The Andaman Islands house trees that could squash me like an
ant if only they could lay a corner of their ginormous buttresses on me. Each
tree is history. Walking through wooded
areas reminded me of how puny, insignificant, trivial, inconsequential I am. Of
how people are unimpressive in every way. Of how my (literal) footprint could
never be as deep set as the valleys in the mud created by a single, archaic
tree.
I use the large, overshadowing tree as a metaphor for the
islands themselves. Despite the tar roads that weave through villages and the
occasional electric line overhead, passing through them is reminiscent of
another time. There’s an overwhelming anachronistic nature to the place that
swoops in, swallowing all my preconceived notions of beauty and replacing them
with itself. The Andamans – over land and underwater – has me seized by the
collar, endearingly, and its grip is far too strong to ignore.
More to come.
