Hullo Friends and family

Conditions did seem to improve during the day and the sea calmed with the north easterlies that became a steady 15 knots. But our joy was short-lived and by the evening the wind had swung round to the east once again and increased in force. The sea built and hung in breaking-topped swells at eye level, relentlessly smashing into Katrine’s starboard hull with force, breaking into the cockpit to leave us drenched and shivering. We sailed with a reefed main and genoa, and as the force increased, put a second reef in the main for safety and huddled in the corner. The only enjoyment was our brand new radar; and we wondered how we had ever done without it on those long crossings from Africa all that time ago. We experimented with distances and sea clutters and alarms, and although we still kept diligent watch, the edge was taken off in the busy shipping lane we were crossing. Despite the brilliantly clear skies and bright moonlight nights,and our awe at the early morning southern cross that tipped the horizon, the wind and big seas were relentless. On day three we realized we would have to slow down as one can only enter the harbour during daylight hours and our e.t.a. at the speed we were doing would be early hours of the morning. We took as much of our sail in as we dared so as not to loose our course, and then via ssb, called the harbour master who had us on his radar which was somewhat comforting. Then we slowly edged towards our final destination spending time over a shallow hoping to catch fish, but only one offering came our way. In the early dawn we felt morose and grumpy. What on earth did we think we were doing? We grumbled, exhausted. This was no fun. Then as dawn showed water-colour pink in the east, and the brilliant red sun grew on the horizon, the full moon slowly sank in the west, and the sea calmed.

Port Blair loomed before us and suddenly there was a pop and a sigh and a school of dolphin were at Katrine’s side, rolling and racing, spinning and diving in our bow wave, leading the way into the harbour. We were momentarily stunned, and then our spirits lifted and our elation grew till we were hanging over the sides of our beloved Katrine and laughing fit to burst. Our guardians of the deep had been with us and we were ready for the adventure that lay ahead. Once again what can we say….but that we are so truly blessed.

THE ANDAMAN ISLANDS PART TWO

Checking into the Andaman Islands was a stringent procedure compared to what we were used to in Thailand and Malaysia. We were boarded by Immigration and Customs officials, scrutinised by the Coast Guard, filled in a list of which islands we intended to visit and given strict instructions to check in to port control via vhf or ssb every morning and evening stating our exact position as we moved through the islands. It was explained to us that certain islands were inhabited by hostile and primitive aboriginal tribes and the rules were there for our protection. These islands were out of bounds for yachts. To confirm the fact, we were told of a recent incident when two fishermen whose boat had been blown onto one of the islands during bad weather, had met their demise. The military had to go in to recover their bodies. We weren't about to take any chances!

While we explored the town of Port Blair, we left Katrine anchored off the busy harbour at Ranger Flats – an area designated to visiting yachts.

It was a choppy wet ride to the wharf where we were hailed by a young boy who I judged to be 15 or 16 yrs old, with a mop of black hair and a huge toothy smile. He leant down to take the painter and offered a hand to me and my shopping bag and camera case. Once safely on the concrete he shook Don’s hand and informed us that he would take care of our dinghy. “What is your name?” I asked expecting a Moodly or a Singh, but instead was quite startled at “Moppity”. For a few rupees Moppity helped you from your dinghy (a mean feat on its own in the lumpy seas,) then paddled your dinghy to tie it off on an anchored wooden fishing boat out of harms way. He would wait all day and half the night if you were late in getting back, paddle out to get your dinghy and help you and your parcels in with a huge grin and cheery wave. He was worth every rupee that we overpaid him.

Ravi collected us from the dock in his taxi. It was pre-war; a Hillman Minx look-alike from a by-gone era. Shiny black and sun-visored, its velvet back seat was covered in heavy plastic and well sprung, and with the bounciness of grandma’s feather bed, we flounced and jostled and hooted along the uneven, dusty road.

Gazing past the bunch of artificial grapes that dangled from the rear view mirror, the big plastic eagle attached to the car’s bonnet held my attention. Its wind-swaying and wing-flapping movements increased and decreased with an alternate swoop and glide according to our speed, and as we swayed towards a corner, one wing folded under while the other outstretched leading our way around the curb. The actions had us mesmerised and at times I almost expected to see both wings simultaneously cover the plastic bird’s eyes at the speed and near-misses of vehicles that thundered past on the narrow road that led to town.

