Island life the Andaman way

With the festive season and another birthday out the way, the way ahead is almost clear of such encumberances. Because it is specific dates that ring clearest in our minds, the birthdays of loved ones, family celebrations, religious festivals (if you’re that way inclined), all bring our hearts to bear on that which is important to us. Which is my way of getting to the point of Cai’s birthday again. My head always goes into a spin approaching February 20^th, I never know whether I should be grieving or celebrating, and invariably do plenty of each, just to be on the safe side. Admittedly the celebration is as much losing myself into inebriation as feeling genuinely happy about the day. I wish it were as simple as enjoying the memories without feeling the loss, but I’m not a simple person. I like the idea of celebrating his life, I just can’t do it without feeling desperately lonely. Maybe we should have a National Grieving Day, a day for us all to grieve our losses. Bring it out into the open, don’t keep it closeted, then we could realise we are not alone. Maybe that would clear the air, leave us free to continue with everyday existence. (Photo: My favourite photo of Cai, the young man with the world at his fingertips)

I’ve had another six weeks on Little Andaman, and still haven’t fully relaxed into the place. It is time to move on, it’s only complacency that’s kept me here so long. The book has received attention, but there’s been too much attention and too few words for me. Progress has been in fits and starts, spending hours wracking my brain for the words to come out. It’s different than the first book, I need to slim down the information from the journey. There’s too much to work from in many ways, I can’t fit it all in. The first book came together succinctly, there wasn’t any massive reworks. If I continue writing as descriptive in this one it will be an epic, unwieldy tome. At the moment I’ve written about 25% of the words I’m allowing, for a 400 page book, but have only covered the initial journey by bike. So it is coming together, which is good, I need to get cracking though. (Photo: Giving me the eye - From my hut in Jina guesthouse, Little Andaman)

Spilling hot coffee over the keyboard didn’t help, I failed to ruin my laptop, but now cope with sticky keys and slower typing. There are advantages to having a computer with no moving parts, and that is one I’m extremely grateful for. The biggest distraction has been the number of tourists though, I thought this island was meant to be the quietest. It is in fact the latest magnet for the Island chain and fast becoming a surf hotspot. The clientele are young, free and single, they tend to come in groups and, unlike this boring old git, stay up drinking late into the night. For reasons of clarity I try not to, which has caused me to become a little more detached from the communal onslaught each evening. Temptation is the problem, and I don’t want to get stoned and pissed every night, I never work well on a muggy head. So I’ve been keeping a bit of a distance, but not to be a social reject. Of course I haven’t done so, I am after all a sociable animal, so have had my share of late nights with the crowd. (Photo: Just a small distraction - From my hut in Jina guesthouse, Little Andaman)

Travelling in our modern day and age seems to be largely a repetitive series of people, places, transport and hotels. I say repetitive because there is little that changes, only now and again do I find myself in a place that is actually different from all the others. Accommodation doesn’t vary much, conversations with fellow travellers don’t seem to vary much either. Now and again there’ll be someone who stands out from the crowd, but all too often this will only be because they are loud and proud of it. So when I met a couple of Mumbai girls, footloose and fancy free, it was very different. I got an insight into a more modern India, from a female perspective. They scoffed at the idea that Indian women are subservient and submissive, claiming this is more the impression the Indian men want foreigners to have. In their minds the women do all those things they shouldn’t, smoking, drinking, having illicit sex, but they do it behind closed doors. It was nice to hear this side, though I do think that they were out of touch with an older India. The modern world tends to emerge with the younger generations, it’s hard to change the ways of the older folks. (Photo: Salt-water crocodile - Along the coast road, Little Andaman)

A recent killing frenzy left me questioning people’s purpose for travelling. I’ve nothing against people fishing, if that’s what floats your boat why not. Spearfishing I think is unnecessary, but concede that catching your own food can’t be conceived as immoral. Catching more than you can eat in a week, is questionable, unless your livelihood depends on it. There isn’t any need to catch your own food here, not as a tourist. The locals fish to feed themselves and their families, they rely on selling their catch. I guess I’m saying that tourists coming with fancy gear is an unfair advantage, and regularly catching the better fish are not only depleting fish stocks, they’re also taking money out the fisherman’s pocket. But what I couldn’t understand was a group killing a stingray, or the staff battering a snake to death because tourists felt threatened by it. They have a terrible time appreciating wildlife in India, they don’t need tourists encouraging them to kill outright anything that freaks them out. (Photo: Before they battered the poor thing to death - From the hut next door in Jina guesthouse, Little Andaman)

OK, put the stingray down to western youths playing fearless hunters. But they killed it because it lay where they wanted to swim, and having a spear gun they could. Why they couldn’t chase it off was beyond me, but they were obviously scared to approach it. The hero with the spear took aim from a safe distance and let fly, bullseye. Only after did they give thought to whether they could actually eat it. But even that paled into insignificance compared to the resident snake being bludgeoned to death because it frightened an Italian couple. Sorry, but I question the presence of the type of people who combat their fear by mindlessly killing. Why don’t they stay at home, where it’s safe? You’d also not contribute to the mounds of non-degradable waste that chokes the developing world, the empty water bottles discarded by a constant stream of tourists. It’s about time tourism became responsible for the effects it has on the world. The locals don’t give a damn, they’ll happily despoil their own backyard if you make it worth their while. (Photo: Supposedly a very sweet tasting marine crab - Lighthouse beach, Little Andaman)

