Travelling through the eye of the storm: A masked escape from Cairo to Canada in times of Corona

I left Cairo on a smoggy day when dust settled on the city like a light snow. The spring heat had been mounting over the week and it must have been near 30 degrees. Traffic hummed at about half volume, and the streets were emptier than they ever were at 11am on a weekday. If the quiet weren’t due to the infamous coronavirus threatening the populace, you’d wish Cairo were always this way.

I’d donned a mask, coated my nostrils in iodine (so my mother couldn’t hold anything over me if worst came to worst), rolled down the windows of the Uber, resisted telling the driver to shut off the AC, and didn’t open my mouth for the duration of the record-short drive to the airport.

My route home to Cowichan Bay on Vancouver Island would not have been a piece of cake even in the best of times. I’d be flying to Paris, overnighting in the airport, then onwards via Amsterdam and Calgary to Vancouver from where I’d make my way by boat to the island only to hole myself up in my mom’s basement for two to three weeks.

The Cairo airport had been closed to international traffic over two weeks ago so the only passengers in the terminal were those on our flight. Canadians had been alerted by the embassy that there might be a few seats left on a flight to Paris, scheduled to carry the last French and European stragglers out of the country and bring stranded Egyptians home on the return. I overheard it was the small Egyptian airline’s first time flying to Paris (luckily, I found this out AFTER the flight).

Cairo airport, let the journey begin

Social distancing was forgotten (not by all!) in the scramble to get on the plane. “Carry on” bags bulged, and one man said loudly “that needs to be checked!” as a girl heaved her bulbous suitcase over her head and tried (unsuccessfully) to smoosh it into a gap in the overhead compartment. The man who commented was Canadian and was looking forward to a claret after Egypt’s scant selection of bad wines, I later overheard without difficulty.

People were boarding willy-nilly through the front and rear doors regardless of row number and the result was a level of chaotic squeezing back and forth down the aisle that was far from corona ideal. I spoke to no one, wiped down my arm rests with Dettol wipes and gaped in disgust behind my mask at a man two rows up who was picking his nose vigorously and wiping it on his scarf. Note to self: avoid that man like the plague (almost literally). Children chewed on oversized masks donned by well-intentioned parents. It was a five-hour flight of shallow breathing for me.

During the trip, people’s stoic anti-social responsibilities soon lapsed into capricious bonding over shared hardship and novelty, as if some trickle of collective “ah, fuck it” sentiment had permeated the cabin. Little groups of strangers chatted across the aisle and laughed with their neighbours, against all logic REMOVING their masks when talking and putting them on again when conversation died down and they resumed calm nose breathing.

There was a little kerfuffle when the crew took a film of all of us for their promotional use. “The airline that cares about humans” they said, in a moving speech that neglected to mention we had all paid good dollar for this trip. One lady was NOT ok with the videoing and stomped up to have a lengthy negotiation in the mini front kitchen as the rest of us craned our necks into the aisle for a view. “She’s flippin’ out!”  the wife of the Canadian man who was looking forward to claret commented loudly like a sports caster relaying the state of play. Her friend joined in from a few rows back “I’m going to make my own film thanking Air Cairo!” she said. She then proceeded to loudly record on her camera, gushing out her gratefulness and enlisting other passengers to do the same. I declined to participate when she came my way.

We arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport to find it at a standstill. From here on out the trip to Canada was like breezing through the eye of a storm. Calm, closed down, the eerie silence after the hurricane of travelers rushing to get home in the weeks gone by. We were the last few, slipping through the slim lines of air traffic that remained open. Perhaps soon even these would be shut.

It was a funny feeling passing through empty airports, these monuments to human connectivity. Lights blazing for no one, AC ramped too high for the scattered few who took to the benches and floors to sleep, or fiddle on phones. All of us travelers mutely passing each other at least 2 meters apart, faces covered, and yet somehow a little community.

Charles de Gaulle, Terminal 2E where I became well acquainted with the floor to the left.

As I trundled in the near empty shuttle to terminal 2E, planes the size of elongated cruise ships stood row on row like beached whales. The sheer power of the pandemic struck me more viscerally than ever, the speed and completeness with which it had ground to a halt the massive machine of world transport.

Amsterdam airport was equally shut down. The place felt like a school during the summer holidays. Construction workers drilled away with abandon and workmen ambled about, finally given space to do their job. Staff meandered empty hallways and flight crews bounced past, smiling and laughing, hopefully enjoying some low-key days after what must have been a hellish few weeks as passengers surged through a convulsing maze of border restrictions.

I noted different virus protection trends by continent/region.

In Egypt it was gloves. Great, cool, but then they’d rub their nose, use their phones, touch your boarding pass etc. etc. i.e. the same as you’d use an ungloved hand on a not particularly hygienic day. In Amsterdam there were wandering posses of Asians decked out in full-on head-to-toe jump suits, with goggles and masks to complete the look. Later I saw them boarding a flight to Xiamen, China stepping up one by one like sacrificial lambs for a man – even more impressively covered – to take their temperature and shout something in Chinese which must have meant “Good, go ahead” but sounded awfully scary.

For Europeans, and Canadians I’d soon learn, it was all about social distancing and no to anything else. Signs peppered the walls of Schiphol Airport and seats were cordoned off with packing tape to force people to move apart. Lines were strictly spaced, and an announcement aired every ten minutes reminding everyone to keep their distance. Almost none of the airport staff wore masks.

Passengers board a flight to Xiamen, China

Perhaps the most shocking experience of traveling through the hollowed shell of the transport industry was the flight from Amsterdam to Calgary.

On the shiny Boeing 787-9 that seats 290 passengers, there were 16 of us. Yes, one. six. The flight attendant told me it was the smallest plane they had that could make the 9-hour trip. So, we trundled over the Atlantic like kids on an empty bus, some insanely OTT deluxe and extraordinarily cost ineffective excursion.

KLM has an excellent movie selection

There was a light snow covering Calgary when we finally arrived. It was a strange feeling coming back to Canada and especially at a time like this. I haven’t lived in the country consistently for many years and in a lot of senses I feel like a foreigner whenever I come “home”. How lucky to come from the land of JT who stands sane and approachable among a sea of dictators and clowns in his (as noted by my actually foreign friends) attractive WFH beard.

I finally made it to Vancouver and then to the Island, through a cleared-out city (minus the snaking line in the Costco parking lot), ferries and roads. Now I’m holed up in my mom’s basement suite. We meet once a day for coffee in the backyard seated 5 meters apart.

Somewhere over the Rocky Mountains