A mountain to climb

When I left Shivapuram, John had persuaded me to continue my journey to the tip of North Andaman Island to the northernmost major town, Diglipur.

'You should go there, then you can plant your 'flag' and say that you were at the furthest North possible in the Andamans.' I liked the sound of this exotic island North Pole, so I decided to take his advice. As well as planting my metaphorical flag at the North Pole, I also ended up planting another one at the highest point of the islands when I decided to trek up Saddle Peak. At 732m high, it doesn't sound so tall but the climb up it was one of the hardest physical challenges I have ever undertaken.

At the resort I stayed in near the peak, there were various things I could have done: I could go and do nothing on a beautiful deserted white sandy beach on an island that is only accessible with a permit or I could trek up a mini-mountain in the boiling heat just for fun. I could go to a beach anytime on many of the islands, but here was obviously the only place I could climb the Andamans' highest peak, so that was my choice and one which I came to regret deeply and wholeheartedly.

But I had great company to go with me and motivate me in the form of some fellow travellers I'd met who were also staying at the Pristine Beach Resort in Kalipur, near to Saddle Peak. They were a Danish couple, Stork and Rikke, a French girl called Nadia and an Israeli couple called Bar and Ofir. They were a fascinating cross-section of the travelling population.

Stork and Rikke were part-way through one of their annual six-month trips. They had done what many people dream of doing but which few actually have the courage to do. They had sold their apartment and most of their possessions and now lived in a caravan outside Copenhagen for six months of the year, spending as little as possible, working on temporary contracts to save money to travel for the rest of the year. They were a very strong and interesting couple. Stork got his nickname because he looked just like the bird. He was very tall and very thin with a long, thin nose like a beak, on which little rectangular specs perched. When he walked he even picked his legs up very high, as if stalking through a pond. He had sandy-blond hair and moustache and when he had time, he would smoke a pipe. I came to love those moments when he lit it, watching him go through the ritual of cleaning and preparing the pipe, with slow, delicate, deliberate, measured movements, before lighting it and wreathing himself and us in a rich, fragrant, liquorice-flavoured blue smoke.

His girlfriend, Rikke, was also tall, slim and bird-like, with long blond hair and fine features, a calm, cheerful personality and a ready smile. She was the kind of person you couldn't say anything bad about and whom nobody could dislike. She was open and chatty but never tried to dominate the conversation, she listened and was interested in what you had to say, and she had her own opinions but never thrust them on you. Rikke was a chef and would work on seasonal jobs and temporary contracts during their months in Denmark, while Stork worked as a meditation teacher, as well as a graphic illustrator. Rikke had also trained as an illustrator (in fact, Stork had been her teacher when they first met) - and while they travelled they were also working on an online graphic comic.

Stork also made an impression on me. He was quiet, calm and peaceful. We had many conversations about the meditation he both taught and practiced and he was the first person I met on my travels who was able to talk about the subject coherently and without descending into a fog of mumbo-jumbo, as so many others had done before.

I often find myself getting on well with people like Stork, as their serenity and calm fascinates me, because I know it is one of the qualities I lack and would dearly love to possess. I marvel at such people's quiet absorption and acceptance of life's trials (of which there are many in India) without the rage or anxiety that so often floods me uncontrollably when things don't go according to plan. Stork's answer was not to have a plan or any expectations, then you could accept whatever came your way. This is something I have always found easier in principle than practice, but Stork had a way of talking about it that made me believe I could master this and he was also the first person who made he think that I should try meditation again and might actually get something out of it.

Nadia was very different from Stork and Rikke but equally lovable: a bright cheerful person, she was always full of energy and she spoke a lot, talking expressively and Gallically with her hands and face. It would curve into a smile, a laugh, a grimace, a frown or a down-turned mouth Gallic shrug in quick succession, depending on the subject matter and her opinion. Nadia was an electronics engineer and a high level manager in a French company, tendering for projects to build and run train and metro networks all over the world. She had worked in many places around the world, including in China, Korea, England and the Philippines and was due to start a two-year stint in Panama later this year to manage a new metro project. Her reason for being in the Andamans was a three-week diving holiday. She was fiercely intelligent, sharp and very frank and forthright in her opinions. She was also great fun to be around and one of life's instantly likable people. She always had a ready smile - a broad, perfect white grin - and a friendly 'hello' for the locals and she totally charmed them with her requests for photos.

Being a talker myself, I feed off chatty people like Nadia very well and her inquisitive nature never left us at a loss for things to talk about during our time together. Our conversation flowed and at the end of my time in Kalipur, I decided to change my plans to go back south in order to go on with her to a different Island and spend a few more days in her company.

Bar and Ofir I got to know less well. Bar had just finished her military service in the Israeli Army  and Ofir had been travelling in India for a few months before she came out to join him. In their early 20s, they were still a bit unsure of themselves and clung together like a pair of lost monkeys, with constant public displays of affection and reassurance. But they were pleasant enough company.

Our 6:30am start to climb Saddle Peak was supposed to help us avoid the worst of the day's heat. It was still relatively cool when we eventually set out at 7:30am, as Bar and Ofir had overslept. The resort's chef, who had opened the kitchen early especially for us, had dutifully prepared our packed lunches as requested. Unfortunately he seemed to have misunderstood that we wanted breakfast too before we set out, so we had to wait while he hastily cooked up a batch of steaming creamy porridge with fresh fruit for us.

The rickshaw we thought had been booked to take us to the foot of the hill had also not materialised, so this added another hour to the trek, as we now had to walk the road to the start of the trail. We all came prepared with hiking shoes, plenty of water and our packed lunch of hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes and bread. Our guide, Sanjay, in typical Indian fashion, had on just a pair of elderly, exhausted-looking flip-flops, a faded T-shirt, shorts and an impossibly small bag with his lunch and water in it. He was small, dark and wiry and spoke no English, so communicated with signs fort he most part and walked along behind him, chatting between ourselves while he led the way in silence. He didn't seem to mind.

Walking towards the peak, we passed little scenes of rural island life. Among the banana palms and open fields, little huts nestled, draped with the flames of hibiscus and bougainvillea. Children called out 'Hallao! Hallao!' and waved as we passed, heir teeth bright curves of happiness in their clear brown faces. Women washed clothes by the roadside pumps, swinging and whacking the wet fabric against their smooth, worn wash-stones, sending sparks of water and puffs of white suds into the air. Buffaloes wallowed in olive-green silty pools, snorting water out of their nostrils as they lay, gleaming wet like polished wood. Yellow, white, brown and patchwork dogs trotted about along the way, every so often stopping abruptly in the middle of the road for a vigorous scratch. Over everything, the thick, heavy jungle-damp smell was the fragrance of the pulsing green heart of the islands.

Luckily the day was cloudy, as it had rained the night before, but even so, within minutes our skin was beaded with sweat that the humid air could not dry. The sun was warm already, too warm, even from behind the clouds, and it wasn't even 8am. The air felt alive yet stifling, washed fresh and clean by the rain, but now close and hugging like a hot, damp blanket. We walked on like this for an hour, our feet drumming softly against the road, settling into the rhythm of our stride and getting used to the constant feel of sweat on our skin. At this point we reached the start of the trail to the top and a checkpoint where we had to buy permits to walk up the peak. At that time of the morning it was unmanned, so we walked on.

Now we left the Tarmac road and it became a track that skirted through the jungle margins, which in turn followed the coastline. A narrow track led on through the tall trees which were quite spread out, allowing a thick, rough grass to cover the ground between them. Many were twisted round with solid lianas and vines, winding rope-like around their trunks and becoming part of them. The bases of the trees splayed out into massive vertical ridges, that looked like great buttresses on a cathedral and soared poker-straight up into the sky. The ground was flat and even and strewn with dried leaves and fallen exotic blooms, big papery flowers, like splashes of paint on the dull brown-green of the forest floor. Small ferns fanned out from nooks in the tree roots, exploding into life like emerald fireworks.

Although he was the smallest of us all, Sanjay set a quick pace, walking quietly and sure-footedly in his battered flip-flops. A lifetime spent in the open air was etched in permanence on his feet. They were broad, flat and straight, with large gaps between each toe. All around the back of each heel ran a bark-like crust of blackened, fissured dry skin and his toenails were thick and ridged on toes that bulged up on the knuckles, claw-like from years of gripping onto loose flip-flops. But he stepped just as nimbly as we did over exposed roots, rocks and fallen trees. His legs were skinny sticks below his shorts with no discernible strength in his scrawny calf muscles, which were straight up and down with no visible bulge of muscle. I was to find out soon enough that those twiggy limbs had infinitely more strength than my miserable legs.

Behind him, we soon fell into place acording to our natural strength. Stork and Rikke loped ahead at the front, tall stalking birds. Nadia was next with confident stride despite being the smallest of us, apart from Sanjay. Then there was me, hot but comfortable in my rhythm. Last, a little way behind, were Bar and Ofir, both wearing serious boots but, oddly, shorts too.

Soon Sanjay led us out of the forest and onto the beach. It was a broad curve of big, grey, flat pebbles that clattered and crunched satisfyingly as we walked. The sea was a dull grey to match the cloudy sky, not the beautiful clear turquoise blue of Havelock Island's sea. The grey pebbles, sky and clouds and the dark green of the forest made it look more like the North Sea coast than a tropical island and it had a certain poignant, end-of-the-world desolation and melancholy to it. The wooded hills reached back to the horizon, lying as though pasted on top of one another in graduations of grey-green.

