, expansive boulevards. It was four days after our ship departed that the city fell into anarchy – riots, looting and burning, but we sailed forth nonetheless, leaving Chile’s turmoil and despair in our wake.
Lima and Peru were outstanding and worthy of their World Heritage listings. We stood in awe in front of ancient pyramids, then avoided hordes of monkeys throwing their sh*t at us in a primeval jungle. Just after we left, Peru closed its borders to everyone.
We visited the Hill Villages in Ecuador where the famous Panama hat is made after we were tested for the virus by the port officials as we got off the ship. They closed the port when we left.
We sailed on to Panama City. The first indication of the pandemic had appeared there the previous day and the government was looking at closing the city to foreigners – we snuck in by the skin of our teeth and had a terrific day visiting ‘Old Town’ and playing dominoes with Noriega’s personal chef. Panama was closed two days later.
Aruba was next – the German fun ship, ‘The Aida’, arrived ahead of us that morning. She threw off its passengers within hours – cruise cancelled, “Thank you for coming, now please make your own way home and, while you’re at it, please sign this Cruise Satisfaction form.”
Curacao was a welcome day of relaxing and drinking pina coladas in sun-dappled squares, admiring the colourful houses and expansive views. The virus broke out when we left – I don’t think it was us.
The US was always going to be touch and go. Someone in the White House was running around unable to make up his mind if the sky was falling; America was snivelling while the rest of the world was catching a cold. We managed to leave the port by sneaking out a side entrance, our mooring lines left dangling in the harbour and a wisp of smoke from our stack settling on an empty berth.
In and out as if in quiet absolution.
We fled quickly out to sea, our ship’s natural environment. The Captain slammed shut our shell doors and we were to remain isolated until Southampton, two weeks away. There was nothing around us but a carpet of blue sea, white caps and a pod of sunbathing orcas. How calmly they floated as we sailed past, oblivious to the carnage and fear just over the horizon.
On land, all hell had broken loose and each day you thought that it couldn’t get worse, it did. And there was nothing that we could do.
Cruise ships all around the world were being recalled to port. Some, not as lucky as us, were identified as having the virus onboard, terrifying the remaining passengers and sending ports into panic mode.
As planes cancelled, transit hubs shut, hotels closed and escape routes blocked, all we could do was sit and wait until we reached land.
New Zealand, family and home had never been so far away to me as it was in those last few weeks.
We could only continue as best we could. So we danced and partied and ate and socialised until we were virtually one of the last, fully operating cruise ships afloat. We were left alone, a beautiful Marie Celeste-like form, sailing on in a Marie Antoinette kind of state until we reached land and this, whatever you call it, our new reality.
The Queen Victoria has always been lucky for me. We finally reached dock and I was able to grab one of the few flights out of Heathrow and home.
This, too, will pass and I think we will all appreciate our little corner of the world just that much more. (ROSS THORBY)