Both time and sand flies

So my initial time on the Andaman Islands comes to an end, doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun. And it has been fun, by and large, though I find myself sinking into myself more and more within groups of people. But more of that later, for now I’d like to write about Little Andaman. It’s the second largest of the islands, and the one that took the brunt of the tsunami in 2004. The most recent reports suggested it was getting back on it’s feet, though in comparison to the east coast of Sri Lanka has made a much better recovery. Simply put the Indian government has ploughed a lot of money into redevelopment, which is just not the case with the Hindu dominated coastal strip of Sri Lanka. Over there, the Buddhist controlled government authorities have shown very little regard for the sorrowful state of their Hindu countrymen. In Little Andaman there are no signs of battered buildings, in fact little evidence of widespread damage anymore at all. In the last couple of years a couple of tourist guesthouses have opened on a quiet stretch of beach, some way away from the island’s towns. (Photo: Fishing the incoming tide - The Lagoon, Nr Butler Bay, Little Andaman)

I don’t know if the Andaman’s are a pet project of the Indian authorities, they have certainly put an awful amount of money into the islands. Whether this is for a specific reason I’m unsure, bearing in mind the proximity of the Burmese and Thailand coasts I think it’s an extraordinary show of care and financial support of the Indian powers that be. They make a big show of the indigenous tribes, who are still segregated from the outside world. I can’t be sure how much of this is of the free will of the tribes themselves. Some tribal villages on Little Andaman, of the Onge tribe, have been visited, unofficially, by tourists recently. By all accounts they were warmly received by the tribes people, though this act in itself leaves huge questions running around my mind. Why are people going out of their way to visit restricted areas that protect local indigenous people? How can people be so stupid to go round telling all and sundry of their daring do, thereby encouraging others to follow suit? Are the tribes segregated of their own free will? Personally I think it’s the Falklands syndrome, a far away sovereign territory that is worth nothing for the sovereign power, they simply pour money into it because they don’t want it to seem they no longer care. Also, to give it up would be to invite the Chinese in through the back door i.e. Burma. (Photo: A cowry burying itself in the sand - Nr Jina Guesthouse, Little Andaman)

Of the wildlife, it’s quite devoid of anything major, at least as far as the casual observer can tell. Signs warn of crocodiles at almost every river crossing, though I’ve yet to hear of a tourist who has actually seen one. A rumour went round the other day that a local fisherman had an incident with one only a few days ago, I haven’t been able to verify that yet. There are plenty of birds, and some very impressive white-headed fish eagles. Land crabs abound, and there are plenty of frogs and toads to squidge if you walk barefoot in the dark. The worst of the local critters are the smallest, sandflies. They’re almost invisible, they’re veracious, and their bites are both numerous and ultra-itchy. While there are countless kilometres of pristine golden sand, if you lay down for even the shortest amount of time you’ll be eaten alive. Few people can take the insect instigated hell for too long, it’s the only drawback to being on the island. The people are lovely, the guesthouses are cheap, there is plenty to visit and do, what more can you ask for? (Photo: Visions of paradise, sand fly hell - East coast beach, Little Andaman)

I still had to think long and hard about returning there though, but return I will. Squeezing in every last day I dared permit-wise, I stayed for 46 days, and I’m going back for a second dose. Not just to Little Andaman, exactly where depends how well I manage to settle into writing. Now, I must bear in mind here, I’d declared a period of relaxation to start with. But once started I guess I just felt I should keep up the good work, but it hasn’t happened so well on Little Andaman. Of the days I have been working, or attempting to, it hasn’t been as successful as it was at Long Island. Being more inebriated would go a long way to explaining that, having a stash and getting stoned during the day is never going to help me. Having weighed up the odds I’m still going back there, it is a nicer place in so many ways than Long Island. Though the food is better on Long Island, as is service. I’ll probably end up spending more time at both, maybe with a last couple of weeks diving on another island. Mind you, every time I venture back into the mayhem of everyday, mainstream Indian society I get thoughts of hiding in the Andaman’s for my whole stay here. (Photo: Ghost crab burrows - Butler Bay, Little Andaman)

(Photo: Goose barnacles - Hut Bay beach, Little Andaman)

At the moment my attention is on my own lack of enthusiasm, or conviction, over what I’m doing. I’ve a tendency to withdraw from those around me, and become a mere observer within my surroundings. I don’t exactly feel cut off, or lonely. I’m content with the peace and tranquillity found on these lovely islands, content with my own company. From most people’s reactions, and interactions, this is something going on more in my own head. It feels like I’m withdrawing more and more, keeping to myself, seeking solitude. So why does it worry me? Because I feel I could withdraw completely, and remain unsure whether that could be a temporary situation or a downward spiral. I know I’m being too harsh on myself, it’s how I am though, always my worst critic. Maybe this public confession comes as a surprise to some, if you know me it shouldn’t. The spark that drove me on in life has diminished. I don’t want to harp on about loss and grief, I do my grieving in private these days, certain that everyone has had more than enough of hearing about it. But however you view it, whatever your experience of bereavement, don't knock just how deeply or prolonged the loss can be felt. There is never any turning back of the clock, you just have to learn to live with it. I guess how you manage that defines the person you are, or become.

