Diary of a Quarantine Prisoner

August 2021

*DISCLAIMER*

This diary was written purely as a way to take my mind off being in quarantine and to make myself laugh. I am exceptionally grateful that I was able to travel this summer and that I am even able to pay for my quarantine hotel. Sending hope and love to all of those attempting to flee terrible conditions who would do anything to be safe in a hotel room such as the one I am in. Please consider donating to https://www.afghanaid.org.uk/ if you are able to.

Before

My elation following a life changing summer in Zimbabwe came to an abrupt end and was quickly replaced with 48 hours of feeling like a nervous wreck as I navigated airports after being rerouted at the last minute away from my planned destination of Spain, to spend time with my family (and subsequently avoid hotel quarantine), back to the UK and into a high security hotel for 10 days.

After my meticulous planning of routes and dates, the rules for entry to Malaga airport for non residents travelling through South Africa were changed whilst I was mid air from Harare to Johannesburg meaning that when I went to board my second flight, smug at the 10 days of sun and sangria that awaited me, I was refused on to the plane. Fantastic news to a lone female traveller at 9pm, in a rapidly emptying airport in a city where I knew no one. The airline staff were of little help as they bundled me into a corner while I waited for someone to find my suitcase, assuring me I could book a new flight in the morning. It was pretty obvious that they were desperate to rid themselves of me as the duty manager repeatedly told me to “calm myself” when I suggested that it was a pretty dire situation to find myself in — they were clearly reluctant to engage with this inconvenience so close to home time. The experience was made worse still by the presence of a very angry Italian dressed in khakis who I can only assume was a trophy hunter, kicking off about the fact that his rifles had been seized by the airport police meaning that he too, couldn’t fly (there’s not much other reason I can think of for a European to be carrying a collection of rifles to SA other than hunting). It was pretty much the only time in the past two months where I haven’t had khaki fever at the sight of a man in the prescribed African uniform.

Thirty minutes later, my flight was on the way to Doha and I was still waiting at the gate, with no luggage, no plan and becoming more anxious by the minute. Two less than enthusiastic airline assistants trailed me down to the airport concourse to look for my bag which they were confident was not on the way to Malaga — I wasn’t convinced. They had a mild moment of panic as their passes failed and we got stuck in between two security gates but fortunately after fifteen minutes, just as I began to picture the three of us spending the night hostages in a tunnel, they managed to get us out. A further ten minutes of traipsing through the airport and my bag was still nowhere to be seen. They unenthusiastically pointed me in the direction of the airport hotels, making no secret of the fact that they had no idea if there was even availability. Brilliant. I immediately pictured a night spent asleep on the cold metal airport chairs alongside the backpackers but after having a firm word with myself, I braved the outside and found my way to the Intercontinental where the receptionist was so kind and helpful he nearly made me cry. They had a room available but for an eye watering £250, so I took a deep breath and passed over my credit card, ready to hit the mini bar and make a plan. Thankfully the room was delicious with a huge bath, fluffy white robe and super king bed so I treated myself to some overpriced Pringles and a much needed gin and tonic. Sex and the City 2 had just started on the wide screen and suddenly I felt calmer. I phoned my mum, my eternal sounding board and decided to raise hell at the Qatar desk the next morning for being so unhelpful, making no effort to look for my bag properly or advise me on my options and not offer to pay for my hotel (I should mention that the trophy hunter got his hotel paid for — classic). Then I would reroute my booking to Madrid and hop on a train from there to my family in Malaga — sorted. A further silver lining was that the hotel restaurant had a vegan breakfast on the menu — things were looking up. I went to sleep feeling better.

The next morning I made my way to the Qatar desk with my script carefully prepared but was immediately put in my place by the airport staff who told me in no uncertain terms that as the rerouting was nothing to do with the airline I would have to pay a penalty for changing my destination. Just the news I wanted to hear. I tried to book a flight to Madrid but was advised that now the whole of Spain required 10 days’ quarantine in a hotel for any travellers coming through South Africa so unless I planned on booking that then they wouldn’t be able to let me on a plane. At this point I could start to feel panic setting in again but I enquired about flights to London nonetheless and was informed that I could leave in 3 hours with minimal transfer time for a £350 fee or leave in 12 hours with a 7 hour stopover for a £20 fee. For someone who hasn’t had a job for 12 months you would think that this would have been a simple choice but I couldn’t bear to spend a second longer in the airport so despite all my best laid plans I resigned myself to 10 days in a quarantine hotel in London for a whopping £2250 and would get the hell out of there on the 1pm flight. How bad could it be? Providing my luggage turned up, I was weighed down with books, had a lot of writing to finish and really like time on my own plus after having a roommate for the past 6 weeks in Zim maybe it would be, dare I say enjoyable?