It was quite hard going on the pebbles as they slipped and moved underfoot. My gaze wanted to be everywhere at once: on the hills and the forest and the sea, but also looking downwards to the amazing variety and colour of the pebbles. The were, in fact, not all grey after all, but striped, speckled and textured with every colour. The child in me wanted to stoop and collect, each few steps finding another beauty more smooth, more perfect, more interestingly striated, swirled, textured or shaped than the last. I resisted. The walk was going to be long enough and hard enough without adding extra weight to my bag, which, with its two litres of water and its packed lunch was heavy already.

At the end of the beach, before we turned back into the jungle again, the pebbles turned to sand and we noticed a couple of stray dogs playing and digging in it. They weren't doing any harm, so I was surprised when Sanjay started shouting at them and clapping his hands to scare them off. Apparently they were doing harm. They had discovered a nest of turtle eggs and were digging them up and eating them. By the time we got there most of the egges were empty, their soft round ping-pong ball shells crumpled and tattered. A few were still intact so Sanjay buried them again, even though we knew it was probably futile as the dogs knew where the nest was now.

The trail led us back into the green of the forest again, which was cooler than I expected. I'd anticipated the clinging humidity of storybook jungles, of the jungle as it had been on Havelock Island, but this heat, already diminished by cloud cover was softened further by the strong sea breeze that penetrated the edge of the jungle as we skirted the coast. I should have been more grateful for the cool, as I would soon feel the heat and be hotter than I had ever left in my life before.

We'd settled into our rhythm and walked on in silence now, each in his or her own little world. I wondered vaguely whether Stork up in the distance ahead of me was meditating, as he'd said he often did on walks. I asked him later after the walk and he said that he was. I was also deep in thought. I thought of home, as I often did when I had time to myself. The deep, hollow, emptying homesickness of the first few weeks of my trip had gone by now but was replaced by a sort of nostalgia for the daily humdrum of life's routines back inEngland. I found myself imagining Aleks at home - he would be sleeping now, as it was about 3am in England - picturing him in his favourite relaxed position, outstretched on his leather sofa, a beer in front of him, football on TV. I love to see him like this, as it feels as close to how he would be if I were not there. Of course I'm not there now, but this is him being him, folded in his own world of happiness, which is how I love to see him the most. It's as though I'm watching him but am invisible to him, seeing the essence of Him Without Me.

I think too of Mum and Dad. I imagine them getting up each morning and coming downstairs, down to the office, fuzzy and ruffled with sleep and putting on the computer to check whether I have updated my blog overnight. Mum once emailed me, telling me it was the first thing they do every morning when they get up. I was moved beyond words to know that.

I think too of my brothers and my sister, and their families. I imagine the crackle of early morning activity as they try to co-erce their beautiful sleepy babies into clothing, eating, teeth-brushing, school uniforms.

And I think of how true it is that travelling makes you appreciate where you come from. It polishes, from a distance, the dusty, neglected jewel of your past, your history, your home, until it shines bright with a promise of re-discovery whenever you finally decide to return. And I think too of what I've experienced on my travels. Of the beautiful and the dreadful places I've visisted, of the people - Indians and foreigners alike - friendly, funny, annoying, rude, delightful, thoughtful, fun, easy-going, uptight, wise, profound, spiritual, mundane. All I would remember and all had taught me something. I had taken someting from every one of them and I hoped I had given something to some of them in return.

Still we walked on. I was beginning to worry, as we'd walked for approximately 90 minutes and we were still on flat ground and hadn't even begun to climb the peak. We seemed to be trudging around the base of the hill without acttually ascending it. I would very soon regret worrying about this when the real climb began...

After another 30 minutes we reached a stream. It was an ice-cold spring that came direct from the mountain. It spilled and foamed over rocks and prone tree trunks, with the spotted light through the trees dancing over its sparkling surface.  We all knelt and scooped handfuls of it over our faces and any exposed skin, rising off the sweat and cooling ourselves deliciously. Its icy freshness cleared our heat-fuzzed heads. With a mixture of relief and trepidation I could see that the track on the other side of the stream finally began to rise. At last we would now make progress.

After a few minutes Sanjay made us move on as we still had a long way to go. We started up the track. It was very rough and narrow with only room to walk single file and full of rocks, tree roots and loose dirt. It also rose very steeply, sometimes at an angle of almost 45 degrees. Within a few minutes we were sweating profusely again, the cool water of the stream already evaporated and its freshness now just a memory. All around us the jungle greenery pressed in tight, relectantly letting us pass before springing back into place behind us. Tall tree grabbed onto the steep slopes, their roots clawing into the red soil, while thick bushes puffed up underneath and creepers and vines lanced across the path. There was very little sound of wildlife - only a few chirrups of hidden insects, and precious few birds. A few butterflies floated past and the invisible strands of webs that tangled against my skin were the only evidence that there were spiders there too. This eerily quiet jungle surprised me, without the animal shrieks and yells that we believe to be a part of such a landscape. We walked on in silence, the soft thud of our shoes and the sound of our breathing, now heavier and laboured with the work of climbing the ever-rising terrain, the only other sounds.

My clothes were beginning to stick to me now and the strap of my bag was tugging uncomfortably at my skin or slippping with the sweat gathering underneath it. I felt trickles of moisture run down my back and front and drops of sweat trickling around the curve of my eyesbrows and into my eyes. My hair was damp and claggy and my feet were too hot, muffled up in thick socks. After months of flip-flop freedom, they were unaccustomed to enclosed shoes.

The higher we climbed, the steeper the slope seemed to become. Natural steps formed by the tree roots and rocks were sometimes knee-high and it was an effort to raise myself up them time and time again. The path snaked on up, twisting and turning, sometimes falling ever-so-slightly - a blessed relief to our legs - but then resuming its punishing climb, seemingly steeper than ever, a penance for the brief respite of a downward section.

It got hotter and hotter and hotter. Although the trees shaded us from the light of the sun, its heat still came crashing through the branches, battering past the leaves to clang, loud and ferocious as bells around us. We climbed on. My thigh muscles burned with the exertion of the relentless climb and my lungs ached with the constant deep intakes of breath. Suprusingly though, my throat was not dry from breathing through my mouth, as the air was so moisture-laden that it kept the membranes from drying out. I forced myself to drink great swigs of warm, unappetising, unrefreshing water. Now some odd law of science and psychology began to come into play: the more I drank, the heavier my bag - lightened of its load a little every time - seemed to become. I know it wasn't true, but the impression was strong.

I tried to look at my surroundings every so often, raising my head from the concentration of trying not to trip on the rough ground. Every so often at a small plateau on the climb, I would pause to rest my shaking legs. The vegetation had begun to change. The large-leafed trees and bushes began to give way to stands of trees with much smaller leaves and clumps of bamboo, not the arm-thick giants of the plains and villages, but a fine, dark-green variety with thin pointed leaves. It was so delicate it could have been drawn by a Chinese painter, its lines and curves, trailing off to nothing as though drawn in by a fine hair-tipped brush. The few bird sounds had disappeared now at this altitude and the insects were quieter too, their song squashed by the crushing heat and humidity.

From behind us suddenly, we heard a shout. It was Ofir, some way behind. I called to the others to stop while he caught up. He admitted that he and Bar were finding it tough going and had decided to stop for a while and let us go on ahead with Sanjay. They would follow at their own pace. They had been lagging quite far behind for a while now but we were all a little surprised that they were having trouble keeping up. We weren't happy to leave them alone without a guide, but Ofir insisted they would be fine and that we shouldn't wait for them.

After we walked on, we joked a little cruelly that the Israeli Army was not very fit. I was secretly relieved that it had been them and not me who had given in first, as I was also finding it incredibly tough now. I should not have thought those thoughts and I should not have joined in those jokes, as I was soon to find out just how paintful things were going to get.

Now I was bringing up the rear and began to watch with a sort of detached horror and misery as Nadia's nimble figure got slowly smaller and smaller in front of me before disappearing altogether behind a bend in the path. My legs were in agony. I was having to press down on each thigh, to help push it straight and raise my body up the next step where I would have to repeat the process all over again. I had completely lost the strength in my muscles. I leaned my body forward, using its weight and my hand pressed onto my raised knee to lever it up the next step. My legs were on fire and my head throbbed. Sweat poured out of me in torrents, my bare arms were slick with it and I'd abandoned my sunglases as I was having to take them off too often to wipe the rivers of stinging moisture from my eyes. Every time we reached what I thought was a flat area, the track suddenly rose up again, cruelly dashing my hopes of stopping and resting. Eventually I couldn't take it anymore. I called out to the others, 'Guys, I have to stop now. I can't go on anymore. I'm sorry I'm not as fit as you.' They said nothing, probably also too exhausted to form a reply.

I sat down on the nearest rock. It was sharp and uncomfortable and covered in mud but I was past caring. Taking my bottle out, I glugged mouthfuls of the foul tepid water. As I drank I could see it instantly beading my arms as new drops of sweat. Everything I drank was immediately squeezed back out. I felt like a Play-Doh machine where you squeeze the handles together and little worms of dough wriggle out through the holes in the other side, like a garlic crusher. It was extraordinary to see and feel the water enter and leave your body in virtually the same instant. My clothes were totally soaked with sweat too. I raised the hem of my vest to wipe my face and only made it wetter. Licking my lips I could taste the sharp tang of the salt. Not an inch of me was dry, even the padding of my bra was wet through, and the vest over the top of it, with sweat that poured from me.