The roads were bustling with people and motor cycles, cars and mopeds and animals. Goats took refuge from the heavy traffic at the intersections on the central podium with the traffic warden who waved us round the circle. Hooters blared as cars and cycles sped along passed crowds of people and ambling cattle. A traffic jam brought us to a halt and I wondered at what horrific sight would meet our eyes as we edged our way nearer to the obstruction. Then they widened in disbelief at the image of a shopkeeper who had a tarpaulin spread out on the narrow tarmac oblivious to the snarl of traffic and animals as he squatted with his needle and thread to repair a tear.

I was dazzled by the bright coloured saris, emerald green, brilliant blues, yellows and reds, and everywhere the faint waft of incense.

Busy bazaars sold shiny stainless steel pots of all sizes, sparkling bangles and trinkets, garlands of flowers and reams of fabric lined the steep streets in town. Bells jingled on the turning wheel of a sugarcane juice extractor and behind pyramids of fruit on wheeled carts, shy smiles and greetings at our white faces glaringly obvious in a sea of dark heads. We stared in wonder at the head-moving speech that is so typical of the Andaman Island Indians. It seems that their vocal chords are attached to their head which moves in a pivoting yes-no movement as they talk; much like a noddy dog in the back window of a motor vehicle. It’s all very confusing to the uninitiated. “Do you sell lassi?” I asked of one shopkeeper. (Lassi is a curd drink)

Head pivoting. I looked at Don. “Is that yes or no?” I asked of him. Head pivoting from Don as well – he had it taped. “Is it sweet?” I was given another yes-no. “Or is it salty?” I thought he’d have to answer that one. But the head continued to pivot. “OK I’ll have one.” He did have lassi and it was sweet.

On the pavement, hot woks of oil boiled with blobs of dough which were scooped out onto a newspaper covered dish as they turned golden, and then dipped into a gollop of coconut, curd and sesame seed. Sweet tea tasting of condensed milk, cardamom and ginger was served in small cups after a ritual mixing from one cup to another over an arm-stretch up and down. Never mind that I usually take tea black and sugarless - it was delicious.

Poverty was rife and tiny wooden houses along the hilly verges, between touch-sided allies, planked and toppling, held each other up en masse. The islands are a seismic hotspot on the earth’s fault that runs all the way down from Burma (Myanmar) through Sumatra and results in heavy earthquakes, evidence of their activity all around. (there was a tremor of 5.5 on the Richter scale the week before we arrived) A heavy cemented garage shelter lay fallen, partially burying two motor cycles – one, to Don’s chagrin, an Enfield. (Ravi told us that the damage was the result of the earthquake which caused the tsunami.) Wooden buildings that had succumbed to the same fate, lay in ruins, but business was as usual as the bazaars continued to trade around the fallen planks. Open drains and uneven paving kept us vigilant while soaking in the ambiance of the bustling and colourful town. And not one beggar. We felt extravagantly and guiltily ostentatious counting out a few measly rupees for our purchases. Later we befriended an immigration official and invited him and his wife on board for sundowners. Christopher and Victoria were newly wed; she doing her masters degree in the hopes of a teaching post on the island, and he told us of how he would have to spend a year in India leaving his new wife behind, to do a course which would give him a slightly higher wage. His annual salary didn’t compare to what we imagined to be our minimalistic monthly budget and once again we were reminded of how blessed we are with our abundance.

Our checking into the country was tedious and time consuming because we had requested that friends from South Africa join us for two weeks. After an entire day sitting at immigration our letter of request had been passed from one to another with no-one wanting to give the o.k. By dark, with the entire office still working under flickering lights, we had got no further except to be told to call the next day. We realised that our problem lay in the fact that we had made a request, instead of a statement. With things still hanging in the air, we decided not to waste any further time, but to get out to the outlying islands to do some exploring and face the problem when the time arrived.