Day 0 — It starts

I land at Heathrow at approximately 6:30am after a particularly uncomfortable, if not somewhat relieving flight and claustrophobia promptly starts to set in. I am carted about from different sections of the airport as I am forced to show each of my travel documents to at least five different sets of airport staff at roughly six foot intervals. By some miracle my bag turns up and I am directed to a coach stand by a stern looking woman in high viz. Oh my naivety at assuming I would be being picked up by a taxi! The coach is empty but for me and I am informed that there may be “a pretty long wait” as we hang around for some other arrivals to turn up. Just the news you want to hear after 72 hours of travelling. I attempt to have some banter with a vacant looking “chaperone” as he calls himself — pretty sure that’s code for a person who makes sure desperate travellers don’t do a runner before they reach their designated hotel. Take my last few moments of freedom on the pavement of the passenger drop off and then board the coach and resign myself to my fate for the next ten days. Fall asleep immediately and am woken up to the dulcet tones of the Geordie coach driver singing to the Never Ending Story theme tune on Radio Jackie. I’m given a brief moment of comfort when he knows where Consett is — a small suburb between Newcastle and Durham where some of my family lives. We drop two passengers to a depressing looking Radison Red in Crawley en route, leaving only me, the driver and my chaperone left on the coach. Fifteen minutes later we pull up to a decent looking hotel surrounded by green fields — maybe this isn’t going to be as bad as I thought? The coach drives round to the back car park and I realise I have spoken too soon — looks like a cross between the Cecil Hotel and the Bates Motel with the added bonus of bright yellow bins everywhere emblazoned with “HAZARDOUS WASTE” — just lovely. Share a final joke with the Geordie driver about The Shining and head to get my bag. The lobby has been converted into what looks like a clinic — pyrex screens and hand sanitiser as far as the eye can see. I’m the only guest in sight but I can see at least 15 security guards in neon waistcoats. I’m wished a pleasant stay by my chaperone and off he goes back to the coach — lucky fucker. Next I’m instructed to replace my mask and fill in some forms before being directed to the hotel receptionist whose overly enthusiastic demeanour is immediately irritating. She’s trying. To think that this was once the main entrance for a hotel where guests would willingly come and stay and now it resembles a hospital waiting room is a depressing thought, covid really has ruined everything. I’m told I will be allowed outside for 15 minutes a day, three times daily, unless they are “busy”, when it will be only twice. Just the news I want to hear after 7 weeks of total freedom in the glorious African bush. She offers me the food menu and her eyes widen in mild panic when I inform her that I’m actually vegan not vegetarian — I’ve been online and this hotel does not need another bad review. She assures me that she will get it sorted as I ask for some fruit for lunch if there is nothing else as I haven’t eaten in 36 hours. Finally, she sheepishly hands me a piece of paper that explains the Department of Health and Social Care’s policy on protecting lone female travellers from inappropriate behaviours by the security team with a helpline number in bold red font which doesn’t do wonders for my confidence. I’m shown to my room, which of course, is nothing like the spacious suite with wooden beams exhibited on their website. It’s not tiny but it has a prison cell feel to it, likely because of the empty white walls and peeling wallpaper but it is clean and I’m safe so, small mercies and all that. I start to distract myself with unpacking and organising — if I am going to be here for 10 days I need to make the best of it. There is a knock at the door and I open it to be greeted by the receptionist, clutching a brown paper bag, a look of achievement on her face — “it’s vegan!” Behind her sits a bored looking security guard playing candy crush on his phone. There’s no one else on this corridor so I assume he has been placed here to check I don’t escape — it’s all feeling pretty 1984 right now. I take the bag inside — there are two cardboard boxes, some tired looking fruit and a juice box. I open the boxes to be greeted by a couple of greasy looking vegan sausages, some slimy chips and lukewarm baked beans — I guzzle them down and they taste brilliant. It is surprising what will hit the spot after a long and foodless journey. I get into my pyjamas and head for a nap. Wake up a couple of hours later, ravenous again. Scroll the deliveroo options — limited but there is one place that offers vegan pizza — order one, it would be rude not to. Place an emergency ocado order for the following morning including some bowls, plates and cutlery — I can’t eat out of cardboard for ten days. Thank god I do because when my door goes again at 6:30pm the food that awaits me looks grim — vegetables, likely tinned, boiled to within an inch of their life, the soggiest roast potatoes you have ever seen and an arid falafel and chickpea burger. No thank you. Devour the pizza and spend the night watching TV in bed.