My memories sustain me, I smile when I think of Cai, even if the smiles are accompanied by a lump in my throat. But the past is the past, you can't bring it back. Those were the glorious days for me, especially as Cai steadily grew into a young man, even if I didn’t always appreciate it. So excuse me for diverging, but this blog is about where I’m at, both physically and emotionally. I don’t want to let go of my loss, it’s like denying the existence of my son. And he was too important an influence in my life to do that. That doesn't mean I don't wish to make the most of the remainder of my life. So share with me these two photos, a memory of our joint delight in dressing up for a decent party, a look at the lighter side of our lives. (Photos: 1] Cai as Nightcrawler , one of the Xman- College party 2006; 2] Me as Errol Brown from Hot Chocolate - House party 2001)

Paradise or purgatory?

The Andaman Islands, a small group in the Bay of Bengal laying close to the coasts of Burma and Thailand, yet is still Indian territory. Long held dear in my mind as an unspoilt destination where they go to great lengths to maintain the natural beauty, and ethic diversity they’re renowned for. Entry by foreign visitors is restricted, permits of 30 days are available on arrival, and are purported to be extendable for a further 15 days. Many islands are still tribal lands, completely forbidden to tourists. There is a range of tribal groups, but basically they’re hunter-gatherers hanging on to traditional lifestyles. On some islands they are so determined to maintain their ages old heritage they’ve been known to fend off attempts by passing boats to land. A bit like a scene from “Pirates of the Caribbean”. On the main island the central lands are still tribal, passage is through convoy led by the local authorities. No-one is allowed to stop, no-one is allowed to get out their vehicle. (Photo: Flying fish - On the way to Long Island)

Seeking total peace and quiet I headed straight for Long Island, meant to be about the quietest, as in a way of least tourists. It’s the furthest to sail from Port Blair (sthpittt at the mention of the name), yet for some reason only cost 120 rupees, where-as Neil Island the closest, and much busier, cost 195 Rups. I’m led to believe it’s a tourist thing, if you’re making the effort for Long Island, you pay local rate. It’s basic economics, if something is in heavy demand the price goes up. Adversely, if supply is higher than demand, competition is high, and price goes down. And the Indians make full use of this basic rule, with the extra premise that tourists don’t know the going rate so generally get charged over the odds whatever. But we all know that surely, it comes down to the decision as to how much effort we put in making an issue of it. I won’t let myself get overcharged knowingly, but am prepared to let it slide to some extent. (Photo: Kingfisher - Backwater creek, Long Island)

My arrival in Long Island was as the only westerner on the boat, which is a good sign. With no cars, taxis, or tri-shaws the only choice is to walk to the only guesthouse. It’s simple, follow the blue arrows, taking note of the warning of a danger from salt-water crocodiles. Shit, I thought they weren’t meant to be a problem in that location. I don’t know why, but when I walked into Blue Planet I was a bit taken aback. That’s the trouble reading about a place beforehand, or looking at pictures on their website. My first thoughts were how much rooms cost, a bamboo box for £4 with communal toilet etc, or a larger room with private bathroom at £12.50. Food was also more than expected. I had to sit down and do some sums, see how long I could stay on the cash I’d taken with me. There wasn’t anywhere to get more money, nor any chance of changing Euros, so it was an issue if I wanted to stay the duration of my permit. It had to be a cheap room, a matrass on the floor was good enough to sleep on. And sleep I did, for the majority of the first two days, alternating between hammock and bed to slumber in. (Photo: Happy families - Long Island village)