As I sat gasping for breath and hoping the uncontrollable trembling in my legs would subside, I weighed up my options: I could stay with the group and attempt to struggle on to the top after this little rest; I could do as Ofir and Bar had so recently done and carry on at my own pace; or I could admit defeat and make my way back down the trail alone. At that moment I genuinely didn't think I could make it to the top, as my legs would probably sieze up, but pride would not allow me to fall into the same category as the Israeli Army and be laughed at by the others in my absence, as I had just done myself (cruel karma, how just your ways!). And I was too worried to go on or back on my own in case I slipped and fell as I would have no-one to help me and there was no mobile signal on the peak. The more I thought about it, the more I realised I actually wanted to go on with this agony. It was a mountainous challenge and I was nearly beaten by it already, but I wasn't going to let it beat me. I knew if I didn't complete it I would brood over it and worry it to pieces for days and that would spoil the whole experience. No, I was going to do this thing if it killed me, which was currently looking like the only possible outcome.

After a few minutes I got up. 'Ok guys, I'm alright now,' I said, although I did not believe my own words. Having sat down my worn-out muscles had had time to cool down slightly and now they felt even worse, but I'd got my breath back at least. If I was going to conquer this piddly little hill, I had to re-think my tactics. While I had thought that using my body weight to help me lever up my legs had been helpful I now realised I was wrong: what I was doing was making it even harder to lift my leg as it had extra weight to haul up. Now I stood up as straight as I could and climbed the steep slope walking as normally and relaxed as possible. It worked! My legs were slightly easier to lift and the pain in them diminshed from total to only moderate agony. But I was able to carry on and that was all that mattered. This was cause for celebration with a long draught of warm water. The others were still faster and fitter than me, but now I knew I would get there - I had to.

We'd been walking for about three hours now and we still had about another hour to go - just to get to the top, then there was the return journey... But I couldn't think about that just yet. I set my sweat-blurred sights on the view from the top - the sight of the Andamans, glowing green, blue and white below me. It would be worth the searingly painful climb to see that sight.

Now my brain had accepted that I was going to see the end, my body seemed to as well. Though still burning all the time with every climb and shaking all the time with every minor descent, my legs fell back into a rhythm and before I knew it my attention was drifting away from the pain. I began to notice my surroundings again. The vegetation was changing once more and the atmosphere with it. The bamboo and bushes were now mingling with a sort of pine forest and a fine mist moved through the trees as we entered the cloud forest. There was no insect noise now, although I'm sure they were out there somewhere, so there was no sound other than the breeze through the leaves and our own heavy, weary tread. It was eeriely quiet and the thick, humid hush seemed to press into me and enter my body, so I was now feeling nothing, thinking nothing and seeing only the dirt, rocks and roots of the path as it passed beneath my feet, twisting and turning about the peak, slanting upwards, ever upwards. A kind of mesmerising trance descended on me and I walked on, empty of thought. I was nothing but the feeling in my legs and the breath going in and out of my body. Maybe I'd unwittingly reached some plane of higher mental consciousness, maybe I was meditating...

Still we climbed on. Viewed from below, every rise that seemed to disappear into what might be the summit, only taunted us with yet more steep rocky climb ahead as we reached that point. Sanjay was still going strong over the sharp rocks and stones. Although he was sweating like the rest of us, he somehow managed to look cool. His short hair was still neat, while mine was ruffled and fuzzy from being snagged on branches and at the same time lank with sweat. The air was cooler now but the mist clung to our soaked clothes and kept them damp. The spindly bamboo arched together overhead, making us walk through tunnels of damp green, like drowned rats in a network of drains.

Suddenly the roof of the tunnel opened out and we saw sky above us. This must be it! The summit. It was nothing significant and was unmarked so, unsure of ourselves, we asked Sanjay. No, it was just a viewpoint and we still had half an hour to go to the top of Saddle Peak. We walked over to the viewpoint and looked down over fold after velvet fold of tree-covered slopes, some hidden below the mist. Off to the left, the coast curved inland, a blue bite out of this green cake, its teethmarks the pale grey of the old coral reefs and pebble beaches. It was silent, so silent. The mist below muffled all sound and we stood also silent taking it in.

Nadia was faint from hunger so we decided to stop and have some of our packed lunch, even though we were nearly there. A slice of dry, over-sweet, pappy white bread had never tasted as good or as satisfying as that limp battered slice did that day! Its quick-fire energy burst through me, making me buzz with new life. We moved on with a new spring in our step. The top of the peak was visible from the viewpoint - tantilisingly close - but I knew that we'd still have to walk up and down and round the other lower peaks to get there. We weren't there yet.

We plunged back into the tunnelled gloom, following Sanjay more closely now, urging ourelves on to the end, so close. When it finally arrived we experienced a fierce burst of joy. I whooped and cheered, raising my hands above my head, fists clenched. Sadly it was not as dramatic as we'd hoped. The spot was marked by a tiny Hindu temple, nothing more than a low corrugated iron roof on metal supports, sheltering a small stone carving of Nandi, the bull god, and a large stone oil lamp. All around it the bamboo forest rose up too high for us to see any view and even if there had been one, the mist would have hidden it from sight. Oddly this fact, which should have been a massive disappointment didn't bother me. I didn't care that the view I'd come to see was not a view at all. I was past caring. I'd made it there and that was all I cared about. I was pround of myself, doubly so. Not only had I done it, I'd done it, even though I didn't think I could. I'd made myself believe I could do it by wanting to do it. And it had worked. I'm not very good at self-congratulation, thinking always that I could do more, better, faster, but today I was totally satisfied with my own performance. And it felt great.

Wearily we sat down to finish off our packed lunches. The still slightly-warm hard-boiled eggs tasted like heaven, sprinkled with a little salt and pepper that Rikke had cleverly thought to bring along. The soft, springy resistence of the white splitting to the silky richness of the yolk that melted on my tongue was like a feast.

Other grateful and exhausted trekkers had given thanks at the temple. A little metal tray at Nandi's feet was filled with silver coins and the odd note, fluttering in the wind. An upright trident staked into the ground had small forest fruit offerings spiked on to the end of each prong. I didn't offer anything - I didn't have anything in my near empty bag to give and anyway, I had done this trek, this climb, this punishment all on my own, whoever may have been watching over it. This was my success and mine only!

Now we'd stopped walking, the cool was seeping back into our fatigued bodies. The heavy mist dripped from all surfaces and the stiff breeze chilled the moisture in our soaked clothes. The boiling dripping sweat of a few minutes ago was now a chill, penetrating cold. We would have to get moving again, having barely stopped, both to keep warm and get back to the resort before nightfall. So, having spent no more than 30 minutes at the summit it had taken us 4 and a half hours to get to, we set off back down it again.

The return journey was much quicker - we had no choice. Rikke and Stork, who'd walked the steep Inca Trail to Machu Pichu in Peru, advised us to run down the track wherever it was smooth enough to do so, as it was easier on the legs than trying to walk it. They were right. At first it was terrifying, hurtling over the rough uneven ground, running head-first down the steep slopes we'd just taken such an age to climb. You could only break your speed by grabbing onto the trunk of a tree on either side of the narrow path and hoping that the strength of your grip would slow your descent, before you slipped and fell or had your shoulder ripped out of its socket with the force. Many other had done the same thing: every tree I held had been worn smooth by the hands of others before me. Pebbles and loose twigs skidded under my feet and stray branches and leaves whipped me as I lurched uncontrollably past them. Now my legs shook with the reverse effort of the climb and my knees began to feel the stain of the constant jarring. But as before, I had no choice. What goes up must come down an we had gone a long way up.

Back at the viewppoint, we met Ofir and Bar still on their way up. We were all surprised that they had indeed carried on and got as far as they had. I'd certainly thought they would have stopped and gone back. I felt a new admiration for them - maybe they had felt as I did that they wouldn't be beaten. They turned back with us however, as they wouldn't have time to get to the top and back before night - but we soon left them to their own pace again.

We arrived back at the base of the hill by the stream in half an hour less than it had taken us to climb it, thanks to the running. Back on the beach section, I began to feel really drained, exhausted, wrung-out. My feet, pounded by the impact of running over the rough, steep trail were burning inside my shoes, the toenails digging in painfully. I longed to take my shoes off and feel the cool air on my feet but I knew it would be even harder to walk in bare feet. I trudged on. The once-enticing pebbles of the beach were now just irritating, slipping and sliding beneath me, making it even harder for my worn-out legs to maintain their footing. The fresh sea breeze on my face, finally drying my sodden clothes, mocked my burning feet. I laboured on. Every muscle ached pitfully and I had no food left to give me a boost of energy.

Once we hit the flat forest section again things got a little easier but the route still stretched on and on. Eventually we got to the entrance where we stopped to pay for our permits. There, my feet could take no more and I took my shoes and socks off to release them to the blessed fresh air. They were soggy and wrinkled with the hours of sweat they had endured. I decided to walk the remaining distance - which would take about an hour - on the Tarmac roads in bare feet. The surface was warm beneath my soles and sharp stones pricked and jabbed the softened flesh, but it was easier that putting my boiling shoes back on again. I had miraculously managed to walk the whole climb without any blisters and I didn't want to get any now.

