Note: I have changed the names of people and places in this post to protect their identity, for reasons that will become clear in the second part.
I was on the point of leaving Shivapuram as angry as I'd been when I arrived when I was saved by a guardian angel. I had hefted my backpack onto my back, for some reason its usual weight inexplicably enraging me today. Then, as I turned to go down the guest house steps to leave it forever, and wait for the bus by the road outside a male voice behind me asked, 'Are you leaving already? Where are you going to?' I couldn't keep the choke of anger and frustration out of my voice or stop the wobbling of my chin that told the world that I was on the verge of tears, so I didn't turn round but looked out to the horizon, hoping my emotions were hidde behind my sunglasses.
'I'm going back to Port Blair,' I replied. Then, under my breath, 'Anything to get out of this place.'
'Is everything OK?' Asked the voice, gently and kindly. 'You seem upset.' That was it. A tiny kindness, a caring tone of voice, a note of concern from a stranger was all it took. I hung my head and burst into silent tears.
'No,' I replied, choked with emotion. 'It's not OK. I just want to get out of here and go anywhere else.'
'What happened?' Then in a voice like a father soothing a child. 'Come with me. Sit down and rest. Don't leave while you're upset.'
I looked up at the voice finally and was met by a tall, chubby, cuddly-looking Indian man with a wide, open, friendly face, topped with a mop of curly black hair. He looked both deeply concerned and terrified at my emotional state.
'I'm John. I own this guest house.'
Let me explain why I was upset in the first place. I'd left Havelock Island in a state of doubt about whether I was doing the right thing. It was such a beautiful place and there were plenty of other travellers there to talk to and hang out with, not to mention lots of good restaurants. The fact that there was little to do there except lie on the beach and do the occasional bit of snorkelling only added to the imperative to stay. But I'd already told myself it was a waste of time to stay on just one island for three weeks when there were so many others to explore.
So with half-reluctance, half-excitement I'd dragged myself off Havelock. By the time I arrived in Shivapuram at John's guest house, where I'd involuntarily ended up, the experience so far had in no way merited the effort I had gone to.
The ferry to Rangat had given me a false sense of impending good times. The guide book, (which I was beginning to find more of a useless albatross than a helpful travelling tool as far as the Andamans were concerned) had told me that the ferry would take six hours, but we docked after just two. I'd settled down on the top deck in the blowing, salty breeze to write my journal. I had food for the journey and was actually quite looking forward to passing my time in this way. As I sat there, the Second Officer, sharp in a crisp white shirt and black and gold epaulettes came over and squatted down next to me. After the usual questions about where I was from, seeing my journal and pen in my hand, he asked if I was a writer. I thought it was just easier to say yes, so I did. He didn't think it necessary to ask what kind of writer I was and launched into conversation on the assumption that I was a journalist here to write about India.
'Don't write anything bad about India,' he warned. 'India is a good place.'
'I know. I like it very much.'
Ignoring my agreement, he continued, 'Because if you say bad things about India, tourists won't come.'
'I know. The Andamans are very beautiful,' I continued, trying to reassure him. 'The people are very friendly too. I like it here.' I gave a big smile to underline my complete happiness with the Andamans' package.
'Yes, Andamans are very good. You must write good things in your country when you go back home.'
'I will.' I couldn't resist the urge to share my woes at the ticket office though. 'But one bad thing is the tickets. It's very complicated to buy one.' And so he wouldn't take it as too great a criticism I elaborated: 'I feel sorry for the islanders, as it's hard for them too, especially when there are lots of tourists there too.'
'Yes, it is true. So you should write to the India Tourism Office and tell them this, otherwise no-one will listen and nothing will change. If you don't do this - and all other foreigners too - it will stay the same.' I don't think he meant it to, but his words sounded like a threat.
'Of course,' I said, 'that's a good idea.' I don't think he cared about my answers, he just wanted to say his piece, especially as he now said again, 'And don't say anything bad about India.'
