Kempt Kuala Lumpur

I arrived in Kuala Lumpa in the early morning, and hopped on a bus from the airport before grabbing a monorail token ready to head into the city and deposit my bag. Arriving in south central India, Bangalore at the crack of dawn the previous day had allowed me a morning lazing in the Botanical gardens amidst rotund old gentlemen enthusiastically going about bizarre but admirable morning exersise routines running round sacred trees and swinging their arms frantically whilst I sat surrupticiouslt in the leaves and quietly practiced. This quick stop on the way to the airport had also given me time to briefly associate myself with KL geography before arriving which proved valuable. I had needed to hone in on destination in the actually quite large city, rather than just arriving at the airport slack-jawed and clueless, and so resolved to stay in a guesthouse for about £3 a night in Chinatown, where I anticipated the food would be good, the atmosphere interesting, but mainly the guesthouses cheap. Sailing in over the city on the monorail was a delight! If only London had transport with such a clear cut aerial perspective, I think commuters would arrive at work feeling considerably more elated, as the city looked bright and clean and refreshing from the sky. This is admittedly in direct contrast with the dusty cow strewn streets of India I had previously been resident witness to, and so the impact may have been intensified in me at this specific point in time. 

Arriving on ground level and hopping in a taxi to Wheeler's guesthouse opposite the Reggae bar, I found the city didn't disappoint and seemed serenely clean and calm even by 7am on a Saturday morning. I left my bag in my no frills room, a discoloured mint green cube with a old rickety bunk beg plonked at an irregular angle in the middle, and headed out for a mooch. Chinatown is the epicentre of cheap knock offs of perhaps the whole of Southeast Asia, and without really meaning to in minutes I'd bought a new casio to replace my malfunctioning model, a fantastic pair of convincingly crafted 'Ray Bans' fashioned surprisingly of real glass (which were inevitably dashed on a rock during a precipitous clamber up a mountain in Laos not 5 days later), and several bags of conveniently sliced cool Jack fruit and pineapple. I took a long sweaty pilgrimmage to the KL tower and resolved to ascend only half way past the Disney-esque entrance filled with glaring lights, obstreperous amusements, exotic animal enclosures and souvenier booths, largely as arriving at the top shafted you an extortionate £20, a third of my grossely misjudged budget for the three days. The views however, were uncontestably glorious and seeing the city from even higher was wonderful. A seriously extensive protion is covered in one of the largest man made city forests in the world, although ununfortunately it was close for maintenence until May. Next, I headed far North to the corner of the city to visit the National art gallery dripping in beautiful naturalistic art and an incredible exhibition called Absurd(c)ity, a fusion of old established and budding youth talent focussed on trippy and abstract themes which displayed contorted clows, weathered witches, and obscene optical illusions. It was brilliant! And most importantly, air conditioned. 

I rode the monorail back down south to centre of town arriving at the tourist information centre to find out if there were any performances in the evening I could catch. Malaysia had a notably more regimented and sensible approach to tourism than I had found in India, as it seemed very much embroiled in the city culture rather than left precariously to the mercy of ferocious rickshaw drivers and tatty laminated sheets of misspelt attractions. I'd already sourced a detailed city map from jolly attendants at a mall information booth, and the staff at the main tourist board were so friendly and informative. Despite the increased expense apparent in this city, it felt more agreeable to be helping to fuel local economy within the well-structured, well organised, and gracious tourism industry. I headed to see the sunset with a few cocktails and some baked camembert with cranberry jelly under the glistening and iconic Petronas Towers before returning to the tourist centre and family market to see a fantastic Malaysian dance performance, infused with Portuguese, Chinese and Indian styles from settlers in the past. After a satisfying stint of subtly inebriated raucous applauding, and quietly considering joining the jovial 2 year old happily dancing along in front of the audience, I reserved my better judgement and instead instigated the stagger home a little more effected by the several small cocktails than I'd perhaps anticipated given the 4 months of moderate abstinence. 

The next morning I took another immaculate, timely train service North to check out the Batu caves. Named after the Batu river which flows near 0by, the 400 million year old limestone caves became a Hindu site of religeous worship, and are now accessible by 272 concrete stairs past an enormous golden deity statue which stands proudly outside littered with grabby and boisterous macaque monkeys the locals gleefully feed despute warnings on the saftey of their young children. The site was suitably attuned to steadily drain the day trippers' wallets and more exotic animal enclosures vyed for tourist's Malaysian ringgit, and so after gawking at the enormous caves whilst recuperating from the rasping gasps of breath endured during the lofty climb, I headed back into town and chanced across an F1 street display of some seriously loud racing cars. After a disgracefully long and perpiration infused trek to the largest udercover free-flying aviary in the world, I snoozed in the vibrant and well kept park outside the Petronas towers, which rung with the pleasant din of children and families playing in the awesome water park nearby. I bumped into a gregarious Malaysian I'd met on the stumble home the night before, who had offered me directions back to Chinatown via his favourite Malaysian side street restaurant where I ordered the most delicious local rice delicacy served in a hollowed out pineapple, and who fortuitously arrived in perfect timing once again to direct me amiably to the Science centre in the Petronas Tower.