Slowly, draggingly slowly, we inched nearer to home. My thoughts swung away from what was behind us to what lay ahead: a shower, a sleep and an enormous meal. We finally arrived at 3:30pm. I was numb with fatigue and pain but I was happy. It had taken us 8 hours and we had walked approximately 24km, most of it up- or downhill. I felt nothing but exhaustion, but behind that a quiet elation and satisfction that would last long after my muscles had stopped aching.

Angels and demons: Part 2

Note: I have changed the names of places and people in this post for reasons that will become clear.

If John was bewildered by my sudden, inexplicable collapse of emotions he didn't show it. He took me into the deserted restaurant, sat me down and asked, 'What happened? What's the matter?'
'Nothing happened,' I replied. 'I just want to get out of here.'
'But why are you so upset?'
I had to think a little. Why was I upset? What terrible thing had happened to leave me so distraught?
'I don't know. Just everything went wrong and I'm disappointed, that's all.' It sounded so stupid, so childish. Things hadn't gone to my vague and ill-thought-out plans, so now I was preparing to storm off in a tantrum. I told him about the disastrous day's journey yesterday and he was textbook sympathetic.
'That's terrible. That's not good. No wonder you were tired and upset.' I could  have hugged him for being so understanding, for just being the sounding-board on which I could vent my indignation and frustration.

He went on, 'I saw you come in last night and I saw that you were angry and tired, so I didn't want to come over and talk to you and upset you more. I thought, "Just let her eat and relax." Then I saw you sitting on your own with a book and I thought you didn't want to talk and wanted to be on your own, so I didn't want to bother you.'
'I wish you had talked to me,' I said sorrowfully, through a fresh bout of tears. John had read my mood perfectly and he didn't even know me. Just the knowledge of his hidden kindness, consideration and thoughtfulness had set me off again.

He was right. I was exhausted - but not angry - and I didn't want to burden a table of Americans sitting nearby with my bad mood and horror tale of transport woes, nor was I in the mood to make small-talk, so I hid in my book.

'I wish you had talked to me then, because I wouldn't have been in this state now.' John's felt guilty.
'I'm sorry I wasn't there for you,' he said with sincerity in his big brown eyes. 'When you arrived I had just had a very bad day and I didn't make time to talk to you. I had just had to fire some of my men for driving my vehicles without my permission and there was some money missing from the day's takings, so I was very angry and everything was a mess.' Now it was me who felt guilty.

He was so open and honest that I found myself being equally honest, more so than I might normally be with someone I didn't know.
'So why are you disappointed?' he asked. I couldn't really explain but I tried.
'There is nothing here in Shivapuram, except your tours and I can't afford those on my own. It just wasn't what I was expecting.'
'So what were you expecting?' Just then John's phone rang and he excused himself to answer it. When he came back be said, 'I have to do something quickly, but I'll be back in 15 minutes, then I'll take you out in my car and show you around. OK?'
'Ok,' I said, feeling better already, as he'd had taken the immediate decision about what to do off my hands. Having a plan of action made all the difference.

As I waited I wondered to myself, what had I been expecting from this place? I knew there weren't going to be beaches or lots of activities, so why did I go there? The best answer I could come up with is that I thought I should. I was in the islands for three weeks and didn't think I should waste them lying on a beach. But part of me wanted to do just that and nothing else. But this made me feel guilty and wasteful and that it would be a missed opportunity not to see some of the other islands.

Another reason was that I did it because I wanted people to think I was adventurous and brave, by going to those less-visited places, even though  it was plain from this episode that I was far from brave. Whenever a little thing went wrong, I folded and took the easy route out, by leaving and going somewhere else. But equally I was right to leave: Why should I force myself to stay in a place where I was not happy for the sake of some spurious brownie points I might get, either from other travellers or the folks back home. Probably neither group would care which specific towns and places I'd been to. Any anyway, at 37, wasn't I too old to care what other people think? All these thought turned slowly in my mind and I didn't know what to think. And I still don't know what I was expecting...

Once John was back from his errand, we got into his car and set off. The town now seemed to look brighter and more cheerful (though not cleaner!) and even the colour of the ocean seemed to have changed, getting more turquoise, more clear, more beautiful thanks to my lightened mood. There weren't really any sights to see in Shivapuram but John took me to see what there was: the jetty and a viewpoint which looked out westwards to some of the outlying islands, marooned like dark green sponges on the pale blue sea. Some were inhabited, some not, but all were covered in dark, brooding mysterious, heavy-damp rainforest. It was a beautiful sight and to see those remote islands made me feel as though I was both in the middle of civilization, looking out into the wilderness, but also miles away from civilization. The paradox of remote archipelagos is that, when you can see the other islands close by you feel surrounded by civilization, yet the sheer distance to the mainland invokes a certain lonely island melancholy, that is both delicious in its sense of distance from reality and frightening for the very same reason.

As we drove, we talked and John proved to be very good company. He was a  good, attentive listener, genuinely interested in me and my life, about which he asked many questions. But he was generous with his own information too and gave me himself and his life too - holding very little back, although I sensed some of my questions made him feel awkward.

John was 39 and one of a certain breed of Indian man, one who believes he can do anything - and succeeds. He studied Hospitality & Hotel Management at college and worked in several hotels before realising he wanted to be his own boss. To save money to set up his own business he trained in the Indian Merchant Navy and sailed Indian seas for several years before giving this up to set up his own guest house.

'I didn't want to answer to anyone else,' he admitted. 'I wanted to do things my way.' So he did. But John didn't have the mentality of limiting himself to just one area. With the money he made from the guest house, he began to run tours of the local area for tourists and also started up a construction business, tendering for many local government building projects. I was very impressed by his self-belief, dedication, optimism and, above all, confidence. He didn't believe he needed to have the right experience or qualifications to try different business ideas and he had proved he was right with his evident success.

I have met many Indian businessmen who fit this mould and nearly all of them run more than one business - often multiple strands - and think nothing of it. Here, business is business whatever the sector and there is a belief - probably not even consciously-held - that anyone can make money in any way they see fit, whatever their background, just by working hard. It seems to work. Due to sheer hard graft, John now owns his own guest house, tour operator with its fleet of vehicles, construction company and had recently bought another plot of land near the local beach which he planned to do something with, he wasn't sure what.

I was flattered when he showed it to me and asked me what I thought he should do with it. We drove there in his plush air-conditioned car, through thick walls of jungle, banana leaves drooping seductively, like green wings, as we swooped through their shade. It wasn't much to look at, just a large area of fenced-off scrubby jungle but with the key feature of a path leading directly to the beach, about 100m away.

'I might build another guest house here,' he explained slowly, as if giving voice to his ideas for the first time, 'or maybe a house for myself. What do you think? Should I clear the jungle so it has a sea view, or leave the path down to the beach, so people can walk through the forest in its natural state?' He'd obviously given things a lot of thought, right down to details like this. He wasn't likely to throw the building together quickly and cheaply and badly, as seemed to be the norm, judging by much of the accommodation designed for tourists that I'd stayed in.

But John was much more than an entrepreneur, always seeking his next project. He was a deep thinker and ponderer on life and he wasn't embarrassed to state his thoughts. Maybe my flood of tears and open vulnerability had struck a chord with him and he felt safe to share his more personal insights with me. He was frank, honest and open and in his company I soon felt relaxed, comfortable and as though I'd known him for a long time.

When he talked he always made eye contact and smiled. He used my name often too, swinging - to my amusement - between calling me a super-formal 'Madam' and 'Bridget', often within the same sentence. He was trying to keep a professional distance but my crying openly in front of him had somehow unravelled the fabric of etiquette and left him tangled in its tattered fibres, so he wasn't quite sure how to treat me.

He told me he was also a locally elected official for Shivapuram and two other local villages.
'I have a conscience too,' he said, looking directly at me, as if searching for the challenge I might make to the idea that a businessman could be socially responsible too. I didn't need to challenge him. So far, all I'd seen and heard from John was kindness and understanding. I knew he had a conscience from the way he had berated himself for not talking to me the night before. It was almost as if he had been voicing his thought that he should have been a better person. I think he was a better person. And good people usually have good people behind them, supporting them, so I was  interested to know about this family.

He was half Burmese, half-Indian, his father having been brought up on the Andamans. His parents had net at university in Chennai and when his father's parents disowned their son for wanting to marry a girl who was too low-caste, they married anyway and came to live in the Andamans. It was a love marriage, rather than an arranged one. So what about John himself? Had he done the same?

'Are you married?' I asked. He looked very uncomfortable, paused for a second then said, 'Sort of.'
'Come on, either you are or you aren't. Which is it?'
'I'm married.'
'So why did you say 'sort of'?' He looked even more uncomfortable and I felt guilty for prying.
'You don't have to talk about it,' I said, although I was dying to know. Could he be the first divorcee I'd met in India? Or did he have several wives or mistresses who didn't know about each other? Or was he gay but married anyway? The answer was not at all what I expected to hear, but it was just what I should have expected of a caring man like John.

John was married and his wife, Mary, was a local widow whose husband had died young, leaving her to care for her two sons. As she had no income and couldn't go out to work and leave her sons, John had made the decision to marry her out of charity, because he felt it was the right thing to do. I was surprised and saddened at the same time. Surprised that he should go through with something so big, so life-changing on a sentimental whim; impressed that he should be so selfless; and saddened that someone so loving and caring had not married for love or even had a loving marriage arranged for him.

I got the impression that maybe he didn't really love her and was possibly regretting his decision, although I couldn't be sure and didn't feel I could ask such a personal question. I felt sad that a man as good as him should have sacrificed his own potential happiness in marriage in order to provide safety and security for someone else.

