Two Weeks in India Part 2- The Andaman Islands

Although spending time in Calcutta was pleasant enough, there is no hiding the fact that the part of the visit I was most looking forward to was without doubt the trip we were due to make to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, India’s most remote state. After a few days in the smog of Calcutta, we were all pining for some fresh air and sunshine- this place had both in piles.

When we’d been asked about what our plans were for Christmas, we’d said we were going to visit the Andaman Islands. In most cases this was greeted with consistently blank expressions. I’m assuming from this that (as with me before the idea of visiting had been mooted) most people don’t have a clue where on earth the Andamans actually are. This being the case, it probably makes sense to give a brief introduction to them.

The Andaman and Nicobar Islands as seen from Google Earth

The Andaman and Nicobar Islands are a long string of islands (over 200 in all) located at the eastern side of the Bay of Bengal. The top most tip (the very fashionably named Coco Channel) is more or less on the same latitude as Bangkok with the southernmost point of the Nicobar Islands almost touching Singapore. The southern part of the archipelago (the Nicobar Islands) are almost entirely off limits to foreigners. Our stay was limited to two main islands- South Andaman, home to the capital, Port Blair, and the smaller and less developed Havelock Island.

View from South Andaman

The islands have a long history and have been mentioned by famous travellers such as Ptolemy and Marco Polo. Until relatively recently, the population consisted entirely of a number of tribes with ethnic characteristics close to both Africa and Asia. One theory has it that in fact these islands were a stopping off point on man’s original migration out of Africa- not sure if that is right but if they did decide to stop off for a multi millennia break, then stopping here wasn’t a bad move on their part.

Apart from the occasional traveller, the indigenous population seems to have been left in peace until relatively recently. A few pirates may have used the islands as a hideout and spread the rumour that the area was populated by savage man eating monsters. This may not have been true but it was a mighty good way to protect their loot!

The peace and quiet was broken forever towards the end of the 18th century by the British. A certain Lieutenant Blair arrived on what is now called South Andaman and decided that this would be a perfect place to site a penal colony. He founded a capital city, modestly named it Port Blair. After long attempts to pacify the islanders, the British were finally able to build a jail there in the 1850s

The Cellular Jail is probably the one feature of the Andamans known to all Indians. For the best part of a century, this jail, known as the Indian Bastille was home to all sorts of political prisoners. The name comes from the fact that the jail consisted solely of cells- each prisoner was kept in solitary confinement under pretty awful conditions. Accounts I’ve heard of the conditions are shameful- prisoners were only allowed to go to the toilet at four preset times during the day and were subject to physical punishment for daring to need to go at any other time. Almost half the original prison population died. The rate of attrition for the thousands who followed was not much better.

I was fortunate enough to meet an uncle of Soma’s a year or so before he died. An ardent communist, he was sent to this prison at the age of thirteen. He came out of there fifteen years later a broken man. It was plain to see decades later that although his convictions remain strong and his arguments coherent, he had been a physical mess for a long time.

We rightly spend much time praising the bravery and nobility of our ancestors at places such as Dunkirk and Normandy. However, we must not forget that at the same time these people were fighting for our freedom, some of their colleagues were beating young boys to death for the crime of wanting to go the toilet at the wrong time. Some of our ancestors we should be proud of- others perhaps less so.

The Cellular Jail- not Britain's finest achievement

The beginning of the end of this jail came in 1942 when the islands were occupied by the Japanese. In many ways this was a case of “out of the frying pan into the fire”. Previously the vicious treatment was directed only towards prisoners. The Japanese, however, considered all islanders potential spies. Stories abound of shiploads of civilians being towed out to sea and drowned. Fortunately the occupation was short lived. The British returned very briefly until India gained independence in 1947 and the jail was closed.

Understandably, the islands are seen by India as a symbol of the struggle for independence. It is no coincidence that the Indian flag was first raised on these islands before statehood was announced elsewhere in 1947.

In the intervening years, the islands became the destination of choice for refugees- Bengalis from Bangladesh and Tamils from Sri Lanka make up much of the islands population now, dwarfing the original inhabitants.