Historically, the Andaman and Nicobar Islands provided a temporary maritime base for ships in the 17th century. Long before that, Marco Polo who travelled and explored the European-Asia route in 1271 and 1295 wrote about the islands as “a very large island, not governed by a king, with plenty of spices”. Until the beginning of colonial rule the islands were populated by indigenous people and there are legends of cannibalistic tribes who terrorized early inhabitants.

Then during the British colonial era the islands were used as an isolated prison for members of the Indian Independence Movement and regarded as the Siberia of British India. The British continued their occupancy until the Japanese Invasion and occupation of the islands during world war 2.

More recent history concerns the islands’ location which is close to the epicentre of the undersea earthquake that measured 9 on the Richter scale and caused the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami which led to the devastating loss of life and homes

At least 7,000 people (possibly a conservative estimate) were believed to have been killed on the Nicobar and Andaman Islands during the disaster.

While newer settlers of the islands suffered the greatest casualties from the tsunami, most of the aboriginal people ( much like the sea gypsies in Thailand) survived because oral traditions passed down from generations ago warned them to evacuate from large waves that follow large earthquakes.

Evidence of the Andaman Island’s past is everywhere. Ross Island was our first overnight stop. In 1941 an earthquake measuring 7.7 on the Richter scale rocked the Andaman’s destroying many buildings and causing the British administrative centre on Ross Island to be abandoned. We decided to explore the ruins. The water was cobalt blue in the deep and translucent azure over the sandy bottom. On shore we walked under towering trees along footpaths. The old stone Administrative buildings, a temple and a church, the officer’s quarters and mess and the administrators house were all in ruins but fascinatingly held together in part by the roots and branches of enormous Banyan trees. There was evidence of the Japanese occupation with bunkers at strategic points and brightly plumed peacocks and beautiful spotted deer, males with velvety antlers, wandered through the tall trees

Havelock Island was just twenty nautical miles away. The wind had died out altogether so with the main up to catch what little breeze it could, we motor-sailed there the next day. Beach number seven, as its known, is supposedly the sixth most beautiful beach in the world. And well it could be. A snow white sandy beach stretched in a huge horseshoe for miles around the bay, backed by gigantic trees that towered into the sky, and as we dropped the anchor an elephant with his Indian mahout ambled out of the jungle and plodded along the shoreline! It was magical. There were two other yachts in the bay and their Australian owners invited us to join them for drinks and a barbeque on the beach in the late afternoon. Although the rolling surf had us almost capsized, we were able to get some stunning photos and a close up of the elephant – one of four on the island – on its way back from work.

There followed a few days of bliss in the quiet anchorage walking along paths through the towering trees, and over squeaky white sand with a few tourists. They were mainly from mainland India and swam in their bright colourful sari’s in the aquamarine sea. The other boats moved off and our friends on their boat Samsara Two sailed in. It was wonderful to be real yachties once again. Jerry-jugging water, sneaking into the showers at the campsite to wash a few clothes with ourselves, eating at little side shacks and just being.

We moved to different anchorages around the island – Elephant Beach with beautiful underwater world and crayfish galore, traipsing on shore in wonder at the tsunami damage that had uprooted enormous trees that were left tumbled and root-exposed on the beach. (We saw evidence on each of the islands, of the three foot that the islands were raised as a result of the quake.) At the jetty we took a rattling old bus into the main island village, bought “fresh” fruit and vegetables and walked to the nearby beach. Thatch-roofed wooden houses in neat villages along the dusty road as we walked, brightly sari’d ladies doing their laundry at the village well, spots of vivid colour against the tan shacks and blue sky in the laundry that hung out on lines to dry, a quaint little blue church that could possibly hold a congregation of ten and a reed boma on the beach overlooking the calm aquamarine ocean.

Two cows were led unwillingly by their owners to be dipped in the sea, and we watched the rural scene from the beach.

And we sighed.

Once again the fishing bug bit.