And so I sit, discontent with the world I find myself in, and trying to come to terms with it. I’ve not found my creative ideal, and have let it get to me rather than make the most of where I am. I’m after peace and quiet, a hidey-hole with fewer distractions. That’s what it comes to here, too many distractions, and too few alternatives. If I’d have allowed myself a mix of business and pleasure maybe I could have been more focussed. Instead I’ve tried forcing myself to concentrate on writing, getting frustrated when the words don’t flow. Is this writer’s block? Must mean I qualify as a writer then, though how I manage that when I’m not writing puzzles me. It must mean I’m also a brain surgeon, because my mind goes blank when I think of that too. Anyway, there’s only so much I can do, if the words aren’t flowing they’ll just have to come out in dribs and drabs. What I have written I’m quite pleased with, thank God for small mercies! (Photo: What goes round comes round - Inside the lighthouse, Little Andaman)

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.

Welcome to India

Always the first impression of India is the hustle and bustle, people and traffic consume every inch of the cities. It’s dusty and polluted, the cloying filth coats your throat and lungs. Pavements are either non-existent or a veritable obstacle course, everyone walks down the side of the road. It’s a game of dodgems, weaving in and out of the virtual impenetrable wall of humanity, with bikes and cars brushing against you in passing. The noise hammers your eardrums from every direction, engines revving, horns blaring, people jabbering. Yep, this is India in its full glory! It’s a full body experience, every sense assailed, total sensory overload. Being fair, it isn’t so different from a multitude of Asian cities, but it’s distinctly Indian. You can get a good taste of it in Colombo (Sri Lanka), or the Little India sector of Penang city (Malaysia), but this is pure India. There is no China town around the corner, no discernible tourist hub to hide within. (Photo: Young cobblers - Aberdeen Bazaar, Port Blair)

The knack is to focus your individual senses, otherwise the tendency is to shut them down, try to ignore the mayhem. For me it’s like opening every atom of my being, allowing myself to be receptive, absorb it all whilst plucking out what’s of interest. I hear the unmistakable throb of a large single cylinder motorbike, and look for a Royal Enfield, there is only vehicle here that sound can come from. Rivulets of colour flow down the sidewalk, bright saris of silk or garish polyesters wafting in the breeze. Large families cram themselves onto 125cc motorbikes; husband riding, young kid on the tank, wife and two more kids squeezed onto the pillion. But of course, these are the relatively poor, those of better breeding don’t encumber themselves with so many children, they’re too busy enjoying the merits of privilege. Eating well and showing it is a sign of wealth here, or status. The middle-aged middle-classes proudly display the signs of fortune, slabs of flab cascade from the folds of saris, pot bellies perched on the petrol tank wobble like jellies fresh out the mould. (Photo: Sheet metal worker, recycling old tin cans - Aberdeen Bazaar, Port Blair)

When being open and receptive India is both dazzling and appalling, hence the oft-heard phrase, “you either love it or hate it”. I swing between the two. If trying to achieve anything without delay frustration sets in, and I struggle. When relaxed and responsive the nation’s gregarious nature never fails to touch me. People will always catch your attention, under any pretext, if only to say hello, unless your demeanour excludes the outside world. If I flash my gnashers a positive response is almost guaranteed, and Indian Indians have one of the most appealing smiles imaginable. A line of guys sit on a wall watching my progress along the road, I notice them, smile and call a greeting. Their faces light up, beaming smiles shine forth, and they all do that endearing Indian head wobble in unison. You can’t catch those moments on film! So when I’m hard pushed to cope with the harsh side of the country, all I need do is flash a smile at someone and my troubles should melt away. (Photo: Pounding t the laundry clean - Hidden Ghats, Port Blair)

 Having been fairly low for months India could have been a bad choice for a holiday destination, it’s a place of extremes, with little ground in the middle. Maybe that was part of the attraction, I know I would like to try spending more time in more rural areas. Poverty breeds a generous nature into people, the farming folk here are among the most genuine and hospitable I’ve ever come across. Mind you, I was whisked out into Madras for an all expenses paid night as a welcome to the city, by a stranger I met on the street. Ok, he was a bit of an alky, if fact he turned louder and more embarrassing the more he drank. And he had to get me back home on his bike, I hadn’t a clue where I was. It would have proved less of an ordeal riding back if I’d been half cut too. Now he wants me to help him entice clients to invest in his business, by pretending I’m a foreign investor. Of course he’ll have to buy me a set of smart business clothes, it wouldn’t cost me a penny either. All this and he never once tried to grope me, he must have been serious. (Photo: Using parrots as a means of predicting the future - Somewhere in the depths of Chennai)

So I made it to the Andaman Islands in one piece, despite throwing myself at the mercy of fate in Madras. This long haul flying takes it out of you though, it’s taken a couple of days to get my wits back. During which time hours each day have been spent pounding the pavements of the capital, Port Blair. Please believe me this has nothing to do with Tony, if it did the closest I would have come would be to piss on it as I flew overhead. I’ve been trying to suss out how to get to the Nicobar Islands, which are completely out of bounds to foreigners. Actually most of them are out of bounds to Indians too, in an effort to protect the indigenous tribes still refusing to join the modern world. There is a chance I could get there, if I hung around and went through a shed load of bureaucracy. Another guy just got a permit, for one of the islands, but he was not entirely forthcoming with how he managed. Shame, but never mind! I’m off to a nice secluded island in the Andamans on Monday, so I’ll be off-line for a while. (Photo: Hung out to dry - Town Ghat, Port Blair)