![Morocco, India, Zambia travel restrictions, pandemic](/https/www.telegraph.co.uk/content/dam/travel/2021/12/20/TELEMMGLPICT000281222107_trans_NvBQzQNjv4BqsT8WkHhIIGcqf-eU4anH8bkcnEMN6jgniYeqwz6a86k.jpeg?imwidth=680)
Is this the pandemic's unluckiest traveller?
Having been stranded in Morocco for three months, and Chennai for 25 days, there was hope a trip to Zambia would prove third time lucky
![Morocco, India, Zambia travel restrictions, pandemic](/https/www.telegraph.co.uk/content/dam/travel/2021/12/20/TELEMMGLPICT000281222107_trans_NvBQzQNjv4BqsT8WkHhIIGcqf-eU4anH8bkcnEMN6jgniYeqwz6a86k.jpeg?imwidth=680)
Perhaps I should have read the signs.
It was November 4, Diwali day in Mumbai, where my brother Samir and I now live looking after our mother, and that evening we were due to fly to Zambia.
It was our first trip abroad since mum and I were stranded by a snap lockdown in Morocco for three months last year. We left India on March 5, and didn’t return until June 5, and only then because I wrote to the Prime Minister Narendra Modi about our plight. We’d attempted a domestic holiday in the meantime, which was affected by India’s devastating second wave, forcing us to spend 25 days stranded in a Chennai hotel.
Confident that lightning never strikes thrice, I convinced my reluctant mother and brother to join me on a Zambian odyssey.
Our airline Emirates had other ideas, and just hours before we were due to depart, our return leg (but not our outbound flight) was arbitrarily cancelled.
Frantic calls to Emirates ensued. Figuring we’d got a month in Zambia to find an alternative route home, we decided to travel anyway. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to take the hint.
At first, it seemed I was right. As we settled into our luxury hotel in Lusaka, the Zambian capital, Emirates contacted us to say they’d managed to rebook our return. Panic over. And for a while our trip went according to plan.
Things began going awry when we made for Livingstone, a 70-minute hop by air with Proflight to the south-west, but the only scheduled flight was sold out. It was Friday, and adventure-seeking holidaymakers packed the check-in counters wheeling canoes. So we took to the road. A five-hour journey arranged by Gambhir Enterprises stretched into eight as weekend traffic clogged the highways.
At Victoria Falls some Americans were delighted to meet a travel writer on a mission to revive tourism. “Travel must resume!” they exhorted. Moments later, however, came the first murmurs of concern: a Mauritian tourist exclaimed that her flights had been cancelled. Something called omicron. I tried to remain calm, but the following morning Emirates told us our flights had been cancelled (again). What’s more, our airline advised us to leave Zambia ASAP for fear of further omicron cancellations.
It was Morocco all over again, I thought. There, an extraordinary young local, Ali El Hajouji, sheltered us for almost three months, charging nothing, and the Indian Association kindly supplied us food until we were finally repatriated.
Determined to avoid a similar situation, Samir took charge of finding a new route home, and on The Royal Livingstone’s beauteous terrace, over supper, he announced our plan: a flight to Nairobi, a six-hour transit, and then homeward with Emirates. A hassle, but doable.
But the next morning, when he tried to book, the Lusaka-Nairobi flights that had been going for $500 (£379) the previous night had rocketed to $1,500 (£1,137). Recriminations began. “Why didn’t you book the flights last night?” I screamed. Moments later, however, the last remaining seats at $1,500 had also disappeared.
We descended further into chaos looking for an alternative, with complications arising over the complex and ever-changing requirements for entry in three countries, not just our home nation of India, but also Kenya and the UAE, where connections would be required.
The indefatigable Bwembya from the Ndola office of Kenya Airways came to our rescue, magically arranging our escape on the same flights that Samir had found (and for the same extortionate price). At this point we discovered that Samir’s card wasn’t accepted, mine had no money and Mum’s didn’t have enough. A nervous wait ensued while we had cash wired over from an Indian bank. It then took three days to complete all the necessary paperwork, dashing back and forth between various offices.
With three more days until our flight we passed the time getting Covid tests (another extortionate $360/£273), and idling.
Suddenly, like in Morocco, all the holidaymakers had evaporated overnight. The Royal Livingstone was desolate, its chefs, who’ve worked in palaces and Michelin-starred restaurants, in despair. They hadn’t even any oranges or lemons due to suppliers refusing small orders, they said. An American group defiantly proceeded to South Africa, while a Briton, who was capering with his Zambian girlfriend, was, like us, spiralling into madness; Emirates cancelled his flights too.
Before our flight we moved to Neelkanth Sarovar Premiere, an Indian hotel in Lusaka, to be wined, dined and massaged, but Ayurveda sessions were interrupted to coordinate baggage tagging. Such is the romance of travel.
“Coffee or orange juice?” asked the flight attendant on our two-hour journey from Lusaka to Nairobi. I replied: “Both please. We’ve spent $4,500 on this!”
During what turned out to be an eight and a half hour transit in Nairobi, there was plenty of time to think after the unfairness of it all. Not for me – though I’m starting to feel like the pandemic’s unluckiest traveller – but for those in Africa who rely on tourism. Omicron has reached every corner of the planet, but still countless countries are imposing restrictions on trips to the continent, just because they can.
We faced another seven hours killing time in Dubai before the final leg: a flight to Mumbai. Sixteen hours in airports, a bill for $4,500 (£3,412), and family harmony at breaking point, it’s a relief when we finally get home. But dare I leave the country again?