Steve, also a keen fisherman, soon had his lines over the side and whether lying at anchor or sailing, the bungees were out or the lines were cast and the deep freeze was soon full. On our way to Neil Island we purposely headed over a coral shallow, and as we sailed over the edge we were watching the bright squid fishing lure. There was a flash of silver out of nowhere and we yelled in unison. We had him hooked. I tried pulling him in hand over hand, but there was no way that I had the strength, so I took the controls slowing the boat while Don did the important thing, and slowly, slowly an enormous giant trevelli came in to view. It wasn’t long before we had piles of fresh fried fish and pickled fish and still a deep freeze full, so when we anchored in a pretty little bay at Neil Island a few hours later, it was a treat to spot a few squid lurking under Katrine. We soon had them sneezing huge dollops of black ink all over us and the boat, with much yelling and laughter until we had it taped. The trick was to hold them off till they had stopped their squirting of the tenacious black ink and then pop them into an empty bucket. If there was any water in the bucket, it was slurped up and the black ink scene went on infinite. Even so, it took time to remove the black graffiti that adorned Katrine’s hull and transom, and even a fair way up the mast!

But still, calamari was a welcome respite from fish on the menu.

In the bay where we had anchored on Neil Island we came across our first manatee. Ju and Bill on Lighten Up – a catamaran that we knew from Thailand, had dinghied over and were hanging off having a chat, when Ju pointed to the water alongside. That stone has been following us Bill,” she said and we gawped as a dugong stuck its head up to check us out. He was as curious of us as we were of him, and swam his huge body up and down the side of Katrine till he eventually headed off with a breech and flap of his forked tail. Later friends on their boat, “Constance” told us that in the South Pacific, Ed’s sister had been befriended by a dugong and they’d had a devil of a time rescuing her from its attentions!

We sailed the 12 nautical miles back to Back to Port Blair to collect our guests and wave Samsara Two back to Thailand as their visa was up.

Pods of dolphin spun and dived and played around us on the trip and although the lines were out, we had no bites this time.

At the immigration office, we plonked a letter on the desk of the officer informing them of our friend’s arrival and made a hasty retreat. A day shopping, collecting them from the airport and we were off on a return visit to Ross Island, and then Havelock for a night. The winds were light but steady and perfect for our gentle sail. We tacked back and forth across the expanse of sea; and that’s when playtime and serious work didn’t really mix. We had the fishing bungee’s out as usual and in our tacking maneuvre something went a little pear-shaped and the lines tangled around the prop. In our haste to get the boat back on course, Don started the motors. It was only then that we remembered the lines. Too late. But a repair job later that day got it all sorted out and on our trip up to Middle Button the following day, Rob brought in a big barracuda. The wind had dropped right out so we motored to the island past some of those inhabited by the aboriginals keeping a look out for the locals. There was no sight of them or any bows and arrows though.

Middle Button Islands is a small pudding of an island with a narrow beach and a jungle of trees that cascade down almost to the water’s edge. A sand-spit with dangerous looking bommies, some of which protruded during low tide had us wary and on the lookout, but we found a ledge just out of the deep water and dropped the anchor in twelve metres onto sand. Then began two days of the most amazing snorkeling Don and I have ever done. On our first dive overboard we headed for the bommies that were visible behind which was a drop-off. As I rounded the corner I screamed and made a grab at Don to hide behind his big frame. A shoal of thirty or more Napoleon Wrasse – the largest we estimated, weighing all of a hundred kilograms confronted us, then swam around totally ignoring our quaking bodies. They gupped at the coral taking hunks off in loud raspings and I could imagine a bite out of me could leave a nasty hole, but they ignored us and eventually moved off. Further on we saw another nine. The water was transparent and the fish abundant. Huge coral trout taunted us without our spear gun, enormous cod drifted by and then scuttled into caves, angels and butterflies, wrasse of all sizes, surgeons and triggers. There were hundreds of species, some of which we had never seen before, amazing colours, shapes and sizes and huge shoals. It was totally awesome and we couldn’t get enough of it. The following early morning we dinghied over towards the sand-spit and coral heads once more and a huge white-tip shark, all of Rob’s length glided behind him, swiveling its beady eyes at me, then slowly swayed into the gloomy drop-off. No matter that they are harmless, a Johnny always gets the adrenalin going. It was hard to drag ourselves away from paradise, but the excitement we’d had that day, paled into insignificance in the light of what was to come.