All continued peacefully until 2004 when the islands were hit by the Tsunami. In a few minutes catastrophic destruction hit the islands and 35,000 people were killed. The evidence of this is still there to see five years on.

So it was to these islands that the Air India flight carrying four Chubbs and a number of Maliks landed one December morning. Sadly one of the Chubbs (me) was doubled up in pain having drunk a dodgy coffee at Calcutta Airport- my painful but thankfully brief and solitary encounter with stomach complaints in India so far.

We made it to our hotel without problem and Soma and the boys headed to the beach, leaving me doubled up in bed. By lunchtime all was apparently well and we headed into Port Blair for a spot of sightseeing. However, by the time we got to the Cellular Jail I was showing signs of dehydration and was promptly sent back, passing out several times in the car! The first day was entirely forgettable and, thanks to a severe lack of electrolytes I did in fact manage to forget much of the afternoon!

The next day we were scheduled to go island hopping. I was much better but wisely thought that remote islands were not the place to be should I take another bad turn. I let the others go off and arranged to meet them for lunch on a neighbouring island. I was to be met at ten and a car would take me sightseeing before heading on to lunch.



Typical street scene- centre of Port Blair


Predictably, ten o’clock came and went- no car. Half past ten- no car. Not wanting to waste more of my holiday I headed down to the road and flagged down an autorickshaw. After a quick argument over fare, I was speeding off into Port Blair- freedom at last! The Cellular Jail continued its jinx over me- that day was the one day of the week it was closed. Never mind- I walked on into town to see what was there. Not an awful lot to be honest but in any case wandering through the markets and seeing the general hustle and bustle of a small island town is fun in itself. There was small memorial to the soldiers fallen in the Great War of 1914- 1920- the memorial was obviously built before they’d figured when the War actually ended so it must have been a pretty early memorial. After an hour or so I got bored of walking around so headed to the small stadium where a cricket match was in full flow. I’d never seen an Indian cricket match before so it was quite fun watching this one. It was only a low level match- the Andamans aren’t really known as a hotbed of cricket- but even so, the supporters seemed pretty involved. I didn’t understand what they were saying but I think it’s fair to say that “hard luck chap” wasn’t one of the phrases being hurled from the crowd when some unfortunate was bowled out!

My first Indian cricket match- Port Blair

After an hour or so I figured it was time to go meet the others for lunch on Mount Harriet. First step- where is it? After asking a local shopkeeper, I found out that I needed to take a rickshaw to Chatham Saw Mill, a few miles away, catch a ferry to a place called Bamboo Flats, then take another rickshaw to the top of Mount Harriet- no problem right? All was going well enough- the rickshaw took about 15 minutes and I got a ticket for the shortly departing ferry- magic. I was just taking in the view when I got a tap on the shoulder- behind me was a very hot and flustered tour driver- the guy who had been meant to take me around all morning. Apparently he’d been working with his company all morning to track down the missing Brit. As a last bet he’d waited at the ferry station, thinking I’d have to come here to make my appointment- spot on. “Where were you?” he asked. I asked the same of him- where was he at ten this morning? “I was only an hour late” was his response! Suddenly I felt much less guilty about leading him on a wild goose chase all morning. We made the crossing together and he drove me up to the meeting spot- lucky since I’d have had no chance of finding everyone had I been alone- Bamboo Flats would have been the end of my quest.

Anyway, all was uneventful the rest of our time on South Andaman. The hotel was nice but basic- still being rebuilt after 2004. Seeing how close it was to the coast it must surely have been more or less entirely washed away.

A few days later we found ourselves on Havelock Island, a four hour ferry ride away. This island is both less developed and far more beautiful than South Andaman. On many occasions we found it just like Zanzibar- beautiful but totally unfamiliar with how to cater for tourists. Inconvenient it may be but is this lack of tourist focus really such a bad thing?

