Moi and Mine

The “marigold sun” of the Andamans beats down unrelentingly all afternoon but the early morning hours when we went to the jetty were cool-ish and filled with promise. We now have a room facing the bay but initially had a room on the other side where I enjoyed the green canopy in front of us: tall spreading neem tree, pencil thin Asoka with their silvery leaves shaking in the sea breeze, a tall mango and a huge tamarind tree laden with fruit. Of the 572 and counting islands, we have visited South Andaman whereupon sits Port Blair, Ross Island complete with Japanese bunkers from WWII and ruins of churches and buildings from the British before. We saw the son et lumiere at the Cellular Jail in Port Blair, famous for its incarceration of the freedom fighters of 1857 and on—in Hindhi. Yesterday, we took the ferry for over two hours into the black water (Kala Pani) of the open sea to Havelock Island. There, I walked on a pristine beach with the water pleasantly warm, lapping at my feet and the rough coral sand smoothed by the ocean waves. We visited the Barefoot Resort at Radhanagar beach aka Beach #7 and borrowed their mats and umbrellas. Margo promptly fell asleep under the jungle canopy of mahua trees and was lucky to be only bitten by one ant. We heard peacocks and other jungle birds but saw few. Scantily clad Europeans smoked cigarettes, I even smelled some weed. They spoke a plethora of languages none of which are understood here where people speak four languages as if they are one, dipping in and out of Hindhi, Tamil, Malayalam and English easily. At another end of the beach were some Indian families, screaming as they entered the water fully dressed, all six yards of their saris, too. MK Sunny (who has an MA in counseling) and Selvakumar (a drama major) need a medal for getting us tickets, hiring taxis and dropping us off at 5:30 in the morning and picking us up from the jetty after dark. It is hard to imagine this glassy sea embroiled with huge waves lashing the shores as it did during the tsunami in 2004. We met the children, earlier, at the Tsunami Shelter at Bamboo Flats where Sunny and Selvakumar (who lives in Great Nicobar Is—the most southern) have a work imparting lively songs and bible verses to keep these relocated peoples' spirits up. One little girl who had lost her parents was being raised by a couple who had lost all their siblings. They called her Tsunali, as she was too little to know her own name. Selvakumar himself had rescued his children and returned to find his wife up to her shoulders in water. They were hard times and all the Andamanese seem to have a bond beyond what most people share. Margo shopped at a sari shop in the market where fresh vegetables from the fields were sold in a big square while I popped in to a roadside center owned by Qutubuddin who spoke perfect English, having studied at Baldwin’s Anglo Indian boys school in Bangalore. I had a great Ayurvedic foot massage there.

We drove to the top of Mt. Harriett in Port Blair and listened to the siren sounds of cicadas coming from the jungles below. Many parts of these islands are protected and conservation is on the rise making it difficult for locals to build because they have to buy even wood and sand from Burmah and Chennai. It is much quieter than Bangalore here with the waves crashing softly on the rocks nearby. It is easier to ignore the piles of garbage, the wandering cows or the random pie dogs everywhere. The balmy Andamans (we saw the scene on the Indian 20 rupee note) are worth a visit if you want to get really, really far away!