Being quarantined in a Maldives villa sounds dreamy – but it's turning into a nightmare

I am writing this on the deck of my Maldives beach villa, looking out at pristine white sand fringed with palm trees and turquoise sea. It is idyllic, exactly what I hoped for when we booked a last-minute package break earlier this month with my parents, as well as my sister and her family.

There is a catch though. I’m not allowed to leave. No sunbathing on the sand, no swimming in the sea, and definitely no wandering along the beach. A Maldives Health Protection Agency (HPA) official patrols the area with a clipboard to check. We had been due to fly home on Saturday, refreshed, restored and ready for a busy Christmas period during which we would be juggling work and family commitments, but after my mother tested positive for Covid in her pre-departure PCR (actually, my father was summoned and informed of her results; gender equality still has some way to go here), we were all put into compulsory quarantine ‘because we share a booking reference number’.

I realise you probably hate me right now. You may even be wondering how you could fake a positive Covid test so that you can extend your holiday on an insurance company’s dime. The way omicron is spreading, chances are you wouldn't even have to fake it.

I’m not on my own. I am sharing this glorious four-star jail cell with my partner and 16-month-old twins. We’ve been given spacious accommodation because the usual quarantine rooms on this island aren’t big enough to fit two cots, as has my sister, who has children aged seven and four. But my parents, who are in their 70s, have it pretty rough. As only my mother has Covid (she’s triple-jabbed and asymptomatic), they’ve been separated and given two dingy next-door cabins in the mosquito-ridden interior of the island. I think the decor of their rooms dates from when the resort was first built in 1988 – no wonder the photos on its website are so soft-focus and filtered. Their quarantine countdown clock has just been reset after the HPA man spotted them eating dinner together; they were ticked off by resort management like a pair of naughty teenagers.

The fact that they are stuck there does take the shine off this extended stay. I also get a lump in my throat every time I remember that my in-laws will miss out on spending Christmas with their beloved grandchildren for the second year in a row. In retrospect, the decision to take a holiday in the middle of a pandemic seems incredibly selfish given the risks. This is less of a vacation, more of a guilt trip.

We are also facing some practical challenges: I naively packed baby supplies for an eight-day holiday, not a further 14 days’ quarantine, so we are rapidly running out of nappies and wipes. The $28 pack of 16 ‘Drypers’ the hotel has provided us isn’t going to last more than a couple of days, but they are pretty happy playing naked on the deck in a mini paddling pool, the furniture arranged like an obstacle course around the edge so that they don’t tumble onto the sand four feet below. I think I miss our baby gates more than our dog. The resort doctor, who visits daily to do our blood pressure (a charade of a health check-up) is trying to source supplies of all our various medications – particularly my sister, for whom it is critical.

We get food delivered to the room three times a day by our waiters Ahmed and Adam. My daughter has taken to blowing them clumsy kisses when they leave. The timings are erratic though – lunch can come as late as 3pm and dinner at 9pm – so now the minibar is full of kid-friendly leftovers from previous meals so that we can keep them in some semblance of a routine and not substitute meals with our entire supply of Ella’s Kitchen snacks. The YoYo buggies we rented for this trip have proved versatile, serving as high chairs, climbing frames and barricades.

If I may be permitted a complaint, it would be that there is very little clarity about the rules of our quarantine. Should we all be in isolation or just my parents? Must we all do a full 14 days? Would a re-test make any difference? Surely the man with a clipboard could have come up with something more lenient for ‘contacts’? The HPA website is vague, and hotel management is giving us mixed messages, but they’re not taking any chances. A little online research reveals why: the first two Covid cases in the Maldives back in March 2020 were employees at Kuredu, who had caught the virus from an Italian tourist who tested positive on his return home. The resort was accused by Maldives police of a deliberate delay in reporting these cases to the HPA, although it was never charged due to a lack of sufficient evidence.

Insurance admin aside, there’s no point getting stressed about a situation over which I have very little control. Quarantine is a necessity of our times, as are vaccines, masks and thorough hand-washing, and we all need to do our bit to contain the virus. I’m thrilled to be doing so from this tropical Alcatraz, although my niece and nephew are very worried that Father Christmas won’t know where to find them.

I’m not sure yet when I’ll be home, but for now I’m going nowhere. Keeping the babies contained and entertained is the main activity here in Quarantineland. My partner and I have one laptop between us, so we’re working in shifts – no fake Zoom background required. This week’s Telegraph fashion content will be coming to you from the paper’s new Lhaviyani Atoll bureau. Everything you need to know about spending Christmas in a bikini coming right up…