'Why did you do it?' I asked. He paused and didn't answer the question directly.
'My friends always say, "John, you're too sentimental, too emotional." I think they're right. I am a very sentimental person.' I could see that the subject was making him uncomfortable, so I dropped it, after reassuring him: 'That's not a bad thing to be, you know.'
'I know,' he said with a sigh, 'but it can make life difficult.'

I changed the subject back to his work and asked him about his construction projects.
'What kind of buildings do you build?'
'Well, it's mainly Government projects,' he said, 'but sometimes it's hard to make money because of the stealing and bribery.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, workers often steal my steel and concrete so it's difficult to cost things accurately.' He said this so matter-of-factly, as if it were a normal, everyday part of doing business.
'That's terrible! What do they do with it?'
'They usually sell it to other less-honest building contractors, so they can offer a cheaper price.'
I was appalled, not so much by the stealing and selling on, as that happens the world over, but by John's apparent calm acceptance of this situation as an immutable fact of business life. How could he do business in such a climate of distrust?
'Well, what can I do?' he shrugged. 'I could hire one man to watch the workers, but I'd have to hire another to watch him and another to watch him. It would be pointless.' I could see what he meant. If everyone was untrustworthy, as he seemed to be suggesting, there was no sense in putting someone in a position of trust.

And then there was the bribery. 'Do you pay bribes?' I asked. I think I already knew the answer but I wanted to hear it - and not hear it.
'Yes, I pay bribes,' he said. I noted the slight challenging tone in his voice. I wasn't judging him, I just wanted to know.
'Why?' He thought about it for a few seconds, maybe figuring out the reasons himself for the first time.
'I pay certain people to make things happen more quickly, to make life run smoothly,' was his final considered answer. Of course I don't approve of bribery but that wasn't the point really. I wanted to know what made it a necessary part of business for John.

'What kind of people do you pay?
'Managers of the docks or quarries, that kind of thing. If I don't pay them my building materials get tied up for days and if I give them something they are released much more quickly. It just makes life smoother,' he repeated. 'And I can put it down as a business expenditure.' I was even more shocked now.
'Hold on. You calculate bribes as part of your expenditure?'
'Yes, I deduct about 10% from the profits to put aside for bribes.'
'Are you serious!?' I was stunned but I could see from his face that he was totally serious. The ugly reality of bribery was that is was such a pervasive menance, such a fact of life that John even built it into his costings, as just another item to be calculated and accounted for. I felt a bitter anger, both for him personally, and that honest men such as him, were more-or-less forced to buy into this ruinous corruption racket that was making India limp towards progress.

'But the whole government is corrupt,' he said bluntly. He said it not sadly but with resignation and acceptance. 'Even the anti-corruption bureau is corrupt.' I have no way of knowing if this is true or not, or  whether it was just John's personal opinion but if it is true, it is unbearably sad and totally frustrating.
'But what can you do if everyone is corrupt?' I asked helplessly.
'I don't know. If I don't pay bribes it's impossible to do business,' he said with finality. And he explained why.

Apparently he had once been accused of and charged with opening the bar of his guest house 15 minutes before the legally allowed opening time. He alleges that the charge was fabricated. He could have pursued it through the courts to try to clear his name, but this would have taken months, cost money and he couldn't be sure of being found innocent in any case. Or he could just pay the protection money the police allegedly wanted and the charge would quietly go away and they would leave him alone in future. He paid the money. The charge went away and he carried on with business as usual. This, it seems, is the reality of being a successful businessman in India. If you have made money through hard graft, you cannot hide the fact and there are always others who are keen to relieve you of it through devious means.

I didn't know what to feel about this. Of course John shouldn't have paid the bribe: to do so only feeds the voracious monster of corruption and keeps it alive and hungry for longer. But to not pay could have resulted in John losing his licence, a profitable line of business, his income and his ability to look after his family. Standing up to bribery is all very noble, but if you and your family stand to suffer as a result and you are only one drop of honesty in a dark sea of corruption, it would take a strong man to consider it a price worth (not) paying. And who am I to understand and judge the actions of one man?

But of course it isn't just one man. John alleged that the police are also heavily involved in bribery and corruption. He told me about the local chief of police who he claims has to wine and dine and entertain his superior officer when he visits the area. He is expected to offer him the best food, whiskey, accommodation and entertainment, all from his own personal salary. As he apparently doesn't earn anywhere near enough to provide all this luxury, allegedly he himself calls in favours and protection money from local businesses to furnish the needs of his boss. And so the wheels of commerce, protection and bribery turn. When those people who are supposed to protect others from such lawlessness themselves turn lawbreaker, what can be done?

John didn't know and appeared to have no faith in politicians to change things either. He made some shocking claims in support of his belief.

'There is a lot of illiteracy in India, so many people don't know who they are voting for. Some politicians pay poor people just 150Rs (about 1.80 in pounds) to vote for them. These poor people desperately need the money for food for their families and have no interest in the politicians themselves or their policies, so they take the money and vote for that man or woman.'

I was sad that John had no faith in the system and that he was also party to the apparent corruption. He, of all people, as an elected official, should have been in a position to do something about it and challenge the culture of bribery, but equally he had more to lose than most so, loathe as I was to admit it of such a lovely man, maybe for John is was in his best interests to keep the status quo...

As we sat, cool and protected in John's car, looking at the beach I began to feel so much better about myself and my insignificant woes. Despite the heavy turn our discussions had taken, I felt lighter and more positive in myself as I'd been able to forget myself for a while. John could sense it too.
'Do you feel better now?' he asked, looking slightly anxious, in case the answer was not positive.
'Yes, I do,' I smiled. 'You know, it's strange, but after I met you, and you were so kind to me, everything here looked better. The sea looked bluer, the sky was brighter and the trees were greener,' I said with a smile. He looked very pleased and touched.

'Thank you,' he said. 'That's such a nice thing to say.'
'I mean it,' I said. Maybe it was just a trick of the light or maybe it was the unexpected gentleness and kindness of a stranger who I felt was now a friend that had filled me with the ability to see again and appreciate what my frustration and expectations had prevented me from seeing before. I told him this.

'We all have expectations, said John, 'but if you do it can sometimes lead to disappointment. I always try not to have any expectations of anything, then I can't be disappointed. If you hope that a thing will happen to you or that someone will love you back, you can be disappointed, so it's better not to expect anything.'

I sensed there may have been another potentially sad love story behind this last comment but decided not to pry this time. I could at least take that little piece of wisdom with me and try to apply it in future: No expectations; no disappointment.

When we got back to the guest house John had to go off and sort out some business because he'd given up his whole afternoon to spend it with me. I felt guilty about wasting his precious time and told him so.
'No, it was not wasted at all. I enjoyed every minute of it and talking to friends is never wasted.' He turned his big brown eyes on me and smiled such a sincere smile. I ended up staying in Shivapuram that night after all. When I left the next day, I may not have done anything much but I'd learned a lot and gained a friend.

Angels and demons: Part 1

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...

Travelling without moving

The Andaman Islands may well be paradise on earth but travelling around them is like going through the seven circles of hell. The gateway to this hell is the ferry ticket office. If you can pass through it portals and exit with a ticket you will gain - and will have deserved to do so - a place on one of the inter-island ferries that are the only means of travel between some of the islands. To buy such a ticket is like getting blood out of a stone, but yet so much harder and more complicated: it is knowing when the stone will be open and the precise time and location from which these drops of blood will fall, so you can cup your sorrowful, pleading hands beneath them.

Having made the painful decision not to idle away my entire three weeks on the islands on a palm-fringed stretch of sand, I needed to buy a ticket to get off Havelock Island and onward to the town of Rangat on Middle Andaman Island. This is a route less-travelled by travellers - many of whom do stay glued to Havelock by some unseen force - as Rangat offers no beaches, bars or restaurants at the other end. This does not mean it is a simple ticket to buy. On the contrary.

I set off around 8.30am for the ticket office to get there in time for the 9am opening. It is the only place at which tickets for the only ferry can be bought. The Bible told me the office opens at 9am, so I had plenty of time to enjoy the sweeping jungled hills and fields as I pedalled slowly through them on my bike. At the time, I didn't know that this would be the first of many utterly futile trips I would make over the coming days. When I got to the ticket office, initially just to find out times and dates, the sales counter was a catastrophe of humanity. People piled up and around a single window the size of a CD case, ramming scrunched up reservation slips, money and hands through the opening at the ticket officer. He sat, like a little king, oblivious to the suffering of his subjects, glasses perched on the end of his nose, very calmly, deliberately and s-l-o-w-l-y issuing tickets. There was theoretically one queue, but line discipline - never an Indian commodity in great supply - had fled the instant the window opened and now a bedlam of elbows, arms and bodies pushed and prised themselves in to the throng, to get their order in before anyone else.

There was no earthly way I was going to get any information there. The only ferry schedules pinned up nearby weren't for my destination, so I was at a loss. Wandering round in a daze, trying to decide what to do I spotted a shed that claimed grandly to be the place to provide tourists with information - a Tourist Information Centre, in fact. Inside a bored-looking man was playing with his mobile phone. After much careful and slow explanation on my part I managed to get the poor man to understand what I wanted and he kindly wrote out the times and destinations of all the ferries departing from Havelock, including those to Rangat. He also gave me the helpful advice that I should try to book my ticket three days in advance. At the time I didn't realise this would mean three days' time actually spent trying to book a ticket for a departure in three days' time! Had I known, I would have plunged a stake of sharp coral into my heart then and there as the pain would have been less than that which I subsequently endured trying to obtain a ticket. Either that or I might have jumped in the drink immediately to either swim the distance to the other island myself or to kill myself and put an end to the Sisyphean misery I would have to endure. However, for the moment, ignorance was bliss.

