The pandemic abroad: When the airport closes before you can catch a flight home

We are in a new era of split-second decisions, and when El Salvador President Nayib Bukele abruptly moved to shut down the country's only international airport last week, I knew I hadn't made mine fast enough.

Already, El Salvador had closed its borders to incomers — a rare example of a country without any yet-confirmed cases of the coronavirus taking such measures to stop the spread. Then came restaurants and bars, call centers and malls, as the Central American nation's first positive tests became known. It was clear Bukele realized that El Salvador's fragile health care system would be unable to sustain even a moderate outbreak comparatively to Europe, China and the U.S., and was acting accordingly.

I spoke with other friends abroad as they scrambled to get home, taking long, roundabout routes as new travel bans and border closings were announced. Personally, I was dealing with a canceled trip to Panama — a visa run ahead of my documents' expirations.

Still, it was hard to react to the dramatically escalating circumstances with the wizened hindsight we now have.

I've been in El Salvador for eight months working on a docuseries project, and in many ways, it has become home. At the time, it was unclear how intense the fallout would be in the U.S. and if it even made sense to venture north, especially without a permanent residence to return to.

But as reports of the pandemic's advance grew more dim, I began considering three factors in between bouts of shock and depression. The potential for chaos here if El Salvador's infected community indeed grows, the inability to leave this country for many months (my planned exit was May) and, most important, my lack of access to family and friends were the worst-case scenarios to play out.

On Tuesday, after talking with close friends back home, I decided it would be best to return. Besides wanting to be near my community, I worried about being another stressor on a local system that already suffers from severe water shortages and has a fifth of the medical capacity of developed countries, as demonstrated by El Salvador's president in graphs during a recent address.

But as I was making arrangements that day, Bukele announced the latest action: He was closing the airport, effective that evening. Finally moving in real time, I searched flights for that afternoon — the only option was $1,400; a 22-hour, one-way junket, by way of Costa Rica, which was reeling from its own burgeoning crisis.

Calls to the U.S. embassy in the days since have ended the same way: talk of a potential charter but no promises, no timeline, and no steps to be made.

Meanwhile, El Salvador announced a 30-day mandatory in-home quarantine, during which I'm not even allowed to photograph outside except with media credentials. The news shows a heavy military presence on the streets, complete with tanks and armed guards, and the president has promised that anyone not abiding with the quarantine will be sent to a 30-day containment center and afterward criminally tried, facing jail time.

I'm one of the fortunate U.S. citizens among those attempting to trek home. Stationed here for as long as I have been, I am situated in a comfortable apartment with a balcony to which I can retreat and attempt conversations with the birds. I'm paying only one rent; I know the lay of the land. I've loaded up on rice and beans, and certainly beer. Others I've spoken with are not quite so lucky — Salvadoran American families who came to visit relatives for days and, suddenly unable to return, are now attempting to work remotely without access to computers, steady Wi-Fi or their usual medications, while other family members, including young children, anticipate their homecoming. Some are frantically beginning to search for short-term apartments even as their finances dry up.

For the moment, we are waiting — for a possible charter flight or U.S. military help (as members of the U.S. women's football team were escorted by the Air Force last week), sheltering in place, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.

Amelia Rayno is a former Star Tribune journalist living and working in El Salvador while filming a docuseries project exploring food, culture and U.S. imperialism. (Web: ameliarayno.com. Instagram: @ameliarayno.)