I was on my way to Dialouge in the Dark, a deeply moving awareness raising exhibition which leads visitors blindly into the dark, to experience an ephemeral glimpse of living life without sight. We bumped our way through a mock park, via a busy vegetable marketplace and along a rickety bridge, before ordering coffee and cookies in the pitch black by which time we found out that our spritely and most inspiring young guide had been blind since birth. The touring exhibition which has visited 150 cities in over 25 countires has provided jobs for over 6,000 visually impaired staff members and raises money for 3 reputable projects. It was a surprisingly moving journey that stirred deeply, and had me walking tearfully around the park outside closing my eyes periodically to judge likelihood of surviving without sight, and like many millions of visitors before I found myself in a dreamy reverie revering my eyes gratefully.

Heading for the airport on the last bus of the evening, I'd opted to arrive devillishly early for my 7am flight the next day. I had unpleasant premonitions of an otherwise troublesome fare to the airport in the early hours resulting in turmoil and possible missed flights given my luck, and so resolved to diversity the uses of my yoga mat and set up camp to doze in the corner of the check-in lounge ready for my alarm at 5am. I had inordinately enjoyed my whisk through Kuala Lumpur, impressed and encouraged by the cleanliness of the city and the ostensible joy of the people which was a stark contrast from the harsher environments of India I had left behind. I did however also somewhat miss India, its relentless chai stops, crumbling pavements and cracking the exterior of its people to find the convivial head bob endemic only to that country. But onwards and upwards, South East Asia beckons...

Auro-what!?

We landed in Chennai without problem, and I said a fond farewell to Cammie as she headed home for a ten day family sojourn before retuning to ANET for a final 6 weeks - although she has lived in India all her life she still retains a French passport and so is warranted to undergo the same visa restrictions in place on the Andaman Islands as any foreigner staying for no more than 45 days at a time. I imperiously avoided the hectic and bedraggled streets of Chennai and resolved instead to head South toward Pondicherry for 6 days whist awaiting my flight from Bangalore some 8 hours West. A seriously local bus station brought me crashing back to the crushing stares of a hundred prying vouyers as I waited for a bus on hopeful information from a dubious director at the airport. As the beaten up old bus, displaying typically extensive battle wounds, flecking paint and absent windows, crested the horizon and plundered toward the lay-by entrance, a precipitous dash of bodies shoved me along and happily both myself and my backpack were resultantly held fortuitously upright by the wall of clamorous commuters. I even somehow managed to merit a seat for the 3 hour journey. With a backdrop of the lustrous setting sun illuminating the dusty road with unexpected beauty, I settled happily into my book and awaited Mamallapuram, a travellers haunt on the way to Pondicherry. I mainly stopped off as I was asleep on my feet, and as it turned out this relatively prosaic town scattered asunder with elderly tie dye garbed travellers and substandard touristic tat only held my attention for one brief evening anyway. So in the morning, after a fruitless wander to the dirty beach, I boarded another bus to head a further 3 hours South to Pondicherry and had decided to explore and reside in Auroville, an epicentre of international experimentation into social unification founded in the 60's by the mysterious 'Mother'.

                                                                                        Some surprisingly alright pictures from Mamallapuram

An unnerving Hindu effigy on the dirt
track to Auroville. Wasn't sure what
to make of it.

Inaugrated in 1968 by a gathering of some 124 nations and representatives from all Indian states, Auroville is the dream of French born Mirra Alfassa who either named herself or was bestowed the title 'The Mother' and followed in the footsteps of her Indian guru Sri Aurobindo throughout the 60's. The site was handed over to the democratic union of internationals and environmentally conscious 2,000 current inhabitants, although the initial estimations of Aurovillians in '68 was a whopping 50,000, with a view to become a global inspiration for a society based solely on love and sustainability as a place to "realise human unity". A confusing map I picked up from the Visitor's centre, a once futuristic now tired building nestled in a small gathering of hemp threaded clothing boutiques and white walled exhibition galleries of positive affirmations and tbe mother's preachings, denoted the various little factions of Auroville all bestowed various positive and perhaps contrived titles such as Certitude, Perseverenve and Kindness. To be honest, if I were to have conceived of a haven of environmental green living, I would have built its neighbouring establishments much closer together, as the sparse and sporadic nature of the various hippy communes were several kilometres apart along difficult dirt tracks encouraging residents and visitors alike to make use of the many surrounding motorbike hire stalls to make a full exploration. I initially resolved to waft carelessly around on a bicycle, but the proximity from my dormitory on the outskirts of the commune to its centre, and the requirement to head 16km back into Pondicherry to receive a series rabies jabs made this a bit of a pipe dream. So I rented a small motorbike, checked my mirrors (or more accurately mirror singular as the left one had fallen off), tightened my laces, and tried not to think of my carbon footprint.

My slow little bike and I trundled merrily to town enjoying the cool wind against my skin as opposed to the searing midday heat and rivulets of sweat I would be suffering with had I rented a bicycle. Pondicherry has a small and diverse centre of several disecting busy commercial roads selling reams of milk sweets, fruits, fish, watches, saris and books. In the more tranquil North of the town, with its calm wider streets, was nestled the french colonial quarter comprised of neat little buildings adorned with crumbling palid walls, iron wrought window guards and pretty street signs reading rue rather than road. I had a consultation with a friendly female doctor in a private hospital and bought jab one of 3 to fight any harbouring virus from the dog bites, before returning 3 days later for the second installment at the unbelievably crowded and dilapidated public hospital under its collapsing roof and flaking painted walls amidst hundreds of hot and sweaty visitors sitting bare footed against the walls in huge ever growing ques.