'I won't,' I repeated, again adding what I hoped was a broad and honest smile.
'We are in Rangat in 10 minutes,' he said and was gone. I was delighted; I'd just gained four hours! A six-hour trip was turning out to be just two hours.
In Rangat my good fortune continued. Nose in tattered (and useless) guidebook, I wandered away from the jetty, checking the details of where I had to catch the bus from to continue my journey to Cuthbert Bay where I hoped to see turtles nesting. Passing some stalls and a group of men sitting around, one of them called out, 'What are you looking for?'
'The bus to Cuthbert Bay.'
'It leaves from here,' the man said, pointing to exactly where they were sitting.
'I don't have to go into the town to the bus station?' I checked.
'No, no. After town it comes here in one hour and half.'
'Great,' I beamed. 'I'll wait here.' More good luck! No walking with a heavy pack in the dense, humid air. I was beginning to be glad I'd left the joys of Havelock behind after all. I should not have been so quick to dismiss chance, probability, fate and karma...
I sat chatting with the men while I waited, taking photos of them posing in my sunglasses, joking and generally having a good time. They were friendly and fun and pleased that a tourist had bothered to come to scruffy Rangat, even if just to go on somewhere else.
When the tatty old bus pulled up there was even a free seat. The trip to the guest house I had planned to stay at was only 15 minutes away, so I'd be there by lunchtime. The bus dropped me off right outside it and I walked in. This was where my good luck came crashing to a halt. They had no rooms for the night and they were the only guest house in Cuthbert Bay. The guidebook (apparently not so useless after all) had said you should reserve in advance via the Port Blair tourist office but I hadn't read this detail until I'd already left Port Blair, so I thought I'd risk it that they'd have a spare room.
The manager was not very friendly or helpful but under pain of questioning I managed to extract from him that a bus for Shivapuram, the next big town further north would pass in front of the guest house at 3pm, in one-and-a-half hours' time. What with waiting for the bus in Rangat and another long wait here, I would have used up most of the four hours I'd gained from the ferry, but as there was zero to see in Rangat if I went back there, I decided that going on to Shivapuram was the best option.
The manager had said the bus was at 3pm so, after waiting most of the time in the cool, shady lobby, I went outside at 2.45pm to wait in the hot sun by the roadside, just in case it came early. While I was there, a young lad who worked for the guest house came out and started to chat to me. I asked him what time the bus was coming too, employing the necessary Three-Person Indian Time Check Rule. He said 3.15pm, so I was glad I'd come out earlier, as this did not correspond with the manager's opinion. Indians are generally helpful, but not always accurate. So whenever you want to check a time it is best to ask three different people. If they all say the same thing, you can be more-or-less sure that it is correct and if they don't, you can take the earliest option and arrive half an hour before that, just to be on the safe side.
We chatted away, me keeping and eye on the road from time to time. At 3pm bang-on, a white bus appeared round the corner.
'Is this it?' I asked.
'No, no. 3.15, 3.15,' he insisted. I wasn't sure and looked as it approached, speeding along in a cloud of dust. It didn't look like it was going to stop and I couldn't see its destination board anywhere. It wasn't until it was almost in front of us that I spotted the tiny sign for 'Shivapuram' in the front window, but by then, it was too late. It sped past us in a ball of grit and fumes. I ran out into the road and shouted and waved to flag it down but the driver didn't see me.
Red-faced with frustration and rage, I turned on the boy. 'Was that it?! WAS THAT IT?!' My voice was tight with anger.
'Yes, Shivapuram bus,' he replied, 'Another come 5.30pm.' He wasn't in the slightest bit bothered, embarrassed or guilty that I'd missed my bus, in part thanks to his misinformation.