For the first of our two nights on the island we found ourselves in a different hotel to the others. We headed off to a mystery hotel filled with trepidation as to what lay ahead. In fact, what lay in store was perhaps the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. We were booked into an eco lodge at a remote beach called Radhanagar. The accommodation was basic- a single fibreglass dome with a bed and bathroom. However, the front door was less than 100 metres from the beach- what a place to spend New Year’s Eve. We spent an afternoon playing on the beach and riding elephants before going to a local Dabha (small local café) for dinner. Dinner took the form of a vegetable thali each, which all of us demolished happily. The best bit for me at least was that the waitress was on hand to dole out seconds and even thirds- totally stuffed for about a dollar each!

An Ecolodge at Radhanagar Beach- our home for New Years Eve

We’d arranged with our driver that he’d come and watch over the kids for an hour or so in the evening so we could spend a bit of time at a beach party. He never turned up sadly, so Soma and I had the normal parental experience of New Year at home. Actually I was pretty wiped so didn’t mind too much. The explanation we’d got the next day was that he’d broken down in the middle of the island and had to walk hours through the dark to get back. A more cynical person might think that he’d been sidetracked by a party and gotten blasted- I’ll go with his explanation though!

New Year’s morning was a very peaceful experience. I woke up at about 5.30 (exactly midnight in the UK by coincidence) and went for a walk on the beach. I had the whole place to myself, with the exception of a few wild dogs. I watched the sunrise then headed back. We all came out for a walk at about 8. We still had the beach to ourselves. Surely this was the stuff dreams were made of- the beach voted the best in Asia apparently was stretching out for the best part of a mile each way and there was not a soul apart from us on it. We walked a little more then headed off to Rahul’s dabha for breakfast.

Kieran on the beach New Year's Day with all the other tourists

Two boys poking piles of elephant dung on Radhanagar Beach- lovely!

We loved this place so much that we called and cancelled our meet- up with the others- let them do their island hopping; we were staying here! We spent the morning lapping up Radhanagar before taking a rickshaw across the green island interior to the next hotel.

From this moment onwards it was all about heading back. We spent a final night on Havelock before taking the ferry back to Port Blair. One more night at Port Blair and we were off to the airport- back to Calcutta.

The first sunrise of 2009- taken at 5.30am 1/1/09 on Radhanagar Beach

It is clear from any sort of reading up on the area that these islands combine phenomenal beauty with the kind of tragedy you wouldn’t wish on any population. Over the centuries, the original inhabitants have been marginalized by newcomers; prisoners have been subjected to the most appalling brutality by people claiming to be civilised; islanders have been persecuted by the Japanese and finally decimated by one of the most damaging natural disasters of recent times. However, despite the obvious scars, the island retains a true beauty. We travelled a lot and live in a place which is home to some of the most stunning beaches anywhere on earth. However, both of us agree that we have yet to find a place more jaw-droppingly beautiful than the beach the four of us were lucky enough to spend a solitary family morning on at the start of 2009.

Two Weeks in India Part 1- Calcutta

“What the hell are we thinking coming here again” was the thought going through both of my and Soma’s heads as we started our descent into Calcutta airport. We’d been married in this hellhole of a city six years ago and both swore never to return. As far as I remembered, the people here were great to be sure but this was the filthiest, smelliest city on the planet. Anyway, like it or not, here we were, at the start of two weeks in India- experiencing perhaps the best and worst of this wonderful country.

This posting is going to cover the time spent in and around Calcutta. I could refer to it by its official name, but Soma would probably ban me from going near my blog again. In common with a number of cities, Calcutta changed its name a few years ago- Calcutta, Bombay and Madras became Kolkata, Mumbai and Chennai. In at least two cases this was to reflect the proper pronunciation. Soma is not a fan of these new names- in her view we may as well change UK city names to Lahndan and Burmingum by the same logic. As a proud Bombayite, she has no truck with a BJP party political gimmick and insists on the original spelling- it is Bollywood, not Mullywood after all and I’ve not yet heard of a dish called Chicken Chennai! Anyway, given the choice between annoying the BJP or my wife, I’ve made my decision and in this blog at least, it’s Calcutta we went to!