Having studied the handwritten schedule, I worked out that I should book my ticket today and now, as ferries didn't leave for Rangat every day. With a deep breath and deeper trepidation I approached the ticket office again - only to remember that I'd forgotten to bring my permit that gave me permission to be on the Andamans and which I would need to show to book any ticket. There was still time before the ticket office closed, so I leapt back on my bike to re-do the 20-minute ride I'd just covered to go and fetch my permit. Pedalling like fury, I scattered scraggy chickens and loose pebbles before and aft. Grabbing permit and passport (just in case) I jumped back on and returned to the ticket office as fast as I could. The humidity was already sticking my clothes damply to my skin and the breeze created by my frantic speed was a welcome cool respite.

The ticket counter scrum had miraculously disappeared. I was delighted. I should not have been. The office had closed an hour early as today was Republic Day, a national holiday. I was surprisingly calm as I went back to the Tourist Information Shed to check what time the ticket office would re-open tomorrow (perish the thought that such useful things should be displayed anywhere for people to see). The man restored my good cheer by telling me it would open again at 1.45pm today and I could book a ticket then. Excellent! All was not lost. All it meant was a third journey back to the jetty and the job would be done.

Back at the jetty at 1.45pm I found I'd been misinformed by the service there to inform me. The counter was open, sure, but not for the ticket I wanted. 'One ticket for Rangat on the 28th, please,' I asked.
'Only tickets for 3pm ferry today. Come back tomorrow 8.30am.'
'I can't book a ticket today for the 28th?' I asked, as if blind repetition would change the answer I did not want to hear.
'Come back tomorrow, 8.30am.' No, repetition had changed nothing. I didn't have time to pedal back again, pack, check out, return my hired bike and return in time for the 3pm ferry, so it would have to be tomorrow. I was still calm. I don't know why or how. I was worried that I was not yelling and screeching as this new setback, as I might normally be. Maybe the island mentality was seeping into me, its warmth and slow pace strangely chilling my usually hot blood.

On my fourth attempt to buy my passage from paradise, I got the the ticket office at 8am, just to be on the safe side and get in the queue for 8.30am opening. Indian office hours are as arbitrarily changeable as the wind and prone to total disappearance on occasion. A queue of about eight men was actually queuing up properly and in an orderly fashion and, hurrah!, the window was already open. I'd been right to come early. Pushing in to the front of the queue, I thrust my reservation slip into the window. Surprisingly, one of the men, usually oblivious and nonchalant about queue-jumping, wasn't happy.

'You have to join the queue,' he pointed out politely. And then I said something that would only ever work in India and never, ever in the UK. 'Ladies' queue,' I said with a tight smile. He grunted and mumbled something but I'd got away with it. This wasn't just an inspired creation on my part. In many public places there are separate channels for ladies and my quick thinking had created a new ladies' queue on one - me. But karma had other ideas for me.

'Only selling tickets for today ferry at 9am. Come back 9am for other tickets.' What!? I couldn't believe it. I was there before the time they had said and they still wouldn't sell me the ticket. But I was beginning to comprehend the incomprehensible: last-minute tickets for the next departing ferry were sold roughly an hour-and-a-half before that ferry left, after which you could buy advance tickets. I wandered off to find some breakfast while I waited till 9am. As I chewed my omlette, I mused over how the islanders knew about this bonkers system when there were clearly no signs or information to tell them and certainly nothing of the kind for tourists. In fact, bonkers systems are common in the arena of Indian travel and there is never an explanation of how the incalculable idiocy functions, yet Indians somehow know, without asking anyone or being told. How? Is it a genetic predisposition to make sense of the senseless? Are they born with fore-knowledge of complicated ticketing arrangements and counter-intuitive opening hours? Or does it come to them through their mother's milk? Does her weary experience of such things flow through her and into their blood, drop by drop, until their systems develop an immunity to and an understanding of the ridiculous? Or was it really pretty straightforward and I just hadn't grasped the thing?

At 8.30, my fifth attempt saw me back in position, forming my orderly queue of one lady, alongside a handful of Indian gentlemen and a young Argentinian couple I'd chatted to on the beach the day before and advised to get there early. The window had closed again but I resolved to stay welded to my spot, come what may, until it re-opened and not leave without that ticket.

Slowly the queue thickened, deepened and broadened till it was about six wide and several deep and could no longer be officially defined as a queue. All were imperceptibly trying to push in with a jut of the elbow, a nudge of the knee or a shuffle of the feet. I held firm, placing a hand on the wall next to the ticket window to prevent encroachment by any determined ladies trying to attack from the right flank.

Suddenly, blatantly, a young man in a rather too-tight-fitting pale yellow T-shirt squirmed into place in front of me. I had not expected dirty tactics from the left-flanking so-called gentlemen's queue. This was no gentleman.

'Er, excuse me,' I piped up in indignant-foreigner-abroad tones, 'I was in front of you. You have to join the queue at the back.' I'm surprised I didn't add, 'that's just not on, what,' I sounded so English, so uptight.

'Change places,' Yellow T-shirt answered, as the man in front of him wriggled and ducked out of the press of bodies, handing over a fistful of reservation slips and money. That really wasn't on, what! Place-holding for each other, while I - with no deputy to stand in for me - had to wait in line for as long as it took. But now he was there, there wasn't much I could do about it, but I was on my guard now...

9am came and went and the ticket window remained obstinately closed. Looking behind me I saw that the crowd had swelled with bright, hopeful latecomers, including quite a few foreigners. They were clearly not familiar with the system. "Ha, fools!" I thought, "You have no chance against my staying power and their pushing in. Losers!"

At 9.15, the window opened and a murmur of excitement ran through the throng, accompanied by a surge of shoving. The man behind the window handed through sheet after sheet of reservation slips that quickly dispersed into the crowd, then promptly closed the window again. "Temporary closure," I thought. "They'll open it again in a minute." They didn't. After another 15 minutes waiting, an announcement in Hindi came over the loudspeakers. The Indians in the crowd groaned. I asked Yellow T-shirt what was happening. 'Internet not working,' he said. 'Tickets no possible.' I felt empty. I felt numb with disappointment, but I still felt calm. I was there, I was at the front and I was sure it would be working again soon. I knew that the internet in The Andamans is, at best, patchy, so this was not unheard of. I waited. And waited. Then I waited a little bit more. Just a bit more.

An hour had passed. It was beginning to get hot now and I could feel my skin getting sticky. Smells began to intensify. Yellow T-shirt periodically raised his arm and placed his hand above the ticket window to alter his position. Every time he did so, an acrid blast of his BO assaulted me. I could smell whatever it is that Indian ladies put in their hair. Its thick, cloying, distinctive odour - not unpleasant, but not Pantene either - rose from their hot scalps and filled my airspace.

Now I found myself taking in the small personal details at my fellow sufferers, so close were they to me. One lady had a single long, dark loose hair lying down her back and I itched to remove it but didn't dare. I stared at it for a long time, mind empty. I watched in mild disgust, again unable to move, as a mosquito landed on another lady's bare shoulder and fed greedily from her. She didn't notice and eventually it flew off, bloated with its blood soup.

Yet another lady was wearing elaborate gold earrings with a chain that looped over the top of each ear and back down to the stud in the lobe. I noticed that the fixing of one of them had fallen off and the earring was in danger of falling out. I wanted to tell her but wasn't sure she'd understand the English and I didn't think I was up to miming 'Er, I think your earring is falling out' without provoking significant confusion. While she chatted away and head-wobbled with the other ladies, it seemed to remain in place.

Suddenly there was a commotion at the front of the gents' queue. A fat, pale, elderly foreign gentleman with thick black-framed, milk-bottle glasses was pushing into the front of their queue. Indignation bristled all round. But he had back-up, official back-up. He was accompanied by an equally fat policeman, his sand-coloured trousers straining at the belt and bulging unattractively either side of the seam at the groin. The policeman wore black wraparound sunglasses, which gave him a menacing air. He also hefted a truncheon in one hand. He said something in Hindi to the effect of ,'Get out of the way for this gentleman.' The Indians protested loudly but eventually moved approximately one millimetre. The Argentinian was not so happy. 'You have to join the line, my friend,' he said in stern English, clearly not having understood the policemen or the actions of the Indians. The fat man replied in Italian-accented English, 'I am over 65 and 'handicappata'. I can go to the front of the queue.'

Annoyingly and amazingly he was right. And the policeman was there to see his right enacted. In India, when booing tickets, there are many categories of people whose situation in life gives them the right to queue-jump with impunity or to have special queues just for them. Elderly men and women and disabled people (often still referred to here as cripples) are among these. Decorated war heroes of particular wars and specific battles (I have seen exhaustive signs listing these) are also duly honoured, as are the widows of same. While this is undoubtedly noble and just, it did not feel like it today. Milk Bottle Eyes looked nervous and tried not to catch anybody's gaze as they all adjusted to accept this mild injustice. Eventually the policeman moved away, satisfied that no harm would come to his protectee.