There’s only about 500 people on the island, a close knit community with only one small village and a smattering of people spread over the rest of the island. An equal mix of Christian, Hindu and Muslim faiths, most celebrations are shared by all, giving a good excuse for regular parties. We had three events shared by all, two on the village stage and one a quirky Indian version of carol singing. They were all fun, but I preferred the traditionalism of the carol singers. One day we could hear drumming for most the afternoon, as evening drew on in it got ever closer, and chanting could be heard accompanying it. Unable to resist, a few of us from the guesthouse went to see what was going on. I thought we’d blown it when a steady stream of women was passing us on a tiny path leading to the source of the music. I thought it could be a female only event, but was urged on by one of the guesthouse staff. It was bizarre at first, from out of a darkened gateway popped Santa Claus. Barefoot, with rosy-cheeked mask and false whiskers, he emerged jiggling a balloon on a stick, court jester style. Going from house to house, he led a group of three young guys drumming and up to fifty women singing and dancing. At the core of the group a line of girls/young women would gradually form into a ring, linking arms, and doing a simple repetitive dance-step to the beat of the drums. All the other women joined in, chanting, shaking tambourines and doing a shuffling, foot stomping little dance of their own. It had a euphoric and hypnotic fervour; there were bright eyes and gleaming smiles everywhere. In their midst Santa cavorted merrily, handing out sweets the audience. The strange thing was, if you’d have closed your eyes, you could have been on any continent, listening to any tribal music. That was my Christmas Eve, can’t say I gave any thought to what it was like at home! Hope you all had a good one. (Photo: Carol singers - Blue Planet guesthouse, Long Island)

Referring to them as the concert shows, the other forms of entertainment were performed on the stage set up on the village green, come football field. Apparently the police do a sort of concert party, going from island to island spreading good cheer and good will. I’d scathingly call it glorified karaoke, a succession of officers, in civvies, singing along to pre-recorded, well known classics. Dare I say it was the mature women who were swaying and clapping to these guys. The highlight of that show was a, “Killer-esque” dance sequence. Zombies, ghosts and ghouls strutted their stuff amongst the central figure, of a Vampire in swirling cloak. It went down a storm, so I find myself saying thank you Michael Jackson for the inspiration for that one. (Photo: Roaming outside alone - Quiet lane between village and guesthouse, Long Island)

The kids show was a different kettle of fish entirely, so many kids all having a go at dancing, either in groups or solo. Cutesy it may have been most the time, it really had it’s moments. Bearing in mind this is on a quiet, quite conservative island, where women wear nothing but sarees and, though strong characters, are still subjugated within their accepted culture. So seeing a fairly mature teenage girl gyrating to the latest Bollywood special, shaking her booty, I was slightly aghast. I think it was the booby wobble that sent the noisiest section of the crowd, the young single males, into raptures of appreciation. It wasn’t toned down in the slightest when a pre-pubescent girl performed as suggestive a dance number, to the same hearty cheering and wolf-whistling from the guys. I seriously had to question my perception of the situation, but the kids were only copying the raunchier style of Bollywood dancing. Add a touch of illicit alcohol and you get a set of unruly youths. Not physically though, they just had to let voice to their sexual suppression. It was ignored basically, people allowed it to fizzled out, though I didn’t stay around for mid-night and the New Year. That was spent with a few other people and a couple of bottles of whisky. (Photo: The boys turn carol singing on Christmas day - Blue Planet, Long Island)

Now my permit’s running out, I have to get it extended, so am back in Port Blair (Sthpitt!) to do the necessary. A brief stop at Neil Island delayed my return by a day, it was too busy so didn’t even give it a chance. OK, it’s busier here, but I can get everything sorted much easier. I stick to the quiet lanes that wind between the coast and town, take short cuts through the chicken market. All the material there was of natural fibre or recyclable, except the egg boxes, which are used to gradually smoulder as a deterrent against mosquitos. Along the back roads walk the women with their baskets of fish, emerging at busy intersections to ply their wares. I think I’d rather make the effort to walk down the hill and get them fresh, rather than marinated in Carbon Monoxide. I’ve walked miles around the outskirts of the town, it’s nice, people have more time for you. Time to smile and return a greeting, maybe even a shy giggle and coy smile. Some women were painting the concrete buttress of the coastal pathway, it was obvious as I walked along the walkway above them, that spray from the breaking surf was coming over the sea wall potentially soaking them. So I asked if she didn’t keep getting wet, apparently so, which humoured her apparently. (Photo: Picture perfect end of the day - Long Island)

Last but not least, is my second book. How I’d love to say it’s done and dusted, well, actually, no I don’t. If I’d raced through it like that, I wouldn’t have put my heart into it. It’s well under way though, Having written a few chapters while on Long Island, I’m quite chuffed. My priority was to relax for the first month, get my head into writing mode. So I guess I’m ahead of a schedule I never had in the first place. I’ve only got two weeks on Little Andaman, then I have to leave the Andaman Islands. I might return, for another six week permit if I settle down and write well there too. It’s also an island with lots of crocodiles, in creeks and the mangroves. I don’t like the thought of that.