OF BOMMIES, POWERLINES AND SAVAGES

There was no wind to sail by and we were impatient with still so much of the Andaman Islands to see in the short time left on our visa, so after putting up with the boom clanging backwards and forwards on the sloppy sea, the skipper turned on the motors to get us to Long Island 13 nautical miles away. We anchored off the little village that rattled and squawked with the sound of a sawmill, and dinghied in to replenish our fresh supplies. A few rotten tomatoes and a shriveled cabbage amongst all the piles of beetle nut was about all that was available, but the lack of supplies was made up for by the delightfully friendly people. Children, immaculately clean, ran out from decrepit wooden houses to ask for their photos to be taken, shopkeepers smiled and offered tea and coffee and we were ushered across the road to a dingy “hotel” for lunch. We had seen a young boy with a plastic packet of fish disappear into the hotel earlier on and remarked on his “bait.” He came out to greet us and being the friendly person she is, Chantal enquired of him if he had caught any fish. He smiled and disappeared through a door. There was a scurrying in the kitchen behind the newspaper clad wooden wall while we waited for the menu. It took a while and just when we were thinking that we had been forgotten, out came our food. There was no choice. It was the usual tali (dhal with rice and a popadum) and small fried fish. He’d given up his bait for us. (Don remarked at how pleased he was that Chantal hadn’t enquired after his mangy dog that was lying in the doorway) But despite that, it was delicious and the attentive little waitron was given a big tip to make up for his loss.

We had heard that to sail down one of the straits between two of the large islands was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. At the time we didn’t know just how true that would prove to be!

Leaving Long Island early the following morning we watched our progress tracking on C-Map – the electronic chart which we have on our computer to which is attached a small gps. We thought we were well away from the reef that was marked when all of a sudden there was a (familiar) resounding crunch and we had hit a bommie. The momentum of the boat had taken us forward and looking down we were surrounded by coral heads and worst of all, faced with a falling tide. With Rob on one hull and I on the other we guided Don at the controls with the motors in reverse, one way and then another with the odd bump here and there until we were clear and back in deep water once again. Fortunately Katrine had little damage, except to have a few less barnacles on one of her keels; the only harm was to the fishing lure that we had been trailing, that had imbedded itself on a coral head and was left behind.

We pulled out the genoa in light winds from aft once in the straits and drifted lazily down the waterway at a snails pace, seeing our progress on c-map that showed inaccurately that we were traveling overland. The mangrove-lined banks mirrored green in the water on either side, and tall trees towered in the jungle backing. A dazzling blue kingfisher kept pace with us for a while and two young boys in a dugout paddled with their one back oar, trying to keep up as well. But we were in the current that kept us going at 3 knots and we soon left them behind. The silence of this wilderness was food for the soul, and I wanted to talk in whispers so as not to break the spell.

A few hours on, rounding a corner we were horrified to see a pylon on either side of the strait with power lines that stretched over the water and looked ominously low. We edged out of the current closer to shore, furled the sail and motored slowly forward. Looking up from the deck, I was certain that the cables were too low and we wouldn’t make it. But a ferry parked at a jetty on the bank had a few passengers who beckoned us forward. “Are you sure?” I indicated the mast and the lines, yelling across at the crowd who were now hanging over the side to watch our progress or perhaps thought they were in for a spectacle? “Yes, Yes” he head pivoted to us and swept his arm forward to indicate we must go. My hair was standing on end as I looked up at the lines and cringed waiting for the bang, but with adrenalin running for the second time in the day we made it under and out came the genoa as we breathed a big sigh of relief to continue our slow amble once again.