Day 1–10 nights to freedom

To add insult to injury, in this draconian quarantine, your first day doesn’t even count as your first day! So I wake up on DAY ONE to the door going again — it’s like a never ending cycle of shit food. This morning I am offered 2 more vegan sausages in a rock hard dry roll with no margarine or ketchup to be seen. The offering is salvaged by a variety pack size packet of All Bran, a pear and a juice box — save those for later and attack the contents of my Ocado order. Spend the morning busying myself with hand washing some essentials and rearranging the room before my mum calls me to invite me to her pilates class which I join. It’s a gentle class for a group of older ladies with names such as Gilda and Primrose and I regularly hear the instructor call over zoom, “watch your knees girls!” — makes me feel very young. Finish the class, have a shower, watch a bit more TV and chat to a few friends before the worst meal so far arrives — a soggy salad (despite the fact it has no dressing — how does that even happen?) and hands down the WORST sandwich I have ever seen — two slices of rapidly hardening processed white containing loose spinach leaves, tomato and cucumber — no marg, vegan mayo or anything to bind the salad — with a cursory mini packet of unbranded tomato ketchup slung in the bag for good measure. I’ll go hungry thanks. Pass the rest of the day browsing the internet and catching up on Netflix. Take a rapid covid test just for the hell of it — negative. I should probably go outside tomorrow.

Day 2–9 nights to freedom

Wake at 4am and can’t get back to sleep — probably excited about my Day 2 Covid test and one more step towards freedom. Disappointingly no breakfast bag turns up at my door today — when I say disappointingly, it’s not that I plan on eating it but I am keen for another photo for the gallery of terrible food. There’s a flurry of excitement around 10am as there are some new arrivals in my corridor and I receive the delivery and instructions for my covid test. This is probably the most work the guards have done in days. Am very thorough with the test — can’t risk an inconclusive result, which takes up a bit of time. Lunch arrives and I have never been so excited to see a mediocre couscous salad — it actually looks edible but is accompanied by an unidentifiable brown meat like substance slapped between two stale pieces of bread. Honestly, who taught these guys how to make sandwiches? Decide it’s time to go outside so call the hotline and moments later am met at my door by two security guards who escort me down the decaying back staircase, one in front and one behind, to a small patch of grass where I’m allowed to stay for fifteen minutes. There is a family of three enjoying a game of football — the kid can’t be older than 10, poor lad being trapped indoors. Consider asking them if I can join in just for some exercise — think better of it. Take a few deep breaths and a few laps of the field and remind myself it’s mind over matter. Head back to my cell for the foreseeable.

My day is perked up instantly by a knock on the door outside of mealtimes — here I have learnt already that the only interruption you can expect is your food deliveries or security team to take you out for your designated exercise of the day. My lovely friends have sent me a care package! Have never been so pleased to see some vegan chocolates, a paint by numbers set and a jigsaw puzzle.

Day 3–8 nights to freedom

Slept terribly as a result of my chronic obsession with screens here. A far cry from the wilderness life I have been living for the past 7 weeks, now I regularly have the big TV on mute all day showing the news, Netflix on my laptop (I am going to start quoting Below Deck in my sleep I’ve been watching so much), all the while aimlessly scrolling my phone — might need someone to stage an intervention at some point. But the day starts well with a 7:15am email from the NHS to say that yesterday’s covid test was negative — unsurprisingly — the rates of covid in Zimbabwe have been consistently low comparatively throughout the pandemic — just another example of the British government doing shoddy research to support their decisions. Lunch is the most disgusting looking sandwich I have ever seen which immediately gets slung in the bin and I opt for a bowl of the granola I ordered from Ocado instead. Start to fill my time by making the most banging Spotify playlists you can imagine. Decide it might be a full time career option for me so promptly share said playlists with all of my friends for feedback. Fall asleep holding my phone — still looking for that intervention.

Day 4–7 nights to freedom

Find it hard to get out of bed today so spend the day horizontal watching repeats of People Just Do Nothing whilst eating popcorn. Don’t go outside for my daily walks — please send help.

My lovely friend calls me in the evening and we do some work on a writing project we are collaborating on. Laugh until my sides hurt and feel happier.

