Paradise lost...and found

Sun 15 Dec 2013

Beep, beep, BEEEEPP!!! The unwelcome 4:30 am alarm was turned off with a slam and a moan. Then we remembered where we were going, and frowns turned around. At 5:05, we’d checked out and were walking, bags on back, down to the Phoenix Jetty.

A sprinkling of people had beaten us to it, but the ticket window was not yet open. Armed with passports, permits, and rupees, Jamie joined the small queue and was luckily about 4th in line. When the ticket office opened, the pushing and shoving began. Being 4th in line no longer mattered as the man in front placed ticket orders for about 20 people. Standing his ground well and using his elbows to lock his position, Jamie reached the front.

“Two tickets to Neil Island, please.”

“Neil. That window. 6am.”

“Which window?”

No response. The man was now doing tickets for someone else, and the locals all pointed at the left-hand window and said, “Neil.”

Jamie left the queue and stood in front of the window for Neil. At least we were now first in the queue. A lady joined and asked, “Neil?” We nodded, pleased to be able to help out.

At about 5:45, there was a commotion on the other side of the office. Secret window number 3 had opened, but it was not a secret to everyone else. About 20 people crowded around the hatch. I walked over and asked, “Neil?” Someone nodded.

Oh dear. I took all the gear to give Jamie a break and joined the queue. No one was letting me in, not even close. Jamie came and took over – the guy would spot him and realize he’d been waiting hours already.

He queued and fought for a ticket for a good 20 minutes while I guarded the bags and deflected chat-up lines from the guy who yesterday had given us the 5 am tip-off.

The man with the tickets started to pack up.

“What’s going on?” Jamie called.

“No tickets.”

“But I’ve been waiting since 5 am! I was in the queue over there where you told me to wait, and you opened here!”

“Tickets only for islanders. You get ticket there.”

“There is closed! I can’t get tickets there. You said here for Neil. If it was just islanders, you should have said so I didn’t queue for ages!”

No response. The man ignored Jamie’s shouts of frustration and requests for information on where we could get tickets.

Relishing the fact that English swearing slang is an unknown language outside the UK, the frustration turned to anger:

“You’re a TWAT, mate, an absolute TWAT!” (He actually said something a lot worse, which I won’t write – use your colorful imaginations.)

Not amused, we sat in a huff. We would try again at 11:30 – only 5 hours to go.

Starting to feel pangs of hunger, we took a ride into town and sat in a café for a dosa and some coffee. This was a very welcome meal. We decided to head straight back to the port and wait. It would be fine; we’d play chess and Chinese chequers, and the time would fly by.

We’d been sat at the dock for all of about 5 minutes when a coach went past, a man jumped out, and beckoned us. Jamie ran over, talked to the man, and came back. Something about a private boat, two tickets for £10 each. It was all a little confusing. We didn’t know if there were tickets we could have or not. But if there were, £10 (although over double the ticket on the public ferry) was a small price to get out of this port!

The man didn’t come back over, so Jamie ran back to try and secure us a spot. Mission successful. We were told to get our bags. We did so and climbed aboard the empty coach, which drove out of the port, turned around, picked up two honeymooners, and drove back into the port.

At the armed-guarded gate, we stopped. An army man came on and started shouting with the driver. The word “foreigner” was used a lot, and they both gesticulated in our direction. That’s it, back to the port waiting area for us, we thought.

The army man continued to shout as he got off the bus. The gates opened, and we drove down the jetty. Sure that we would drop off the honeymooners, u-turn, and kick us off too, we were delighted to be invited off the coach, asked for money, and pointed in the direction of the boat.

Feeling lucky and relieved to be on our way, we climbed aboard the posh private boat, which whizzed us over to Havelock Island in a speedy 1.5 hours. The boat was comfortable, and we watched flying fish dart out of the sea and skim the waves.

In Port Blair, we had met two travelers on their return from Neil Island. They said that Havelock was too touristy for them and the much smaller, slower-paced Neil Island was incredible. We were instantly sold, and although we were still going to Havelock, we were going to head to Neil first.

Obviously, this didn’t pan out, but we weren’t unhappy. The Varkala-esque touts and restaurants were nowhere to be seen on Havelock. The hustle and bustle died down instantly once the Indian tourists had jumped into their private buses, and we were left virtually alone on an absolutely beautiful Havelock Island. A few shops selling essentials (I say shops, I mean wooden shacks) speckled the track.

After some messing around, we found our hut. Made out of bamboo and palm fibers, it had been beautifully constructed. We could see the sea from the porch, and it had a bathroom, all for the small fee of £6.

We were happy bunnies and swiftly made it the 40 yards to the ocean.

The tide was out, so we waded over dead coral and rocks for several hundred meters. The water was crystal clear. We walked up the beach to check out our surroundings. There were no beach bars encroaching on this beautiful white sand shore. Resorts stayed tucked away, hidden by palms and trees.

After a half-hour walk, we ventured into a clearing, and set back was a resort of double-storied beach huts and a well-decorated little bar. The name, which I can't quite recall, was pirate-themed—Long John Silver, Smugglers' Rest, or Black Beard Bar... something along those lines. Yo ho ho and a bottle of beer.

"Sorry, sir, we don't have beer."

All Jamie's beach-boozing dreams shattered before him until...

"We can get you beer, sir, no problem. You can put it in the fridge, no problem."

We gave a driver a crisp 500-rupee note and ordered two large Kingfishers. He popped back about 10 minutes later with cold beers and only wanted 50 rupees for the privilege.

We ordered some aubergine fry and honey chili potatoes as a starter and seafood pasta to follow. It was delicious, and the manager at this resort, 'Emerald Gecko,' was very helpful and enthusiastic.

The tide was out way too far to snorkel on our beach, so we headed to town to grab a snorkel for Jamie and make our way to Elephant Beach. At the entrance to the track, the driver said, "45 minutes walking that way." This was the only way to Elephant Beach, and we hadn't realised it was a fair trek. We didn't have enough water, a torch, or anything else required to trek into the jungle so late in the day. We didn't even have a clock and didn't want to get stuck there in the dark, so we said we'd give it a miss today and come earlier and better prepared tomorrow.

We did have time to check out Timeout magazine's "best beach in Asia"—Radhanagar, Beach Number 7. It was sensational. We tried and failed to snorkel as the waves picked up, and Jamie's extra-wide, extra-cheap snorkel broke. We ended up ditching them on our towels so we could surf and play in the cool, clear water instead, taking in this absolutely stunning stretch of beach.

We left just in time to see the sun set behind the clouds and headed back to town to attempt a predetermined failed mission to swap Jamie's broken snorkel for a new one or get a refund. This inevitably ended in a big quarrel with talk of getting the police and everything. Consumer rights in India are zero.

After chilling on our balcony and reading for some time with rum and coke, we headed for a quick dinner at Sunrise Restaurant, where we had a fantastic white snapper and helped the owner with his business plan.

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