Bizarrely, a portly civilian laden himself with my situation and made it his duty to rush me past the hundreds of women queuing to my abject embarrassment, however this whole fiasco resulted in several trips up and down the stairs as noone knew what slip of paper I needed scribbling on by what overworked GP for which overcrowded department before the rabies nurse left at 10:30am. Anyway, long, hectic story short, I was jabbed after a small school uniformed girl in looped plaits and awaited my final installment in Laos.

The following three pictures were sourced from the
extensive Google achives as cameras are
predictably not permitted beyond the gate

Back along the dual carriageway out of town and down a random, inconspicuous and under signposted little track at Auroville I had booked in for a 'concentration' at the esteemed Matri Mandir, a giant gooden orb which supposedly constitues the spiritual and structural centre of Auroville, a "symbol of the Divine's answer to Man's aspiration for perfection". An ambitious blue print of artistic community buildings on display at the town hall fanned out from around the central golden 'pupil' like the outer contours of a giant psychedelic eye as perceived from aerial view in plans and models, but in actuality developments are still very much embryonic if not currently unstarted and not a single building currently stands to realise this innovative design proposed in the 1960s. Much like many of the righteous environmental measures which have been professed since Auroville's inception, such as a huge water purification pipe running from the sea several kilometres away, electric car transportation and several other outlandish recycling schemes. The Matri Mandir is an enormous golden ball, a building that was alledgedly envisioned by the Mother in some lucid trance, and is comprised of 2,000,000 gold leafed mosaic pieces arranged onto hundreds of small and large discs which cover its imposing spherical outside. Orchestrated entry was only permitted after sitting through a 25 minute short film about the origins of Auroville, which skimmed over functional information such as the achievements of the organisation, the funding structure and survival, the funding of the opulent Mantri Mandir or the school curriculum and oppourtunities for young people, all lost in a flimsy and garralous superfluity of professed creativity and free will which to me seemed devoid of any certifiable evidence of what Aurovillians actually do. The anciet and eccentric British guide Gary, a die hard Aurovillian resident, showed us through the lush and marvellous extremely well-kempt gardens of the Matri Mandir, which were nurtured abundantly by lavish diurnal spray systems from a never ending supplies of water. It was odd to me that the buildings were strewn so distantly from one and other requiring the running of a petrol powered machines bobbing dangerously over unmarked, coverted speed bumps no one had got round to painting for the safety of the inhabitants, yet many Indian workers were hired to maintain the decadence of the one central garden. However, one is gravely forbidden from entering the park for recreation, perhaps reading under the enormous and beautiful Banyan tree to the North of the Matri Mandir, unless one holds an Aurovillian resident card. During a run in with a guard during such an attempt a snooty young mother rebuked common travellers for our trespassing. And even residents are not even permitted to enjoy the lushious grassy and shaded respite of the garden at their free will without prior notice to the gate guard during short, specific preordained intervals throughout the day.

Anyway, the Matri Mandir is definitely, categorically not a place of worship for herself, her values, or any devotional religious or secular constructs as profanely professed by the Mother herself. Howeeeever, Matri Mandir by direct translation does perplexingly mean Mother Temple. Our guide explained that the golden casing really did very little to maintain the cool interior of the ball as many mistakenly think, and is in fact purely for aesthetics. Similarly, the 12 towering columns in the central room which do not quite meet the root, are actually not for structural integrity of the centre and are an unknown and mysical addition simply seen by the Mother in her transcendental trance. 12 is a very sacred or perhaps more accurately salient number in the Aurovillian cult or tradition, although references to the numerical networks and patters of these importqnt numbers were brief and underdeveloped. Upon entering the completely silent Disney's Epcot-esque golfball you were in the centre of the cavernous space aglow with frivilous and futuristic walls of red hued back lighting which climbed the impressive walls like a convincing set of Star Wars. Guided by sentinel speechless old hippys dotted at various intervals we were directed to remove our shoes and don thick white socks to ascend one of the entwining and spiralling helix staircases into the central chamber.

The central concentration hamber

A prestine enormous and minimal dark cave, which embellished the spacey Millenium falcolm ambiencemof the place, had at least 40 meditation spots extending out around a central skylight which gave way to a beam of sunlight that shone directly down through a prodigious glass orb that scattered reflections of the clouds across the hazy survace of a white plateau which then trickled the light down under the enormous golden ball to a smaller crystal in the middle of a white water feature underneath. The large mixed group of tourists of sat for 15 minutes in either quiet, disiplined meditation or disinterested uncomfortable slants observing the silence broken monumentally by the smallest sniffle or most clandenstine cough which sent sound waves echoingly menacingly around the space. The floor was covered in a thick, white cushioned carpet, hence the bizarre socks and stern instruction to deter from prostrations particularly if harbohring painted bindis as they'd found these murderous to remove in the past.