'5.30!? 5.30!? I'm not fucking waiting till 5 fucking 30!!' I was livid. I raged, I shouted, I swore, I kicked stones. I blamed him, I blamed the manager, I blamed everyone apart from myself. My face must have been a hideous contortion of rage and frustration. It was an embarrassing, appallingly childish tantrum but I couldn't help myself. He just looked away, awkward and uncomfortable before such a disproportionate display of fury.
After a few minutes I calmed down slightly, but my heart was still pounding with impotent rage. It was such a waste of time! But really, although I had heaped the blame on the poor uncomprehending boy, crushing him with the weight of my fury, it was my own fault and I knew it. I should have trusted my own judgement and booked a room ahead, or I should have flagged the speeding bus down anyway to ask the driver himself where he was going. All this had been within my control but I didn't take control and I was now reaping the results of my own laxity.
Going back inside I asked the manager if he could help. Was there another way to get to Shivapuram sooner without having to wait for the 5.30pm bus? The only thing he could suggest was to hire a Jeep. He rang someone and came back with a price. I knew it would be expensive - it was at least 3 hours away - but I didn't know how expensive. The Jeep would cost 1500 Rs, while the bus would be just 50 Rs. There was no contest. I couldn't afford the Jeep; the high price was only rubbing salt into the wound left by the missed bus. And I couldn't face wasting money on top of all the time I'd already squandered today.
In the end, at the suggestion of the manager, I got a local bus back to Rangat to wait at the bus station for the 5pm bus to Shivapuram, so I would be sure not to miss it. So, as the light of the afternoon faded and began to turn golden, I found myself back in Rangat, six hours after first arriving there. I sat on the bus, waiting for it to load up, staring miserably out of the window and glaring at the frank stares of a curious child sitting in the seat in front of me.
My ordeal was not over yet. The journey was fours hours over lumpy, bumpy rubbish roads, through the rapidly cooling jungle evening. As the driver turned the ignition, a blast of deafening Hindi music assaulted me. The speaker was just above my head. I couldn't even use my earplugs as they were packed in a box somewhere in another box, somewhere in the middle of my backpack which was wedged inaccessibly under my seat.
The next four hours were torture of various kinds. The Hindi chanteuse trilled, wailed, shrieked and yelped in my ear while the road drummed a complicated and painful tattoo with my bony backside on the hard seat. As night fell the wind coming into the open-sided bus chilled me to the bone with a penetrating damp cold that I did not believe could exist anywhere other than the English winter I thought I'd left behind. When I arrived deadbeat at 9pm at the guest house in Shivapuram (I had, for once, wisely phoned ahead to book my room), I had been travelling - or trying to - for the last 12 hours.
The mood John found me is was the remnants of this terrible day, plus further indignations I had suffered since arriving in the Shivapuram. I knew there was not a great deal to do in the town, but that morning I'd asked the lady at the guest house, who seemed to be the manager (and who I later discovered was John's wife, Mary) about what trips - mentioned in the Lonely Planet - she could organise to various outlying islands. She had not been particularly helpful and it seemed that the only trip it would be possible for me to do was a boat trip to a deserted beach on an uninhabited island nearby. I decided not to do this for two reasons: firstly it was too expensive to hire the boat on my own and secondly I didn't feel much like being alone on a beach with no-one else to share it with and given my present low mood.
I decided to go into the town centre to see if any other tour operators had anything else to offer. I hadn't realised it was Sunday and everything was closed. There was absolutely nothing going on and I felt totally dejected. I returned to the guest house and checked out, with the intention of going back south to Port Blair that day and then further south to Little Andaman, which I knew had good beaches. There I intended to waste the rest of my time as, I grimly thought, I should have done in the first place on Havelock. I was totally pissed off with everything, myself and my bad decisions included, and just wanted to get out of Shivapuram and start again.
If John had arrived just five minutes later, I would have been gone, but his life-saving force of kindness and generosity of spirit arrived just in the nick of time and changed the course of my next few days on the islands - and for the better.
To be continued...
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