Island Hopping

The sleepy yet ridiculous reality of the heavenly nature of the islands is best exhibited in the bizzare beadledom and officious officialities of the local regulatory commisions. Securing a fare on one of the dilapidated ferries, aside from the haunting tales of an only recent tightening of the safety reins given the solemn sinking of a commerical ship only 3 weeks previously, is utter madness. One must arrive at the ticket office at any one of the opening times dictated by the befuddled locals, which ranged anywhere from 6:45am, though past 7:30, casually on via 8 until the final, reluctant arrival of staff around 8:45. I can't help but admire the unfailing conviction of all Indians in the realms of direction giving and advice mongering as regardless and often entirely devoid of any accuracy, information is unequivocablly conveyed in no uncertain terms to the trusting traveller who then must piece together a web of facticious responses and select their chosen path none the wiser. The recalcitrant glare of the unenthused ticket officers behind the thick, cloudy barrier of glass was met with a massive disorderly rabble, in which I hadbecome inextricably sandwiched, trying to chaotically organise themselves into one of the two ques which was further segregated into gender specific rows that clashed tumultuously, unlike the calm waters lapping the shores beyond the office. This bizarre and outlandosh approach to your conventional que caused a battle of the sexes at the front of each double line as each vyed violently for a place in front of the tiny window to gain the attention of the officer. The glass itself was only vaguely translucent given the myriad of ancient sticker residule from old, pallid, yellow hued scraps of paper with various inane instructions scrawlled atop, and lengthy ridiculously formal letters addressed to the likes of Chief Examiner of the Protocol of Island Transportation Division Department Executive Manager which contained such beweildering jargon infused discourse I was certain that very few had ever  othered to note such notes in their staggering verbosity, let alone comprehended them. 

When I finally arrived on Havelock Island, diver's paradise, halfway up the main bulk of the Andaman Isands and about 40km from the East coast, I excitedly booked myself onto two dives with the venerable Barefoot team and headed happily for the beach under what must've been around 35 degree heat, coconut in hand and sweaty smile on my face. Fruit was the unfavourable absence of life at ANET as the only rare treat was India's tiny bananas at breakfast which contain small but suprisingly hard black seeds. Something about the pulpous texture of a banana is so incongrous with a sudden hard pip that the experience leaves me feeling uneasy. How I'd been missing the melange of papaya, pineapple and melon of the mainland and so had been induldging heartily since emerging out of the jungle. The fine white sands were more or less deserted further along from the crowded and shady retreats of the Indian tourists, and I bathed in the crystal clear presence of the gently lapping bath-warm sea under cover of the shady canopy of more enormous littoral trees which towered above gently shedding leaves to provide soft bedding on the sand. The romantically named beach 'Number 7' is the bizzare colloquialism of Rangahar beach as named in local vernacular, although why the visiting masses can't refer to it by it's proper name is anyone's disillusioned guess.

Seriously sweaty
approaching devastating
high season hear

I headed for some lunch in the sleepy market infused streets of what could be percieved as the centre of the island and trundled off to beach Number 3 several samoas heavier. I passed some fishermen and their sons who were quite expertly practicing well exectued backflips, applauding racously at necessary intervals, before I headed round a deserted corner aside the water edge which was dappled with a length of beautiful mangrove trees. No sooner had I finished filming that days 5 seconds of film, a project inspired by a yoga disciple I'd met in Goa aimed at capturing the spectrum of bizzare and beautiful goings on of this trip ready to be stitched together and watched back in their entirety, than I suddenly became the focus of a fast approaching pack of angry dogs.

A solitary stroll by the tangle of mangroves before
the incident

I raised my arms and gazed fearfully forwards knowing it best to avoid the eye contact of territorial dogs, but the damage was somehow inexplicably done and I was immediately set upon from all sides. My lungi wrap-around sarong was ripped off and a few painful nashes to my calves left me instinctively screaming for help. To my tearful relief, a group of young boys closed in moments later with paniced looks across their faces before two more men came running from the other side of the beach. One way to interact with the locals I suppose! The beastly pack scattered and the group examined my legs and resolved with compassionate, conciliatroy exchanges of concern, in the complete absence of a shared common language, to escort me immediately to hospital. They  seemed wary given the blood speckled appearance of my legs and our walk together was speechless but the sweet, deferent boys dutifully and quietly hurried me the 5 minute hobble to hospital and then their concerned faces filled the doorway to the dusty old, almost deserted nurses' office in the eerily quiet state building. I was touched by their warmth and gave them a gracious, valedictoty high five each before they reluctantly left me. The nurse cleaned the 3 or 4 surface wounds and doused me in staining iodine. The bites were far less savage than could have been the case, and I was incredibly lucky and indebted to the local kids for ensuring the whole fiasco transpired without serious scathe. An incipient yet insidious bruise from a paricularly healthy bite on the inside of my right calf left me hobbling for a few days and unable to dive, but the waves of consternation took an evening to subside and after the stout character building experience I ultimately resolved to transit only when accompanied by a respectablely sized stick in future.  

Although I had been assured vaguely in an offhand and disinterested manner that rabies was non existent on the islands, there seemed no definitive reference on the internet, and so when back on the mainland several days later I sought a programme of jabs to ensure I didn't catch the rage and return home a foaming beast. However, until then I was stranded on the small and snoozy islands without the consultation of a more laudable medical establishment as ferries were booked up from Havelock to Port Blair for the next two days, on an isnald of non-existent internet connection. So I was utterly alone and decided jovially to spend my potentially last remaining days as a sentient, healthy and sane being on Niel, the next island along and more placcid smaller brother of Havelock.

I found a small, humble cluster of huts and occupied a beautiful wooded, rustic haven of my own before borrowing a friendly Uraguayian's bicycle for a slow and languorous exploration of the island, given that my calf muscle was still rock solid and as black as the heart of the unfriendly beast who inflicted it. Neil was a true paradise of sedative tranquility and I found myself alone, undisturbed all day long save a quick pancake with a jovial Israeli and until a communal dinner with the other residents before an early night in my wicker hut with my book. 

I woke early to head back, via some typical travel time turbulence on Indian transportation, for the final day at ANET before hopping on a flight to Chennai which by chance was happily the same as Cammie's. Whilst my stay at ANET wasn't the enlightening introduction into environmental sustainability and management I had been hoping for, I learned so much and had such a flipping beautiful time on the archelagio of islands. I do however look forward to hearing about the developing initiatives of the organisation which to be fair is still very much in its primary years of expansion having been revived in 2009 since its humble roots in 1990. The last two years only have seen the company staff and protocol expand dramatically into the education sector, working nationally with schools, children and students whilst taking on interns and volunteers, and next year the art department will add a further faction to the community spirit being nurtured there. So it was a valuable experience to see and feel the blossoming of such an inspriring organisation and I will take alot away with me for future thought having witnessed the behind he scenes nature of a great ethos. Well, onto the mainland for a final few days in mother India, unnervingly making flight amidst world news of a mysterious unaccountable plane which diverted from the flight route between Kuala Lumpur to Bejjing, on a mystefying and inexplicable diversion hundreds of kilometers over to the Andaman Islands before its signal was lost for 4 days, which I believe is now drastically descending into the weeks. Fingers crossed our flight path withstands and the missing plane is found soon.