Our time spent in Calcutta came at the beginning and end of our holiday, either side of a week in the Andaman Islands, and actually was not as bad as we’d feared. My main motivation for coming back was heritage. For a child brought up as an expatriate or to parents of differing cultures, understanding where you come from takes on additional significance. If, like me, you were born and brought up in the Midlands, then there is not much issue- sure, the North East and South West of Britain have claims on me but I have a pretty good idea of where I come from- why else would I go through the emotional agony of supporting Wolves? For the boys however, the question of where they come from is far more complex. Both were born in the UK but Kieran has lived there little more than a year and Rohan has never officially lived there at all. Their Dad is English but their Mum is Indian. Their lives have been split so far between Egypt and Tanzania. The fact that at the ages of five and three respectively, both boys need to get new passports shows just how nomadic an existence they lead. This kind of life has its rewards for sure but one challenge facing us is to make sure they know where they come from- to provide them with the sense of identity that I took for granted as a kid.

Kieran getting a haircut on the roof, care of the local barber

We come back to the UK quite often but try also to visit India as much as we can. However, half of the boys’ background is not really just Indian but Bengali. This side of their family history is rooted firmly in and around Calcutta. To make sure they understand this, and to get the boys to meet a large part of their extended family, a visit to Calcutta was needed- thus we went.

Getting used to Calcutta was tough. We spent our time at Soma’s parents’ flat- they spend a few months each year in the city so have a small but usefully located place to stay in. Admittedly it was a little too small for six of us, but we just made sure to spend time out and about to avoid any sense of claustrophobia. A sense of the challenges that living here would bring up came on our first night. We were warned in advance that it would be a little noisy. Apparently the lady living on the ground floor has a habit of starting very loud domestic arguments first thing in the morning. She’d been warned off by our rather assertive and scary maid Jharna. Apparently she’d told the lady that she should remember she was living in a nice area, not the slums and should act accordingly. If she acted up while we were there, Jharna was going to beat her up!

Sensibly (you’ve not seen Jharna in a mood!), this lady was as good as gold our entire stay. However, in the middle of our first night, I was awoken by a series of whistles. I’m not talking about someone whistling on the way home from the pub but a long series of loud “football referee” type whistles- enough to wake the dead, and me (though not the kids or Soma).

I mentioned it the next morning, assuming that some drunken reveller had been a bit naughty. Apparently this was not the case. Each locality has a security guard assigned to it. His job is to make night patrols to ensure everyone is safe. The people have insisted apparently that he whistle to prove he is not sleeping but is really patrolling. I pointed out the failings in this plan- while proving he wasn’t asleep he was ensuring nobody else was either. He was also very brilliantly giving constant giveaways as to his locations for the benefit of anyone planning a mugging or a break in. The people living here seem to have great intentions but joined up thinking appears to have done a runner, along with all the burglars. I spent most of my nights thinking of painful things to do to the security guard with his whistle.

How to describe Calcutta? In terms of architecture I guess it is little different to other Indian cities. There is huge traffic congestion- a mixture of cars, buses, auto- rickshaws and cycle- rickshaws all competing for space. This is a landscape I enjoy a lot- very vibrant, full of life and of possibilities. However, despite all this, the one overwhelmingly bad thing that just dominates the city is its pollution

I have travelled to many different places, in many of the poorest and least developed areas of the world. However, I have never in all my years encountered a filthier city than this. The smell hits you the second you leave the airport and doesn’t leave until you’re back on the plane. Imagine putting your nose up against a running car exhaust and that’s pretty much the standard air quality you get. In the time we spent in Calcutta I don’t think I ever saw blue sky- in fact the only sky was the grim, grey haze that permeates the place.

View of Calcutta on a clear day!

I remember feeling like this last time we were here. However, for some reason things seemed worse this time. Was it because we were coming from a country of clean fresh air and zero pollution? Was it just the general deterioration over the past six years? I don’t know but to be blunt, the city is one carcinogenic health hazard and, for the sake of the people who live there, it has to clean up its act.