12 outer petal rooms named after various meritorious attributes radiated out around the ball providing other rainbow coloured space age rooms to sit and meditate in during prebooked concentrstion sessions which I heard were less bizarre than the group induction. Being in the central chamber had had an adverse anarchic effext on me producing a dastardly desire to sprint and dive roll over the big light crystal purely to stir and see the abhorrence from the eldery guarding residents. I desperately sought a park or communal grassland to sit and read or hula hoop in the following day, but aside from the scrupulously maintained Matri Mandir garden, locals of 3 and 30 years could not managed to guide me to such a place as they absent mindely searched the recesses of their cloudy memories for places of communal congregation, nor seemed phased at its absence. I chanced across the botanical gardens, a forgotten tangle of scrub land and faded, ghostly signs which once displayed a visitors' trail, plant properties and latin derivatives when the dream of aauroville was new and vibrant. The devilish desires returned as some other visitors in my dormitory and I consired breaking into the main gardens and enjoy the soft grass at sunset in protest of the Draconian and esoteric regulations. I was vying for a well-timed streak of defiance, but we resolved to abstain as, although we were leaving in the morning, one girl aspired to stay for longer and volunteer her time so we relented on her behalf. 

In the evenings we gathered fruits and exquisite bakery items for extensive communal feasts and fruit salads, and I hooped the nights away with two Slovak enthusiasts with whom I exchanged many tricks to the soundtrack of guitar mastery from incredibly talented Israelis and Indians.

Melina and me

A little bit disillusioned toward the end of my stay in the furtive Auroville with its unremitting residents, I did however merit a disgracefully cheap dentist check up and polish with a reputable Indian dentist for 280 rupees, or the equivalent of a meagre £3. So whilst Auroville was comprised of the unimpressively elitist confluence of a cultish cohort with a cloudy concept, I found a great dentistry service, and the deals in some ways inspiring. Plus several of the delightful debauchees from my dormitory will be attending Boom in Portugal so the saga continues...

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.

Another on ANET before absconding the Andamans...

After the school group left, and happily we could stop ascending to the roof top of the library every 5 minutes to retrieve my light-up frisbee, the pace didn't really pick up as expected. The heat of the day, the luxurious shade of the trees and the clockwork nature of the meals at ANET caused the first 6 days to slip laxcidasically by in a waft of book reading, sketching and library dwelling. I was finally given a project to design and articulate a guided tree walk for visitors, gratutiously utilising my degree whilst tackling some botanical knowledge in the process. I loved ambling along the jungle dirt tracks and precariously climbing trees to retrive samples of their tropical leaves or inviting flowers, whilst matching

Some sort of scandent species. If I had my
booklet, I'd impress you with the Latin

their characteristics against the verbose musings of the euphuistic botanist Parkinson using an archaic dusty version of his Andaman Flora I found in the library. Researching with the abominable internet connection caused progress to venture down a less than expedidious path, but after unabatedly battling on for a week I had finally gathered all the necessary information to compile. The next step was to tackle design software PhotoShop and InDesign to edit photos and order the chaos into some sort of coherent booklet form. The deeply and divinely sarcastic Aditi from Bangalore arrived in the nick of time to share some pearls of PhotoShop wisdom whilst providing regular cutting remarks on my performance. Padi as she told me she prefers to be know to friends, which was a joyful revelation given the ostensibly harsh and mocking ambience of most of our previous interactions, helped me cut some of the photos of tree bark, boughs, leaves and flowers I'd been gathering to include in the booklet.

After 2 weeks of much toil and trouble with the seemingly nonsensical functions of Windows' maddnening malfunctioning software, I had finally finished, and was pleased with the professional look of the final product. I layered the background beautifully with the help of English art therapist Ruth's leaf prints which she had been creating to build an art library whilst volunteering to assist with ANET's launch of an art department. Her Switz husband Klas, an architect trained in Scotland where they met, had been helping construct a little tree house up in the canopy of a small banyan tree near our volunteer tent which was a fantastic and exciting achievement and venue of ensuing star gazing evenings. Before the two left for the next leg of their 6 month break from work we trudged through the jungle up Mnt. Harriet North of Port Blair, cunningly entering the national reserve under the beguiling guise of students which exultingly saved us over 9/10s on the fare.

To begin with it took some time to settle convivially into the castaway community as, besides the difficulty of pronouncing let alone remembering the plethora of unusual names of the mostly Indian cohort, the majority of researchers were embroiled in the depths of their thesis studies, dissertations or university granted investigations and so had little time or energy for engaging passers by. Supplement this with the sometimes seemingly unmannered social interactions of Indian people as perceived by the bubble wrapped, soft and blithering politeness of the English, and I felt a little isolated to begin with. However, I quickly settled in as other volunteers, interns and dive master aapirants flooded in, amd I grew accustomed to the scathing remarks from Aditi, warded off the dark and often aggressive sattire of Nitya to enjoy the the dynamics of the jungle dramas. 

