OF JARAWA LAND & LIMESTONE CAVES- III
OF JARAWA LAND AND LIMESTONE CAVES
ANDAMAN – Nov 9th
1:20 a.m., 1:43 a.m., 2:40 a.m.….. finally tired eyes open, but for not more than a few seconds. Eventually, they respond to strong messages from the brain and do not shut again. A cat’s stretch, some strong caffeine, and complete activation takes place. A peek from the window. Dark, and quiet, the city still sleeps. Slowly, the eyes focus on the closed main gate and a waiting car. Pugal is on the dot. The receptionist gives a call back at 3:00 am. A new day has begun.
Permission has only got granted to drive through the Jarawa land. No getting out of the car or intermixing with the tribe. That is, in case you meet them, or they you.
The kind receptionist –on-duty shares his snacks and gets two refreshment boxes packed. Pugal drives smoothly on the sleepy roads of Port Blair. 48 km get covered in an hour to Jirkatang. It’s 5:03 am. Dawn is breaking. The crowing of the roosters has begun from the neighbouring hamlets. This road leads to Diglipur too. Inter-island buses have already begun their daily task of commuting passengers to and fro.
And then the wait in the long convoy of vehicles begins. So that was why the day had to begin at this unforsaken hour. Several hundred people are already there with the same sense of adventure. Some in taxis, some in private vehicles, and some in mini-buses. Now, as they wait, they walk around, talk in groups and help boost the local economy in the form of several cups of hot beverages, cool drinks, dosas, sambhar vadas, omelettes, bread, sweets, and savouries.
One of the oldest indigenous tribes in the world, the Jarawas are perhaps the pioneers in the out-of-Africa migration. The Andaman is their home for at least 55,000 years. With only around 270 left, they need all protection. Hence, the precautions.
It is now 6:10 am, and the convoy finally gets the green signal. Pugal drives along, perhaps the most excited. He is proud of his region. Forests get denser as the drive enters the mid-Jarawa territory. Lush green vegetation tells of a green belt as yet saved from extinction (though that cannot be said for all Andaman). Beyond the forests are the Jarawa habitations, assures Pugal. It is said that sometimes the tribe members stand along the road and smile at visitors. Today there is no such luck. And rightly so. Jarawas, after all, are just as human as the rest, not show pieces to get flaunted to ticket-paying visitors. The heart says the correct thing has happened, but Pugal disagrees. He is more disheartened than the entourage he is driving.
2 hours of drive in Jarawa territory is a unique experience in itself. What more can be asked for?
Suddenly, the forests open and the port connecting to Baratang Island is visible. Nilambur Jetty arrives. The mad rush to board the standing passenger ship gives the feeling of an exodus, almost on the lines of Noah’s Ark. Although here it is only a trip to the island of the mangroves and caves of limestones. There is no place left to sit. The journey has to get covered standing, holding onto the Captain’s cabin door. A picture of Mother Mary next to the helm provides emotional support. As the ship docks, its wide drawbridge opens and all rush out.
Tickets for the passenger boat get paid, and life jackets get worn. Then a walk on a creaky, wooden bridge holding onto rails brings into view the boat that will transport to the mangrove land.
And soon it is off to the fascinating limestone caves. 10 passengers and a guide per boat. As the motorboat chugs along, the mangrove swamps on either side give a taste of what’s to come. The half-hour ride ensures that hair gets tangled and eyes get squinched. It is a bright, sunny day. What the future holds is unknown. Andaman weather has a heart and mind of its own.
New acquaintances, though also get made. A family from West Bengal, the young lady all dolled up in sharp contrast to plain clothed parents, another from Orissa, two elderly brothers and their wives from Kerala on a trip sponsored by their children. One brother, it turns out was a high school history teacher and so was his wife. The guide is merely in teens. He spends the ride monitoring the boats’ diesel storage cans and eating Parle G biscuits.
As the boat reaches its destination, it seems to have transported its passengers to an adventure franchise’ a .k .a. Indiana Jones with dollops of James Bond. A few meters long wooden bridge is just the beginning, a romantic setting beautifully camouflaging what’s to come. Beyond it, the overgrowth gets thicker and the land, slushier. Rumours begin to float about an impending attack by the resident crocodiles. The walk of 1.02 km to the limestone caves has just begun.
Ancient trees provide some shade, with interludes of sudden openings of fields. A slight drizzle begins. It will continue throughout the trek. The trees with their curled-up roots act as stepping stones on rough paths. In some places, rocks do the same work. Visitors from Gujarat chatter along. “My knees ache all the time”, one generally explains, “but, I have to keep walking, or else I will jam forever.” The ones from Bengal quietly trudge along, the young lady using every second step as a selfie time. Brave women in sarees and open slippers walk along at a speed most consistent. Most children give up somewhere along the way. They happily use the piggyback services offered, indeed under duress, by their dads, and sometimes moms too.
Finally, the million-year-old caves, called Stalagmites in geological language, arrive. The young guide gets into action. Tall, deep, dark and so heavily covered on the top that they block raindrops from falling, the limestones are in colours galore- white, black, ochre. One more great mystery of nature. Yet, exiting them is more desirous, their uniqueness and history notwithstanding.
The arduous walk back begins in the rain, this time a little faster as always happens on return journeys. The boat ride back gets followed by a delish lunch at AR Restaurant to the accompaniment of a chilled cola to drown the spices.
The reverse movie continues. Back on the ship, back to the port, back in the taxi, back in Jarawa land, and finally back to Port Blair. Pugal announces the trip as a failure. No Jarawas, no success. He has to get pulled out of the depression. He cheers up on a thought. “You will have to come again to Andaman to meet the Jarawas. I will drive you.”
But, after so many back trips, it is now time to move on.
It is time to bid Port Blair adios.
Havelock Island invites.