We waited and continued to wait. The trouble with enforced inactivity is that it gives you time to think, and re-think and change your mind. I began to review my options. Should I carry on waiting and hope that I could get my ticket, or should I give up and come back tomorrow? Should I just buy whatever the hell ticket I could to any other island and get the hell out of beautiful Havelock from which I could so far apparently never leave? I already had a significant investment of time and emotion in that wait and if I left now - two hours in - it would have been another colossal waste of time and I would forever wonder what might have been... No, I had to wait it out.

Milk Bottle Eyes, apparently now forgiven for his queue-jumping was in conversation with the Argentinian to pass the time. He switched to Spanish, having apparently lived some time in Buenos Aires and they began to discuss the unifying topic of men the world over - football. They listed and sorted their respective country's best players, by club, ability and flair, chatting away like old friends, any antagonism now buried in a shared joy of goals, stats and opinions. Yellow T-shirt was less relaxed. Fidgeting and tutting nervously his patience eventually gave out and he sent his replacement back into the queue while he went off somewhere else.

Finally, after another hour, the window opened again. But my soaring hopes were dashed once more. The internet now seemed to be working although at a stone-age speed, but now the ticket printing machine, which looked as old as time itself, was malfunctioning. Men came and went, talked and fiddled and at one point one ticket officer even put his feet up and opened the newspaper. I was bereft of hope, choked with indecision again. Was it stupid to wait anymore? Or a shameful waste of an entire morning to abandon my apparently unending vigil? I just couldn't decide.

Yellow T-shirt was now asking the ticket officer something.
'What did he say?' I asked.
'No internet, so no advance tickets, only for today.' This was a new outrage - if it was true. I was beginning to have my suspicions about Yellow T-shirt. He had a clutch of slips for at least four separate people - all apparently foreigners. I'd sneaked a look at his reservation slips. He was on a mission (poor sod!) for someone else and it was in his interests to get rid of any gullible tourists who would reduce the likelihood  of his getting his hands on the tickets he needed. I didn't trust him. I needed to hear this devastating piece of news from the ticket man himself. I squeezed in next to Milk Bottle Eyes and put my head as close to the window as possible:

'Is it possible to buy a ticket for Rangat for tomorrow?' I shouted slowly and carefully, so there would be no confusion.
'No possible today. No internet. Come back tomorrow 7am.' No apology for the delay or magnificent inconvenience caused, just the bald and devastating facts. I was numb with shock, so I asked the same question again, to be sure I'd not misheard the answer. It was the same.

'If I come back tomorrow - again - (I couldn't resist a heavy emphasis on the last word to make sure he knew of my suffering - he didn't notice it) I can definitely get a ticket for the same day?'
'Yes 100% sure, you can get a ticket for 9am ferry.'
'100% sure?'
'Yes,' irritation now, '100% sure.'

What else could I do? I had to accept the awful truth. I left the waiting crowds, now considerably thinned out as those with more sense than me had long abandoned all hope, and sat on a nearby step, head in hands. Including the first attempt today, I had waited a total of four hours - for nothing. NOTHING! I was too exhausted, too broken to even be angry. All I could think about was the poor islanders who weren't on holiday with all the time in the world. They'd also had to wait for nothing and most of them were still there as I got back on my bike and pedalled off. How the blazing hell did they keep sane?

I hardly slept that night, tense with anxiety about the impending repeat battle. I didn't know what I'd do if I didn't get a ticket this time. Short of abandoning the idea of visiting any of the other islands until I had to leave to get the ferry back to Port Blair to catch my flight out, I didn't see any other option. And even then, how could I be sure I'd get a ticket? I resolved to get off that bloody island tomorrow, wherever I ended up.

I was at the ticket office, backpack all packed and ready to go, at 6.30am and staggeringly, there were already a handful of Indians there waiting, but not in a queue. A couple of bags were on the floor in front of the ticket window. Place-savers! The cheek! Well, they could just fuck off! If they weren't physically in the queue they weren't going to get in front of me. I sat down on the floor with my backpack nearby. I wasn't moving an inch. At 6.55am the owner of the place-saving bags returned. By then a few people had formed a queue behind me. He gestured to his bag.

'My place,' he said. I looked him squarely in the eye, picked up his bags and handed them to him, saying, 'No, if you are not in the queue you have to join the end.'
'But this my place,' he wheedled.
'I don't care. I've been waiting in the queue since 6.30am and you were not waiting, so you have to go to the back.'

He wasn't happy and started appealing to the other men, to try to explain. I just looked at him again and said, louder this time, 'NO! You have to wait in the queue all the time.' He looked bewildered. This was not how it worked. Well, it was how it was working today! Every man, woman, waif and stray for themselves. Muttering darkly he moved off, not to the back of the queue, but at least behind me. Wow! I couldn't believe my own audacity and even more, that I'd got away with it.

At 7am, prompt the ticket window was flung open. The only man in front of me thrust his form and money through, lightening fast. Calmly the man wrote out his ticket by hand in a little ticket book. I didn't dare to breathe. I was seconds away from getting that ticket but I wouldn't believe it until I had the piece of paper in my hand. The man had his ticket and pushed his way out. I rammed my documents through the hole, stretching my whole arm inside, as if a greater proximity to the ticket officer would get me what I wanted any sooner. My heart was pounding and I was having difficulty breathing with the anxiety and tension of the moment. Without saying a word, the officer slowly, oh-so-slowly, filled in my ticket, my ticket! and handed it to me. It was small, flimsy and printed on rose pink paper but I wanted to yell and leap with joy, as if I'd found buried treasure. I finally had my ticket out of paradise. I had passed through the portals of hell. It had taken a mastery of the sport of extreme patience and six attempts over a period of three days. It could not be more difficult to gain admittance into real Heaven. 'Thank fuck for that!' I said, swearing out loud to no-one in particular. Then again, maybe Heaven wouldn't be so easy for me after all...

Life and depths

When the land on a paradise island above water is so beautiful, you'd be forgiven for not wanting to have a look at what's beneath the waves. When the green tassels of palm leaves bent to touch the translucent teal of the sea and the warm breeze whipped up a fine mist of sugar-white sand that stuck to my hot, damp skin and wouldn't rub off, for me there was little temptation to move from my lazy spot under the puffs of cloud and go snorkelling. But the Andamans are known for their beautiful underwater life, so I overcame the strong urge to continue busily achieving nothing.

I lifted my sleep-dazed body voluntarily out of bed at 7am and hopped onto the rattling, stubborn bicycle I'd hired and pedalled drowsily through the still-quiet, thick green air to meet my companions for the day. They were an English couple Louise and James and a Canadian lady, Ellen, all of whom I'd met the day before.

We were heading to a nearby beach - Elephant Beach - to have a go at snorkelling. The others had all done it before, and James is also a diver, so I was the only novice. We took a Jeep to the start of the elephant logging track we had to follow for half an hour to get to the beach. My hard-working flip-flops were not the most helpful footwear and I slipped and stumbled on the rutted, ragged track. Here and there elephant tracks like dinner plate indentations in the soft mud marked the route we should take. The walk was a trek through the primeval; through ancient jungle that was every shade of green. Leaves big enough to wrap a small child in unfurled to the hot air their stiff, nodding stems that sprouted alongside the path. Foliage draped foliage, which in turn draped other foliage, until the trees, vines and creepers were knitted together into a blanket of moist greenery. Skyscraping trees rose, dead straight and neck-crickingly high, their bleached trunks thrusting up into the top canopy of the forest and fanning out into an umbrella of leaves. Below these, another layer of lower growth sprouted and pushed, searching always for the hot, white sunlight. Lower still bushes exploded in clouds of rattling, hard green leaves, rolling like clouds between the taller trees. The spaces left between all of these were garlanded with thick fat vines and creepers, aerial roots and floating invisible webs of spiders. The air, already warm and thick with the smell of vegetation, seemed to stick itself to our skin, coating it with a glisten, a sheen of sweat.

I was amazed by the thickness, the tumble, the multitudes, the density, the solidity of plant life. Where the land rose up, the foliage rose with it, climbing, growing, stretching and foaming at the top with a crest of greenery, a solid wall, a silent, softly shifting tsunami of vegetation.

Nearing the beach we had to pass through a tidal mangrove swamp which was now, at low tide, a flat grey mud, patterned with the scuttling, hurrying activity of mud skippers and hermit crabs. The area had been badly damaged by the 2004 tsunami and was, even now, a hot, silent accusation of the disaster, a now-still crash of torn and shredded roots and upturned trees. Bleached silver grey, their tangled, hard outlines stretched up to the soft blue sky overhead, in a strange, ugly, grasping, shocking beauty. The ripped-up roots had long since been washed of their clinging mud and the ragged broken limbs of snapped-off branches and trunks had been softened and blurred by the years, the sun and the sea. But it was still an eerie and unnerving sight.

In front of us, the mangrove widened out into a tiny strip of tidal beach that curved round into a sweet little bay. Somewhere out there was the reef we'd come to snorkel. The sea was its ever-perfect aquamarine clarity, melting and blurring into petrol blue and beyond.

I had been told many times by many people on the island that much of the coral reefs around the Andamans were dead and bleached, due to a heatwave a couple of years back when the seawater had reached 32 degrees, killing off the top layer of coral. It still supported some fish life and though it was beginning to re-generate, much of it was still damaged. So I knew not to expect much from the coral itself, but that the fishes were still worth seeing.