In the early afternoon, we found a bay, with a windswept pudding island at its head, behind which the sea opened to the west coast and broke in waves over a fringing reef. We pulled out of the mainstream and into the bay to have lunch, knowing that the smell of wood smoke that greeted us, meant a village nearby. Lots of coral heads broke the surface ahead, but Don pulled in to the shallows along the mangroved edge well short of them and we dropped the hook in 10 metres. The wind had picked up the waves in the bay, which made us decide to leave exploring the island to the morning, and opt for a dinghy ride through a mangroved waterway we had noticed off to our port side instead. We puttered along the calm waters, picking our way carefully under low branches until the banks had narrowed to almost impassable. There was silence except for the plop of a crab now and again and we turned back for the bay, disappointed at not having found the village. Don had seen another entrance to the mangroves further along the bay and looking through the tangle of exposed roots and leafy mangrove branches we could see a clearing back into the jungle. Don and Rob were keen to look for the village, but the spray as we motored through the chop left us wet and complaining. The girls won the toss to turn back, and it was decided to leave further exploring to the morning. Back at Katrine, Don suggested we lift the dinghy on the davits to keep it from bumping all night, and that was just as well. While he and I prepared our evening meal in the galley, Rob and Chantal bathed off the back steps. I heard voices and wondered if some fishermen had appeared, until I heard the agitation in Rob’s voice.

“Hey, guys, we’ve got company here.”

“Do they have straight or crizzy hair?” I asked jokingly from the saloon.

“They have bows and arrows!” he answered and I laughed.

“I’m serious!” said Rob

Don and I scrambled out to the cockpit.

At first I couldn’t make them out. The sun was bright in our eyes and they were well camouflaged. A flash of something bright red caught my attention, and then slowly as our eyes adjusted to the glare we could make out two people. And sure enough one had a bow and arrow.

“Lets get out of here” was my first panicked reaction, as Rob paced up and down, towel-draped Chantal disappeared to get dressed and Don asked, “Eaten any missionaries lately old chap?”

Once we had our eyes focused, squinting away from the sun, we could see the couple clearly. They were young, blue-black, their colour melting into the mangroves and dark mud bank background. He had red amulets at his elbows, a plastic looking sheath that covered his genitals and he carried a bow and a fist full of arrows. The young girl had a red stripped skirt (of perhaps dyed skins) and a red painted forehead. They were of the Jarawat tribe that had recently killed two fishermen and we had been told they were dangerous. But they called to us and beckoned, indicating their mouths, that they were hungry. We wondered for who?

And we were taking no chances. I felt very exposed on the foredeck lifting the anchor with Rob untangling the bridle that had caught around the chain. Don was concealed at the helm and Chantal had wedged herself in behind the mast as slowly the anchor came up. By this time the young man had put down his bow and arrows to show he meant us no harm but continued to call insistently, bunching his fingers towards his mouth.

I was nervous. Here we were just a few metres away from them. How many more out of sight in the bush? How long had they been watching us? Had they seen us going up the narrow waterway? They must have heard our dinghy engine. What if we had gone on shore to find the village? It didn’t bear thinking of. We just knew that we should get out of there fast. But the calling to us was so persistent and how can you leave hungry people when we had so much. I found some fruit in the galley and tied it in a plastic bag thinking that he would have a change of clothes, and Don motored towards the bank so that we were just a few metres away from them. While he clicked the camera, I hurled the packet that floated close to where they could retrieve it and we gunned the motors and headed away down stream. Then the nervous laughter and all the stories that go with the excitement of a close shave. All the what-ifs and the perhapses that had us talking well into the night at our eventual anchorage off a large village further down the straits. We were tempted to raft up to the ferry tied up at the jetty for added protection that night, but when a group of school children in their father’s fishing boat paddled across and asked to come aboard, we chatted and offered biscuits, pleased to be amongst friendly locals once more.

We egged them on about the aboriginal tribes and we wondered how much poetic license had been used in their descriptions of the dangerous Jarrawas.

Time had run out and we headed back to Port Blair to do some last minute shopping and to get port clearance before leaving. The little party that had gathered along the wharf at seven o’clock in the morning to see us off left us with such a warm feeling. Christopher who had come to stamp our passports and to say good bye, made a special trip knowing that we wanted to make an early start, Ravi was there to shake our hand and wish us bon voyage and Mopetty with his wide grin said, “Happy voyage Sir, see you next year.”

And there is absolutely no doubt about that.

Our passage to Little India has been a very special interlude. We have managed to explore just a few of the 572 tropical islands; we have visited deserted beaches, been overwhelmed by the beautiful coral gardens and marine life, intrigued by the colonial past and scared to death by remnants of its stone age culture.

We have been privileged to have had a truly wonderful Andaman experience

Don and Jeanne