Ruth, Klas and me recuperating after a grueling dive

During work on the tree guide, the days happily remained blissfully relaxed with daily yoga on the wooden boarding of the library veranda, performing diurnal sun salutations to mark the passing of each gorgeous day with the help of ship shape Canadian yoga guru Zan and her hardcore yet soothing style. Ruth, Klas, Zan and I went on a few dives to Cinque Island some 40km south to an astounding underwater universe alive with sundry scores of species darting about their daily business amongst bright coral of all shapes and colours. When out of the water, and breaking from the internet and InDesign battles, Zan and I crafted jewelry from the beautiful plumage of an unfortunate Andaman Cuckoo dashed on the road (surely nothing says enironmentally conscious like such dedicated recycling devotion), practiced yoga and desecrated our clothes with scissors to suit our rustic setting with bedraggled raiment. Some of the other 

Padi, Thitlet, me and Indu a little smug after our
ray encountees

volunteers and I verntured off on a dive less far afield a half hour boat ride from the coastal doorstep of the jungle. We swam beside an enormous manta ray even before descending into the warm depths, felicitously flapping along after the blissful beats of its enormous wings. When we descended to the sea bed we found a beautiful chamelionic colour shifting camoflaged octopus and a gargantuan blotched sting ray far bigger than me relaxing beside a rock.

 

When I'd completed the tree guide, the slightly shambolick organisation of the volunteer project left me without any idea of the location of the ANET elders, let alone any further projects to take up, and so I began helping French-Indian Cammie with a mangrove fauna data collecting project, with the help of the new volunteer and slightly soporific Nick from Leeds. This was made all he more fun due to the timing of our morning endeavours coinciding with high tide which provided wet marshy, clay pits to squelch up between the toes during investigations. Plus the added bonus of wallowing in the glorious sun shine and the advancement of my tan having spent many days mostly under the canopy of the trees. It was cool being able to tag along with various researchers and volunteers helping and observing ongoing projects. Strolling onto New Wandoor at night with ANET's dedicated chefs slash Sea Krait monitors, as well as John, ANET's meek and modest longest standing affiliate whose roots are amongst the Karan people who migrated to the islands for work. He was a deep source of botanical knowledge on the islands and their flora and fauna and was leading the Sea Krait monitoring. Around

My personal favourite marrying of photo and caption.
Hung beside a close second which was a similar out
of focus, dusty shot of a grumpy looking pair in ragged
tracksuits in front of their wooden home labelled
laconically: 'A Local Couple'

this time I also had to venture to Port Blair to renew my visa for an extended 15 days. A chaotic occurence that took two attempts, tackling the 50 minute hurtling bus ride either way into the dizzying hectic hive of the costal town. It did however afford some enlightening visits to the Cellular Jail, where horrific incacerations of Freedom Figters were exercised before India's independence, which apparently warrants a tree narrating the grisly history lugubriously during a decadent but heavily dated and uninformative son et lumiere, plus a sweep through the ancient Anthropological museum which given the history of the Islands was vastly interesting to ponder, if perhaps not a little underwhelming in some displays.

During my last few days at ANET I was able to exersise one of my favourite new hobbies sketching birds of the subcontinent, and began a speices library to help visitors spot and identify 26 common birds likely to be darting through the trees around ANET. On

A Stork-Billed Kingfisher
nestled inconspicuously
in the middle of the branch

Valentine's day I also went out with some of the researchers to take part in the international Backyard Bird-watching event which had the whole world embarking on a quick count of speices in their home environment to help gather data on widespread international environments. So having completed a few various projects of my own and assisted whoever and whatever was in need in the sleepy recesses of the ANET remit, I began to pack up my things in the final week, and was getting ready to depart. Having been left very much to our own devices, which was probably a good lesson in focus and motivation, the days at ANET had been a blend of some self-imposed hard work, self-exalting diving trips to the sea bed and self-directed expeditions of discovery around the beautiful bucolic surroundings. I'd learned so much about the endemic and continental flora and fauna as well as some local history and so took a few hedonistic days off in the paradisiacal islands just North of Port Blair before I flew back to the mainland.

A Rustic Residency

Skimming in over palm trees and brightly coloured houses against a cloudless blue sky on the Andaman Islands really made me smile. Mainly in contrast as this moment of quiet quiescent reverence was preceeded only hours before by a highly unsavoury incident with some savvy streetwise macaque monkeys at the hotel, who viciously pillaged my innocently drying clothes leaving the tattered shreds crudely strewn. My efforts at squeezing both head and arms through the dirty bannisters of my balcony to grasp some remaining frayed items were inexorably met with the sudden and belligerent toothy grimace of the head honcho, which sent both myself, and the hotel porter who was asssiting me, rolling comically backwards into the room and scrambling to slam the door firmly shut, my head accordingly battered. Anyway, Port Blair airport hemmed with coconut palms and decorated in washed out sun bleached licks of paint felt suitaby tropical as I filled out my visa application and signed various disclaimers designed to prevent visitors from crumbling the coral reefs and besmirching the beaches. Long itemised lists of prohibited items, actions and activities decorated almost every wall, my favourite being the extremely detailed forbiddance of 'eve teasing', or 'wrong fully engaging a female in deroggatory acts of verbal accostation' and such like. The punctillious judicial jargon was a struggle for me to wade through with the help of an Engilsh degree so I wandered how other nationalisites and those who exersice local vernacular are supposed to derive any influence from such balmy bureaucracy. 

