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.