Anyway, enough about the dirt. In terms of the people we met and the stuff we did, we had a great time. Christmas Day was spent in a manner that would shock traditionalists. We headed off to the South City Mall- a huge shopping complex that would put its British contemporaries to shame. In a welcome indulgence of sheer commercialisation, we walked around familiar shops such as Next, Marks and Spencer and Body Shop listening to piped Christmas music- brilliant. Okay, some might disagree but when you spend your time shopping at roadside stalls most days a big shopping mall is a welcome treat. To hammer home the point we had Christmas lunch at the mall’s food court- my parents would be so proud!

Soma and Rohan waiting for Christmas lunch at the South City Mall

Actually, we were both taken aback slightly by just how developed India has become- the malls were exceptionally well run and, unlike the odd mall found in Egypt and Tanzania, they are well populated. They are not simply a haven for the expatriate and local elites, the Indian middle class is well and truly mobilised and is spending serious cash- the West be warned!

We did our best to even the balance with regards spending however. Taking advantage of the shopping, we splashed out on lots of books, DVDs and music- Soma was on a mission to buy more or less every film released in living memory and I was happier than a pig in pooh browsing the book shops.

So apart from shopping, what else did we do in Calcutta? For the most part we visited people or got visited by people. Before heading to the Andamans we paid a visit to Soma’s cousin Raka, returning to the house I spent my last night before marrying Soma. Although I have very strong feelings about Calcutta, I have to say that the balcony room they have in that house is one of the most profoundly peaceful places I’ve seen anywhere- a haven of peace in a mad city! The next day we were visited in turn by family. The “compact and bijou” nature of the apartment made for a tight squeeze but somehow the barely contained chaos of ten adults and five kids all trying to coexist was quite fun!

Perhaps the highlight of our time there was the one trip we made out of the city. This came a few days before we left but, for me, made our time in Calcutta really worthwhile. The car came to pick us up just after nine, for the planned “nine sharp” departure. In true Bengali style, we departed “on time” just before ten. In addition to the four of us, we packed into the car Soma’s two parents, a cousin, his wife, his mother and his daughter- squished in like sardines.

After a couple of hours of driving, first of all through the smog of Calcutta then through increasingly clearer air as we headed out of the city, we arrived in the small village of Sheoraphuli. This is the village that Soma’s father comes from. Born the fifth of eleven children, he started out from this modest village. While you’d respect anyone getting a Phd from a British university, the achievement in this case is all the more when you see where the journey began.

Lunch on the roof at Sheoraphuli

We arrived to a very warm welcome from a number of family members. The reunion was apparently for close family members only- the surviving brothers and sisters and their descendents only. The final attendance was a very modest 47. We had lots of fun sitting in a small bedroom trying to talk with a myriad of family members. They had all heard of me and the boys but we knew nobody. However, despite the language barrier, we all became firm friends by the end of the afternoon. By all accounts their view on me was that I was “jamai khub bhalo”- a very good son in law! I have to say that although these people were clearly much poorer than us, their generosity was humbling. Almost everyone brought a gift for the boys- it was another Christmas in all but name for them. Our meagre offerings of some Tanzanian novelty pencils looked pretty lame by comparison! After a large slap up meal on the roof terrace, it was soon time to head back- a short stay that simply flew by. If we’d wanted to show the boys where they were from, then the home of the Mitras was a pretty good place to bring them. A quarter of their blood comes from Geordieland, a quarter from Cornwall. They are well acquainted with the middle class Ghosh part of their background from Calcutta. These kind, warm people from this small village form a very welcome part of their background too. I’m glad we all finally got to meet them.

Kieran with some of his newly acquired cousins

Calcutta is an odd place for me. On the one hand it is squalid and dirty. There is nothing so calculated as to make your heart sink than to make a pre dawn drive to the airport when smog brings visibility to a few metres. At times like this, Calcutta looks like a city designed by Dante as an additional circle of hell. However, on an emotional level it is a lovely place. Apart from anything, we got married here six years ago. During the week or so we were here my own family and friends were, without exception, treated like royalty by their Bengali counterparts. As with all family they can frustrate at times, but the people who live here, from the Kars, Maliks and Ghoshes in Calcutta to the Mitras in Sheoraphuli, are some of the warmest people I’ve known. Kieran and Rohan should be proud to call them family- I know I am.