I was heading for ANET, the Andaman and Nicobar Environmental Team, for a 6 week volunteer placement to offer my services for the good of their myriad of inspiring projects. Ravi, ANET's taximan, aside from being half an hour late, was very jovial and a good companion to drive me through the lush jungle forests to New Wandoor about 40 minutes North (regrettably it later transpires that his beguiling smile masks an undercurrent of guerilla commission and extoritinate charges and he proceeds to subtly shafts us of much cash. Still, we are in India so it's really only friendly banter). The South Andaman Island is the largest of the Andaman and Nicobar's 572 stong archipelagio on which roughly 400,000 inhabitants scatter themselves, with one quarter residing in Port Blair. However, there are other far flung factions completely adverse to the comparatively urbanite town dwellers of this small port. A multitude of tribes including the Jarwars, Onges, Andamnese and Karen people occupy many of the islands, the inhospitable former actively warding off an contact with the developing world around them. The story goes that following the devestation of the tsunami, a relief helicopter hovered in over these peoples offering supplies and assistance but it was soon forcibly rebuked and repelled by a gust of resolute arrows fired from tribesmans' bows. It was quite humbling to be so near to such untouched civilisations especially given the history of India and its wide spread colonisationation which nonetheless stretched this far into the ocean but left some stones unturned having not infultrated these primitive havens. Millions of years ago along

the huge Indian Tectonic Plate collided catastrophically with the Burmese Plate to coincidentally form the clandestine yet comely islands which are hundreds of kilometers from the East coast of the mainland in the Bay of Bengal, and are actually much closer to Burma and Malaysia than India itself. The 750 km of islands lay along the Alpide Belt, running from this area, through the Himalayas, into Europe along the Alps and off into the Altantic, which is geologically significantfor its turbulence and seismic activitiy evident in frequent cyclones, quakes and the unforgettable tsumani in 2004. In fact, whilst I was on the islands an earth quake struck underwater measuring a reasonable 5.5 on the richter scale, although we didnt feel the tremors. Driving from the port took us first out of town and alongside vast expanses of salty lakes that settled in the wake of the giant tsunami wave, alterring the agricultural dynamic of the land, uprooting trees and devestating houses, however harborring new and diverse eco-systems which sprung up in respone to provide a positive lining to the dark cloud, and are now protected throughout the islands. Houses grew more sporadic as the jungle grew thicker around us and we descended into the Island.

We pulled off the sleepy rural track into a shade of the entensive jungle canopy and a dwelling of large rustic but well structured wooden huts, tents and shacks. Interconnected by little dirt tracks that split up the foliage strewn ground which rustled and crackled with scurring lifeforms away your every step, the little labyrynth had an exciting robinson crusoe ambience. House rules sensibly dictate that you never set foot on the paths by night without some form of torch, for fear of crushing a toad, trampling a newt, or even rousing a king cobra...

                            Daily doses of fauna. A rare veroxie gecko (although I'm certain this isn't how it is spelt), a chilled 

                                  and inconspicuous leaf insect, and the perplexingly entitled bronze back snake, given its brazen green colourings

I was showed to the volunteer tent, an impressive yet fundamentally austere canvas room with 5 others housed on thin, single camping mattresses. However, the busy choice of interior decoration remedied its stark simplicity in exhibiting a relentless fleur de lis type print repeated hundreds of times in floral rows throughought the entire inside surface of the tent, calmed somewhat by the hanging of additional bunting and soon my display of pictures, hanging decorations and photographs. Part of ANET's remit is pressure on local policy regarding waste and energy consumption and as such measures including rain water harvesting are employed to try and reduce the facilities impact on the environment. So showers were sought by upending buckets of browny green hued water over your head in the privacy of a set of wicker wooden huts, it was awesome, so bloody intpuch with nature! But I use the term privacy loosely due to the gappy approach to woven sheets that constituted the four walls of each cubicle (an eye-brow raising factor of the washing facilities I combatted with strategically hung items of clothing draped over the danger zones). The toilets were rudimentary shacks situated off the leafy path ways, and the wash area enabled the spritely brushing of teeth under the shadow of sundry species of shady trees which sprouted ambrosial panicles of beautiful spinulous pinky firework flowers which could be observed blossoming and wilting in diurnal cycles.

To my dismay the showers were also home to several large species of brown speckled thick legged spiders, a formideable looking, vaguely tarantual-esque tropical version of our house spider. There was a notably terrifying encounter with such a creature during the sort of lengthy shower in which I was endeavouring to wash my body, matted hair and almost all my clothes. Realising I had an accompanying vouyer upon opening my eyes after the first bucket made the remainder of the wash a tricky affair. Every bubble of soap that wandered haphazardly into my eyes resulted in an awkward slippery struggle to regain visual in order to verify the spider's acceptable proximity. A loud and running commentary of my feelings and emotions to my friend in the next shack along was a source of some comfort, although rarely seemed to warrant reply. The next day I numinously found an ever so slightly smaller spider frozen dermonstratively in its final death battle with a giant red ant curled up together on my sketch book and so I was able to cautioualy investigate its sizeable and sturdy body loaded with a multitude of terrifying tiny, shiny eyes and long hairy legs with the help of rudimetary tongs fashioned foom shells.

I even stroked its little body and later sketched its progressively le grotesque form which I steadily began to appreciate, and the whole caper really provided rudimentary therapy for the crippling phobia.

