We reached Port Blair late in the evening, past 7.30 PM. K and I stood at a port hole at one end of the corridor outside our cabin, and watched the Nicobar dock at Haddo jetty, saw the scurrying of dock workers as they ran up to the ship, waited for a crane to come up with a couple of what looked like unsteady gangplanks, and then fixed them in place. Disembarking then began, and we retrieved our luggage from our cabin and trooped downstairs to join the queue, sorry to say goodbye to the big ship that had been our home the past three days. The dock, predictably enough, was chaotic beyond belief - WHY do Indians not understand the meaning of 'queues'? - but we squirmed our way along the sides of a seething mass of people, all talking and waving identification papers of some sort as irate policemen manning the gates yelled and shoved back. One of them caught sight of my peering face and took pity on me, letting us through after a quick look at our passports and a beady-eyed stare at K with his huge rucksack (everyone, but everyone, in the Andamans took him for a foreigner, for reasons best known to themselves, remaining unconvinced even after he spoke to them in Hindi or, as was most often the case, Bengali). We hurriedly made our way out, only to be greeted by another mass of people, this time mostly auto drivers, taxi drivers, and the ubiquitous touts. We found an auto, gave them the address of our hotel, haggled about five minutes, and then set off.
The first thing that struck me a couple of minutes into the journey was - it was cold. All over the Andamans, however hot and humid the days might be, the temperature plummets as soon as the sun sets, and the late evening air felt chilly. The marketplaces we went through seemed much like any marketplace in any Indian small town, with one possible exception - the traffic was very light. I put it down to it being past 8 PM, but later realised that that's the way it is, even in Port Blair - you might even drive a few minutes at a stretch without meeting any other vehicle! Very refreshing, that is, for a city dweller. As K chatted away with the auto driver, asking him all sorts of questions, I stared out trying to take in as much as I could; and soon enough, we left the town proper and made our way down a dark, winding road with no streetlights, no people, and no cars of any sort. We occasionally passed a house or three, lights glimmering through leafy trees - and Prabhu, the auto driver wanted to know why we were staying at a resort located so far away from the town proper. Because we didn't want to stay bang in the middle of the city, we said. Why? he asked in a tone of great bewilderment. Because we live in a city all the time, we said. He said nothing more, but we could see him mentally shaking his head, and going 'These tourists are crazy!' much like Obelix might have. He stopped to ask for directions a couple of times, and in about half an hour or so, we were there, at the Palm Grove Eco Resort.
All one could make out of Palm Grove that late were a dimly lit path, fluttering moths, lots of trees, and little cottages situated on either side of the path. We were shown to our cottage by a young boy who happened to be Bengali, and after checking out the very cute and spacious bamboo cottage, complete with AC (which didn't work too well), attached bathroom (which was nice and large, although the tap was leaky, much like our tap at home, so we didn't mind), television set (which was promptly switched on) and telephone, we ordered a large pot of coffee (the staff soon learned what inveterate coffee drinkers we are; the little pot was soon replaced with large flasks), and soon thereafter, called it an early night. It is only when you're out of the city that you realise how unaccustomed you are to complete silence; there is always some sound or the other in a city, even in the dead of night, and total quiet, broken only by the relentless humming of cicadas, can be very unnerving. It took me a while to fall asleep that night.
When I woke up and opened the window, though, I was delighted. We seemed to have been transported into a quiet, rural suburb, almost a village - our window looked out onto a little pond, lots of trees flanking it, with hilly fields stretching beyond. As I gazed out happily, I spotted a huge gecko making its stately way down the path beside the pond, while some chickens fluttering around stood aside respectfully. After breakfast, we met the owner-manager Shibu Varghese, a very friendly, warm man, with a phenomenal knowledge of the flora and fauna inhabiting the Andaman Islands. He blamed his knowledge on the fact that his sister was a botanist and his brother-in-law a wildlife conservation officer; but his love for plants, trees and animals was all his own. Palm Grove is covered with trees, bushes and shrubs, all of which Shibu has planted himself, each of which he knows: cinnamon trees, pepper bushes, all-spice plants, bamboo trees, and his joy at our delight was apparent. We were soon firm friends, and our many conversations with him made our stay there all the more enjoyable.
Our first day in Port Blair, we decided to take a boat ride down to Viper Island, which was home to one of the first prisons built by the British for troublesome Indian political prisoners. The name comes from the boat that carried the British officer who actually built the prison - it was called The Viper. While the ride there and back was lovely - clear sky, emerald seas (which changed colour every minute), islands of varying sizes dotting the sea, a few inhabited, most not, covered with dense foliage - Viper Island itself isn't much to write home about. It didn't help that the boat man/guide threatened to leave us behind if we weren't back on the boat in 15 minutes, which is just enough time to race up steep steps to a crumbly red building, stare at a blackened beam which was where prisoners were hanged from, take a quick peek into another room which didn't seem to have much purpose, and race down again. Half an hour later we were back at Aberdeen Jetty, just as the lights were coming on in Port Blair. The next couple of hours were spent rambling around Aberdeen Bazaar, and having a very satisfying dinner at Gagan Restaurant, which was once owned by Bengalis, but now serves the ubiquitous north Indian fare. The food was good though, the place clean, the service quick, so I'd recommend it.
Easily the most popular and well-known tourist spot in Port Blair. However, if a love of history, and a desire to see one of the most horrifying monuments to colonial brutality is what calls you there, you'd return disappointed. The Indian government's idea of preserving historical monuments - when they do preserve them, that is - is effacing every bit of history from the bricks and the structures themselves; well-manicured lawns, topiaries, pretty flowering shrubs, and brick structures that had been painted white greeted us. This was definitely not the sight that had greeted political prisoners in the early twentieth century, some of them jailed for offences as minor as 'breaking a police cordon'. It was hard to imagine the horror of it all in the face of such determined white-washing; although little could be done to mitigate the darkness of the claustrophobic cells, the terror you could imagine the prisoners locked in feeling. As we wandered around with cheerful, loud tourists, we tried to find spots that retained their original grimness; and parts of the building, difficult to reach because of the dense shrubbery, gave us just that. I realised I'm getting older when a bunch of loudly laughing - braying, rather - young men by one of the cells filled me with sudden fury - people had died here so you lot could have the freedom to laugh at the site of their misery one day, I wanted to yell. Do people laugh at the things they see in Auschwitz? If they don't, does their respect stem from the fact that the place has been left exactly as it was, and not prettified, thereby leaching it of all horror and shame? Or is it just us Indians who have no sense of history, no respect for the past?
A couple of interesting things about Port Blair: there are no beggars in the city. Not one.
Everyone's uniformly polite and friendly, even the cops. And the traffic police are all women.