Nervously I put on my snorkel mask: I am not a fan of enclosed spaces, especially ones that force your body to behave in ways it naturally resists. The paradox of snorkelling apparatus is that one part - the mask - prevents you from doing the one thing that will drown you, namely breathing in underwater, while the other part - the mouthpiece - makes sure you are doing the one thing that will keep you alive: also breathing in underwater.

Enclosing my eyes and nose in airtight security, I couldn't breathe through my nostrils and was forced to mouth-breathe, an unnatural action that I fought momentarily with an adrenalin burst of anxiety. Once my brain understood the necessity, the panic subsided. I slipped in the mouthpiece, bit down on the rubber teeth clamps and began to breathe carefully, concentratedly through the tube. A jet of nerves, sharp and cold, rushed through me, raising goosebumps all over me. But somewhere behind the fear, I felt a calmness that told me I could overcome this terror, I could master its clammy grip on me. It was that, or pride that wouldn't allow me to fail before even putting my head in the sea. Gently, slowly I lowered my face into the water. Its cool touch soothed and calmed me. Through the smudgy hired mask, the white sand seabed shone back at me, blank and empty for the moment. It encouraged me with its purity and benign appearance. I watched with interest as my hair fanned out around me, waving softly, becoming its own form of seaweed, drifting, undulating. The sound of my breath in my water-silenced ears was loud, scratchy and eerie.

I knew I would have to swim a little way out to the coral reef to have a chance of seeing anything, as there would be no fish close to the beach, so I struck out. The water was choppy and wthin a few strokes, a swell washed over the top of the tube, leaking into my mouth. This was a moment I'd dreaded.

'If you get water in the pipe, just blow it out,' James had explained breezily on the beach, and then he was gone. Now panic lurched at my guts and I fought the overwhelming instinct to wrench my head out of the water, pull out the tube and spit out the salty water. Again my little voice of calm behind my fear spoke to me from somewhere beyond my understanding and, not really knowing what I was doing, I snorted out the water in a sharp whoosh of breath from the bottom of my lungs. I carefully breathed in again, my heart pounding. It worked! The pipe was clear and I was able to breathe normally again. Elated that I'd not drowned within minutes, my confidence soared.

I swam on. The sand was still flat and empty, the water, still clear and glassy. As waves occasionally broke over my tube I snorted them away contemptuously, like an impatient aquatic elephant. I began to relax and feel comfortable. My body bobbed and swung back and forth with the movement of the waves. And I started to become aware of other sensations: such as discovering that when I stretched my arms out with each stroke, my bikini bottoms were looser than I'd realised. They were holding up, though... just.

Now I began to wonder when the reef would appear, when suddenly I was in the middle of a cloud of bright fish. I gasped in water-muffled delight. They were the most elegant creatures I'd ever seen. They were large and flat and the most elegant mother-of-pearl grey and painted, as if with a feather-soft brush, along top and bottom fins with a band of primrose yellow. As they moved, flexing sinuously in the currents, their flat bodies seemed to disappear against the pale sand, leaving only their stripes visible, swirling and tumbling, like yellow petals through blue air. I reached out to touch these angel-beings, so near did they seem, I thought I could brush them with my fingertips. But they were further away than they looked and danced shyly away from my white outstretched fingers. I felt a strange sense of profound loss that I couldn't touch these other-worldly nymphs but had to watch from a distance, as a child with her nose pressed against the cold outside of a twinkling window at a party she cannot join. I stopped and hovered, not wanting to scare them, watching delighted as they glided back and forth in front of me, a parade, a display that seemed to be for me alone. Slowly they drifted off and I followed.

Suddenly there was the coral reef, not a vivid jumble and pile of colour and texture, but a brooding grey-brown mass. Great pillowy domes were heavy, grey and rippled as brains, while truncated fingers of branched coral stood stark and stunted like trees without leaves or life. They seemed to stretch dead fingers towards the very sun that had killed them. As I floated in horror over this dead landscape the slow, rasp of my breath resounding in my head, was the only thing I could hear. It was like the soundtrack to the end of the world. Everything seemed to be covered with a fine, slimy browny-green algae that made what should have been a place of life look like a mouldering, mossed graveyard. This expanse of death and decay seemed to spread out as far as I could see in the clear water.

A terrible, choking fear suddenly gripped me. I'm not sure why that first sight of the desolate coral scared me, but it did. Maybe it was because it looked like a deserted city after a terrible apocalypse. Its few angel-bright fish were like survivors of some suffocating, creeping disaster, gliding between the dead domes looking, searching, haunted, like refugees.

Or maybe it was the shock of the unknown. I have never seen coral in its natural state before and certainly not in such dark, horrfyinh shades of death. The scab browns, pus greens and rotting greys spoke of disease, illness and grim survival, rather than the vivid paintbox shades of bright life and vibrant health. Though such post-apocalyptic horror was not caused by man but by nature itself, it was no less shocking.

But there was life - as the pearl and yellow fish disappeared (I don't know the name), they were replaced by parrot fish: black and yellow striped beauties, they buzzed around happily like underwater bees.

But my unspecified dread remained, tamed and distracted but not removed by the colourful fish. The coral felt like an unknown landscape, where dark corners held a dark fear I didn't understand. Was it the threat, ingrained from childhood, of monsters lurking in dark, dank places in mythical fairytale lands? Of beasts and demons hidden from view, waiting to pounce, of things that go bump in the night - or the sea? It wasn't a fear of specific threats such as sharks or crocodiles (although it maybe should have been of the latter, as an American tourist was killed in 2010 by a croc very near where we were swimming!), it was more a fear of the unseen, making itself seen suddenly and unexpectedly. Although I have watched many of the Blue Planet-type documentaries and been in wonder and awe at the sheer incomprehensible diversity of species, form, texture and function of the sea's creatures, even via a TV small screen, some of the deep-sea dwellers have still provoked horror and disgust in me. I find myself appalled by their ugly, alien faces, their slimy pallid skin, pale from lack of light. Pretty, 'vacuous', colourful fish of the type that I saw now, held no fear, with their blinking eyes and synchronised moves, a ballet below the waves that makes me smile.

This fear is the possibility, the maybe, the perhaps of monsters. In reality I know the ugly ones are hidden, buried in deep, dark ocean trenches I would never venture into, but the knowledge of them, even though they are not - and will not be - visible here below me in these shallow, harmless waters makes me fear the contents of these bright, placid open waters.

But the coral is starting to regenerate and here and there a 'brain' flushes with a pale yellow or a lilac shade that may or may not hint at the brightness of its former beauty. Some clusters seemed to be shedding their scarred, dead brown tissue, the organism beneath, fresh and tender like a newly-healed wound. Every so often a wiggly line among the grey showed up bright, electric blue. This, I later found out was probably the edge of the lip of a giant scallop shell and not new coral, but the luminosity of its colour cheered me and gave me hope that life was returning.

Now, below me, I could make out the shape of other, murkier citizens of of this once-bright underwater world. A large dirty brown fish, its body almost indistinguishable against the sea floor, pecked lightly at the slimy coral and, as he turned and his side caught the sun, he glowed with an irridescent rainbow sheen, like petrol spilled on water, his fins shimmering with tiny rainbows. He was a sorry, lumpy, heavy-looking creature, but his gentle, subtle brilliance made me love him as much as the other louder inhabitants. He was perfect for this place: his dingy, drab first impression was lit up with sparks of brilliance, just like the regenerating coral.

Nearby, a shoal of smaller matt black fish with little white flecks milled around, like a crowd of Goths on a street corner, waiting for something to happen. Then, as quickly as they'd appeared, the fish melted away, leaving me with nothing more than the dead coral again. I swam on, feeling again the twinges of fear. I lifted my head out of the water to get my bearings and as I did, nearby James' head broke the surface too.

'There seems to be more fish at the margins rather than at the centre of the reef,' he called. 'OK,' I called back, "I'll have a look.' I ducked my head back in and headed towards him, the tendrils of my hair partially obscuring my vision. I was heading further out towards the open sea and the deeper water was getting colder against my skin. There was still no sign of more fish, only the sinister mounds and shadowy bumps of the reef, when suddenly that too disappeared. Below me the coral dropped away abruptly and beyond it were the vast blue depths. Now I really felt the Fear. I couldn't see anything but this underwater cliff, plunging off into nothingness, deep unfathomable, unseeable, cold blue water. It terrified me. This absence of life, of light, of anything. Its void made my stomach flip and my throat constrict. Even as I turned my back on it and quickly swam back to the shallower, paler waters, I found myself asking what it was that scared me so much?

On land, life is always with us: on the surface, above, below, together with us, it exists without us always being aware of its presence. But this under-sea emptiness was a lack of life (although of course I know it's there), an absence of presence, like some before-now unrealised premonition of death, an absence of life, of being. Its nothingness filled me with dread.

I bit down harder on my mouthpiece as if to reassure myself of my own physical presence and with horrible fascination, I turned slowly back and went to look at the Edge of Nothing again. I looked but I couldn't bring myself to swim out over the margin of the reef and look, suspended above, into the empty deep. I couldn't take my place over the void without the fear returning. I hadn't the courage or the desire to know the unknown, to hang, untethered to life and reality, over that vast blue death.

I headed back to the beach. I decided, if any of the others asked, that my excuse for getting out would be that I had got cold in the deeper water. They didn't ask. I had definitely been chilled though not by the low temperature. Back on the white sand, the shining water looked inviting again, the curl of its foaming waves beckoning to me to come back in. But I was not fooled. I knew my fear would always be out there waiting to meet me at the Edge of Nothing. I think my underwater explorations began and ended there.