The first week on the Andamans was slow as a group of 30 students flooded the jungle on a school trip. However this afforded some fun fire side poi and hula classes during one of ANET's delicious barbeque nights. The expert chefs crafted an enormous bamboo wicker grill that they then secured over a dug out coal fire about 6ft by 4ft which was piled with banana leaves encasing chicken, fish, potatoes and whole red onions. Intridued by the set up I offered my help to make the large grill, only to be met by a vacant stare and a resolute if not unfriendly 'no'. There went my hope of any cooking classes this month! But each to their own, and as a result most likely: the food was absolutely awesome. Throughout the month breakfast, lunch and dinner appeared in abundance under the wooded shelter of the dining room in a rustic buffet form. Dahls, pickles, coconut vegetables, fish and paneer curries, salads and papads covered the table and comfortably fed the 40 or so staff members and visitor groups.

ANET is surrounded closely by an enveloping coastline wrapping tightly round two of its

corners, which exhibit a stunning array of life. The mangroves are home to hardy species of salt water resilient trees with high knee roots and are exemplary of 8% of the Earth's coastal regions. The trees and plants thrive in their saline habitat by nifty adaptations such as waxy surfaces to their foliage to prevent evaporation of their valuable water, and pores on the underside to expel the salty byproduct. The clay ground is bleached, cracked and dry during the low tide and under submerged ankle deep water by high tide, during both of which it is equally teeming with life. Mudskippers, fiddler crabs, sea snails, hermits, target fish, sting rays and eels live amonst the spindulous mangrove roots which offer early asylum to juvinilles and other slow moving vulnerable creatures. Every footstep through the sand caused a flicker of a thousand scurrying legs or flaps of fins as crab and skippers disappear down their holes at the speed of light. The mudskippers were arguably my favourites, semi-amphibious fish which skim the water surface and can survive on land for many minutes due to a pocket of water they store behind their big googly eyes. Their rapid blinking coats the eye with moisture whilst transferring an imperative splash to their gills keeping oxygen flowing into their lungs before they dash over a puddle to replenish their watery stores. The adaptations are never-ending and incredible. 

The other beach further round the corner on the costal outcrop is a littoral zone where the towering jungle meets the white sandy beach in a picturesque clash of environments. Palm trees creeping to between 30 and 40 ft are flanked by utterly ginormous didu, andamn redwood and mahu bullet wood trees which must be pushing heights of 80ft+ in some instances. A treacherous walk through the jungle absailing down root ropes to scale earthy drops brought us out into a leafy expanse of creepers and ferns which encased a football field sized clearing of the trees before we ducked under some draped branches to emerge on the beach further North. Sentinel exposed boulders contain some of the jungle from spilling over onto the beach, and watch over the coast line fortified by creepers and the resillient roots of strangler trees. These are grisly arboreal beasts which find footing in any environment from rock to other living trees before they envelop and dominate using their host as a foundation. Some have even defeated the largest banyan trees to produce an alien metamorphasising tree of several species dripping in different coloured veins and branches. The beaches are laden with utterly enormous boughs and roots of fallen trees mercilessly uprooted during the tsunami

before being hurtled to far flung beaches to rest. The salty solution has stripped them bare and the sun bleached their skin over many years so their presence emits a haunting white glow over the beaches. But by night, their intricate hairy roots, which form towering tangled verticle circles up to 15ft high, are home to banded sea kraits, potently venemous snakes which seek refuge there for sleep. One night we spotted 8 different blue lipped sea snakes, some sleeping amongst the roots, some langarously slithereing away to avoid the glare of our red filtered torches. The gutsy proximity between man and beast can be sufficiently strained by the fact theat their poision emitting fangs are set far back into their small gape so that only a bite to the ear lobe or the webbing of the fingers could perhaps be suitable for a deadly bite. And exerting such a mortal wound allegedly dilapidates their energy stores so significantly, they'd be hard pressed to bother when slithering away into the sea seems like a far less strenuous measure.

ANET has two push bikes and aside from the lack of gears and the disgracefully weak brakes, and the fact that the front of the frame lurched heart-wrenchingly forwards when too much inadviseable relaxation loads pressure onto the handlebars, they facilitated enlightening cycle rides round the sleepy tracks of the local area. A 5km ride away was New Wandoor beach near the fishing jetty, an area slightly besmeeched by the luckily tucked away but rather horrendous and strangely barren Sea Princess resort. The front of this ghastly tourist edifice edges the beach with typical Indian architecture, a perplexingly ugly pooly laid concrete fence of about 4 and a half foot high which was spined forebodingly with shards of glass to prevent intruders....should they not wish to hop the gate which breaks the wall a few feet away. It was a bizarre establishment we would occasionally head to for beers in their central bar run by officious staff who insist on blaring obnoxious dance music, or more appropriately the same 5-10 ostentacious tracks, much to all residents' and visitors' disdain. The huts hemmed a central expanse of sporadic palm trees in regimented rows leaving the area feeling a little barren, aside from the aspiring night club the haughty bar men run in the middle. It's just so perculiar that land in the middle of the most heavenly beaches is so monumentally misused and missing the mark.

