Fear, despair and rescue by police motorbike: Diary of British mother in India captures roller coaster of coronavirus travel lockdown

Tens of thousands of Britons are slowly being rescued from countries across the world after finding themselves stranded overseas in the ongoing coronavirus lockdown.

Holiday-makers, travellers and other UK nationals were left trapped everywhere from Australia to South America when global borders were closed last month.

One such person was Samantha Smith.

The 47-year-old mother-of-three, from Lancaster, was on the trip of a lifetime travelling around India when, with unprecedented speed, flights were grounded and international travel all but stopped.

After that, she spent three weeks living under curfew in a basic guesthouse in the northern city of Rishikesh, while keeping a diary of her attempts to get home.

Here, in the second of a two-part special, she shares excerpts with The Independent in a bid to offer a glimpse into the fears and frustrations felt by the tens of thousands like her – and the overwhelming joy when the Foreign Office finally got her home.

5 April

A two-week vacuum of news from the embassy finally comes to an end: they have announced special flights home for people trapped here. They are not for a week yet and it is unclear, given travel within India has been all but banned, how British nationals scattered across the country will get to Delhi, Mumbai or Goa where the flights leave from. But for now, I refuse to worry about the details. There are flights and for today that is enough. After more than two weeks of being abandoned, trapped and scared – and with my money almost entirely gone – this is the hope I needed.

6 April

A horrible reminder this morning that just because there are flights does not mean that the complications are over.

Lana, an American woman who had been staying in the same guesthouse as me, left for a repatriation flight to the US. But she almost did not make it.

I walked her to her bus – keeping my distance, of course – but the pick-up point was on the other side of a bridge that the police had closed off. This coach was just 300 metres away but the officers refused to let her across. She tried explaining but they said it was not their problem and they had rules to follow. She was told to walk almost a mile along to the next bridge, even though the bus was due to depart within 15 minutes. It all felt so desperate – until: a happy ending! A stranger passing on a scooter offered her a lift and away they sped.

Tonight, she is flying home and I feel such relief for her. But the whole episode has made me a bag of nerves about my own flight and the possible issues with getting to Delhi. It feels like such a one-shot opportunity. What if something goes wrong and I don’t make it? What if I have to end up staying here for who knows how long?

9 April

The heat and the lockdown are both stifling in Rishikesh. The atmosphere feels so different from the happy and carefree city I arrived in all those weeks ago. I keep reading the pandemic is changing the world. Certainly, it has changed this place. There is still friendliness about but, mainly, it feels empty and hard now. Menacing is a strong word but with so many police everywhere – all armed with bamboo sticks – it just has that sense. I stay in my room all day except to get coffee and food.

10 April

A morning message from the embassy reveals that 17 Brits currently in Rishikesh will be picked up by a local bus company tomorrow and that further details will arrive later today. Joy!

In keeping with the delay and information vacuum we’ve experienced for three weeks, however, those further details don’t land until 11pm. I am to be picked up at my guesthouse at eight tomorrow morning. I feel so relieved at this I am now almost ready to forgive the Foreign Office for all the unanswered emails, shambolic communication and general sense of chaos and being left alone that thousands of us have experienced over the last three weeks. Almost.

11 April

It couldn’t run smoothly, of course!

I wake up to a 6am message saying, actually, the bus cannot pick me up and I must get to a muster point about four miles across town by 8am. I’m not even sure, with all the police road blocks, that will be possible. I have no idea which way I’d go. As I rush to get ready, I can feel my flight starting to slip from my fingers. All I can think is what if I don’t make it? I call the bus company to ask their advice on how to get to where they want me and they say not to worry about it, they’ll pick me up at the guesthouse later in the morning. Result.

So, I sit outside, waiting. And waiting. For four increasingly anxious hours I sit on this wall, telling myself to be patient – until I get a call telling me the bus cannot get to the guesthouse after all and I must make it to the muster point. The main problem? It is now almost curfew time so I should not be out walking the streets at all. Sure enough, as I set off a police officer on a motorcycle pulls up. He has already questioned me for being sat outside this morning and now tells me I must return to my guesthouse. I am in tears as I explain what has happened, fully expecting him to reply that it is not his problem and there are rules to follow. Instead, he looks at me for a moment and then says something I could never have expected in a million years. “Get on the back of the bike,” he tells me. “Let’s get you to your bus.”

He is as good as his word too. Ten minutes later, I roar into the muster point on the back of his Royal Enfield.

From there, the bust to Delhi is a long and hot journey but full of relief for the 17 Brits on board. The flight to London is the same. It has happened long after other Europeans were repatriated but at least we are on our way back to the UK.

Once landed I board a train back to Manchester. I am the only person in the carriage. I am home but it is a different place to that I left nine weeks ago.