Day 5–6 nights to freedom

Had a nice lie in today after a reasonable night’s sleep so feeling okay. Although it is the start of the bank holiday weekend so it’s imperative that I stay off Instagram — there are at least 4 social events that I am missing, including 2 music festivals so if I’m not careful I might make a jump for freedom out of my window — I’m only on the second floor after all.

Go out for my morning walk and am very happy to see another human not in high viz. Not sure if I’ve been in solitary confinement for too long but decide he is quite attractive. I wonder what room he’s staying in? Get in a mood for the first time since my debacle at Johannesburg airport when a well meaning security guard interrupts my time outside by asking me “If I’m ready to go” after just 13 minutes. Feel irrationally furious as he’s taking away 2 minutes of my freedom time. My face obviously says it all as he apologises and I feel bad. He’s just doing his job.

Back in the room I attempt to make it feel more like a weekend by doing some nice things — might be time to break into that paint by numbers. Or maybe watch something that’s not reality TV? Opt for some reading instead before I get square eyes. Lunch arrives and much to my disappointment it is another curry, the second in a row, resembling vomit and soggy rice. Feel terrible for continually wasting food with everything that is happening in the world but I can’t put that stuff in my body. Make myself a delicious fruit plate from my emergency supermarket order and feel the vitamins nourishing my body. Treat myself to another vegan pizza delivery in the evening and thank god I do as curry number 3 arrives for dinner.

Day 6–5 nights to freedom

The most Sunday feeling Sunday that I have had in weeks. And not in a good way. I usually reserve staying inside the house all day on a Sunday for when I have had a particularly vigorous weekend of partying. No such luck here. Cabin fever is starting to set in and I consider staying in my pyjamas all day but my mood is lifted when another delivery arrives and another gorgeous friend has sent me a box filled with treats including books, bath salts and hula hoops. Run a bath and decide I need some self care. Curry numbers 4 and 5 greet me for lunch and dinner so it’s peanut butter sandwiches and cereal for me today.

Day 7–4 nights to freedom

Try to spice up today’s walk by making myself a coffee to take outside with me in the disposable cups they deliver with breakfast — don my sunglasses and put my headphones on to listen to some deep house while I stroll around the field. Feel mildly boujee for a split second before I look up and catch eyes with the 4 security guards who are basically tailing me and remember where I am. Come back to the room to be greeted by the hotel staff delivering ANOTHER curry, the second today and seventh in a row. Don’t even bother opening it, go into my room and sulk instead.

Day 8–3 nights to freedom

Even the breakfast is going downhill. The vegan offering was okay up until now but today’s bag has a mini box of cocoa pops, an all butter croissant and a pint of whole dairy milk. Guess dry cocoa pops and black tea it is. On my walk I make friends with a couple of security guards and it is great to have some actual conversation with real people that’s not through a screen.

Amazingly when lunch arrives it is not a curry! A decent looking salad box and a handwritten message “thank you for being patient. Shaun” Wonder if he’s talking about my patience with the 8 curries in a row? But it’s the day I’ve been waiting for! Covid test 2 and my ticket to freedom — the end finally feels like it is in sight.

Dinner comes and I spoke to soon — CURRY. Officially finish the last of my supplies, all that remains for tomorrow’s emergency food stash is a fridge full of apples. Nearly have a heart attack when I get a text from the NHS test and trace telling me that I am a contact of a positive covid test and I need to isolate for 10 days — how the hell does that happen when I’ve been locked in this room? Call them and tentatively ask if there has been a mistake, anxious at the prospect of any longer than necessary in this hotel. Turns out it was someone on my plane home and so my 10 days here will cover the isolation time anyway. Take a giant sigh of relief.

Day 9–2 nights to freedom

Wake up feeling elated as I’m greeted by a 4:20am email from the NHS telling me that I am negative. Countdown is officially on. I pack my bag and dance in my room to house music. Now what to do for the next 36 hours…

Find out on my daily exercise that the hotel is currently housing 3 families seeking refuge from Afghanistan so despite all of the horrible food and Groundhog Day scenes, I instantly rate them.

Day 10–7 hours and 1 minute to freedom

I will officially be free to leave at 1 second past minute and I couldn’t be happier about it. I wouldn’t change anything about my incredible summer and if someone had told me at the start of the trip that I would have had to do this quarantine I still wouldn’t have changed my plans BUT what I would say to anyone else travelling back from a red country is to doing EVERYTHING in your power to go somewhere else on the way home, it will cost you less money and even if you have only a mediocre time, it will almost certainly be more enjoyable than this and definitely be better for your health!!