But further down the beach a ring of coconut, puri and kalupi venders encircled a perciliar dilapidated but once colourful beachy building mounted bizarrely on 6ft stilts that, deserted, looked out not imposingly and more interesting from behind the palms over the beautiful white beach. I loved cycling here after a solitary sit in the Buddhist Meditation Centre for a fresh coconut and attempt at sounding a conch to the amusment of the proficient locals. Ignoring the warnings of salt water crocodile, dips in the crystal clear shallow waters were beyond celestial and wrapped up a sweaty midday bike ride sublimely. Although like the animals which infuse every single corner of the junge, intertidals spaces and beaches it is easy to adapt and quickly acclimatise to new surroundings and accept the environment insensately, I tried to ensure this was not the cae in New Wandoor. Most moments I feel like I had to pinch myself to appreciate the mental landscape which was my home for 6 weeks.

Distressed in Delhi

Jaipur to Delhi at 4:30pm on the February 1st was by far the most uncomfortable train journey of both our lives. We boarded without note, easily locating our two empty seats beside a tidy, well to do looking young woman. But as the minutes drew closer towards our departure, the crowds swept in like a tide of disaster crashing against the dilapidated walls of the dented train and those sitting obliviously inside. It turns out that purchasing a ticket on busy government trains is utterly futile, as perhaps beyond 80% of those cramming in besides, under and on top of you will, most likely, not have bothererd. A rotund couple pressed in close and the woman muscled in resolutely besides Jack, smiling vacantly, causing the mass of bodies atop our 3 people bench to undulate precariously over the sides with each inhabitant occupying a slither of surface to rest a butt cheek or drape and outer thigh with uncomfortable and constant shuffling. The male component of the offensive couple removed his shoes and hoisted a moist foot up onto the bench beside me aiming his crotch menancingly in my direction as I nestled with growing animosity beneath his dank armpit. The impassive ticket collector threaded lazily through the crowds in a bewilderingly hollow attempt to collect official documentation from any person who bothered to lethargically display their ticket, much to the collector's slightly begrudging exertion. Within no more than 5 minutes or so, and with demonstrative distainful scowls, Jack and I ascended into the rafters, shuffling bags and blankets to cramp into the foot and a half of space afforded to the upper berth seats 3 storeys high. Even here we were soon bombarded with ticket evading miscreants, but we staunchly protected our purchased seats and managed to stretch out our legs to the other side providing some respite for our stiffening knees. The 5 turned 6 and a half hour journey was spent in this manner, disappearing from our swealtering, crippling reality into a continuous array of films masterfully installed on my tablet before Jack brought it out for me. Amidst the odiferous musk of the mass of sardined bodies, and the audacious clangor of the tinny Hindi music played by the hateful smarmy boy opposite us on his phone, there were small and unwarranted vitriolic reverberations between Jack and I as each tried to convey, curb or counteract the growing irascibility that bubbled dangerously below the surface. 

We eventually arrived in Delhi at 11pm, to brutal wall of callous rickshaw drivers. Given the dispute in Jaipur followed by the testing train journey, our energy stores were dangerously depleted and we were becoming hard pushed to fight our way out of a paper bag. Like a night in shining armour, or more accurtely: a trendy Delhi-ite in a large puffer jacket, Arman arrived on the scene to guide us on our way. Attracted by our expressions of dilapidated dispair, he shooed off the treacherous taxi drivers who were trying to strip us abominably of our final rupees, and marched us to the booking office demanding a fair price for our 4km journey. My eyes were disappearing behind tears of relief and gratitude as he warmly bid us farewell, masterfully restoring our faith in fellow man in the nick of time. 

We turned off a main road to face a meretricious mash of hotel signs hanging blindingly down over a small alley cram packed with hotels. The garish Grand Godwit reception was a welcome refuge to our worn out weary forms, and we retreated upstairs to our room ready for a steady flow of room service and relaxation. The room was the most pristine we'd stayed in the whole month with epic facilities, elegant accents, and a freakin' power shower with wall jets and unlimited hot water! We were in a moody marble heaven. The only time we ventured out was to attempt to see the sunset with cocktails on a sky scraper, which turned out to be a huge disaster with more taxi man debarcles, Jack actually having to single-handedly haul an autorickshaw out of a hole in the road and a long and fruitless drive around the whole of town. After a quick stop in a busy mall, which was like stepping into a  blinding futuristic labyrinth of windows and lights giving our shopping preferences of the month, to replensih my underwear stores having left my skimpies dangled alluringly over the balcony of our recent lodgings in Jairpur, we quickly scarpered back to our room and enjoyed more room services and the buffet breakfast the next morning before we headed to the airport.

Saying goodbye in strange lands was appropriately abominable. Every indelible second flashed before our eyes as we struggled to accept it was over so seemingly fast whilst marvelling at the flavoursome amount we'd crammed into only a month just like a fragrant and turgid, hot samosa. Having a co-pilot for the month was, besides utterly essential as it turned out, endlessly ethereal. As sturdy as Rambo, and as funny as Leslie Neilsen, I will miss my travel buddy immensely. Words cannot describe. Seeing such a bewildering  country through two sets of eyes has the blissful dual benefits of enhancing appreciation of the beautiful colours and warm souls in circulation, whilst rose tinting the grimier corners and dubious encounters with a sumlime shield of humour and jest.

Oh well, alone into the fray I go.. 

Oh S#!t.