Reclamation in Great Nicobar

Ladakh and the Andaman Islands

(All photos and/or videos to be added at a later date once stronger internet connection is obtained.)

Since 2013, I’ve been fortunate enough to have worked in and/or visited several places; twelve, to be exact. Of all these wonderful places in India, two have stood out with auras of emotional flamboyance – Ladakh and the Andaman Islands. Lately I’ve been wondering what it is about two places so completely different in their position, biodiversity and climate, that captured my attention so adhesively, and have come to realize they have more in common than what meets the eye.

ONE: Getting there can be challenging, yet beautiful.
Three things can come in the way of traveling to both Ladakh and the Andamans. (1) Weather – snow or rain, (2) prices – being spontaneous burns a deep, deep hole in your pocket, and (3) their exotic reputation – a sense of it being an unusual place to simply go to. But once you get there, good lord, it tugs at your breath better than Rowling’s dementors. Whether it’s the vast expanses of the Himalayas that throw the skies and land open as far as the eye can see, or the dense forests of the islands that filter sunlight and rain several-fold before they reach you, they’ll force you to stop and absorb them.

TWO: It’s expensive to get there, but cheap to live there.
Which is why I’ve devoted large amounts of my thinking time to figuring out ways in which to get there and never leave. Renting a small flat in Ladakh is a fourth of the price (if not lower) than that of an equivalent space in Mumbai. In the Andamans, it’s about a third. Either way, it makes up for the cost of getting there, and in return you get the serenity of nature with enough amenities to get you by over long periods of time. It’s perfect.

THREE: Developed, but not entirely.
Both places have a central, developed town/city which has restaurants and some hotels for tourists, small food shacks which are frequented by the locals and a bunch of general stores. Ladakh has its quintessential marketplace in Leh where anyone can buy woolens and household items, eat at a handful of restaurants or buy souvenirs from handicraft emporiums. The markets in the Andamans that compare are in and around Port Blair, but they are certainly more city-like than the quaint shops that line the streets of Leh. Sanitation, electricity and internet are available across both areas, though they are never entirely reliable. As Calvin’s Dad would say, these kinks in the global definition of ‘development’ build character and add to one’s learning of the places’ cultures and strife. I’ve learned more about life and work from my time in these places than I have living in Mumbai, and I’ve come to treasure those bits of me.

FOUR: Land-locked, sea-locked, remote and isolate.
The Himalayas that fall in Ladakh rise tall around the modest strip of runway at the Leh airport. Flying into Leh is gorgeousness, for it feels like gliding over a giant raster of geographic elevation, occasionally obstructed by blindingly-white clouds. The skies are always a limpid blue and the mountains are continuous and unrelenting. Layer after layer of peaks make you wonder where you’d ever land and about all the animals you’re flying over. When the little buildings and fields emerge from the landmass, they seem desolate and, in personification, content. Flying to the Andamans gives you the same feeling of gaping vastness and detachment from familiarity. The ocean is the same bright blue of the Ladakh sky and the coastlines gleam with their slivers of sand. Every island is a cluster of bright green vegetation – something I hope will hold true even years into the future. Both places are distant – in time if not in kilometres.

FIVE: Un-capturable landscapes.
You cannot photograph the Himalayas or the Andaman seas and forests without losing their overwhelming presence. No photo can capture the way these landscapes envelope you and stretch far out to the horizon. A photograph is 2D, but what you see with the naked eye is beyond 3-dimensional. It’s several added dimensions of wonder, intimidation, smells and sounds, which are completely lost once your shutter goes off. That being said, one can never take a bad photo of the mountains or sea. It’s a limbo of oomph, but a compromised oomph.

SIX: Tourists, people, and their animals.
Both these places are tourist hotspots and function seasonally, given their unfavourable summers and monsoons. If you go to Ladakh between December and June or the Andamans between September and March, you’re bound to meet a range of tourists – from loud joint families to solitary observers. The descendence of these tourists have come to dictate the lives of the locals, and now, their livelihoods rotate around these months. You'll find a clear distinction between the locals and anyone else who attempts to integrate. The people of the land are a humble, helpful and self-assured kind, dotted with colourful and unforgettable personalities. From caring for up to fifty domestic animals per household to dealing with feral dogs and animals, being a local comes with its share of challenges. I refrain from calling the people from these places simple, for that’s an unfair label to give them. Even though they don’t live in metropolitan cities or drive swanky cars, they lead complicated lives which are often harder than we realize. Visiting and living with them have taught me a great deal, and I’ve come to criticize and value various aspects of my life ever since.

SEVEN: The elusiveness of their wildlife.
The Himalayas are known for their large mammals, however, the snow leopard isn’t its only ‘ghost of the mountains’. It’s a landscape full of camouflaged wildlife that isn’t easy to track or spot. The Andamans house far fewer mammals, but is teeming with bird life which isn’t the easiest to find amidst its dense trees and vines. In both places, the wildlife teases you, with calls and signs, poop and tracks, but rarely graces you with its presence. If one of these wonderful creatures does show itself, live the moment. Don’t fumble for cameras or tripods or lenses, for that moment won’t last. Simply absorb it, etch it in your mind, make it a memory that you’ll hold onto forever.

EIGHT: No matter where you are, a picturesque landscape is never more than 15 minutes away.
This is a virtue of point THREE above. Perhaps this will change with time, as the Border Road Organization hacks away at the mountains or as deforestation progresses in the islands. But until those sad times befall us, these landscapes are always nearby, waiting to be gawked at.

NINE: There’s more to be known about them than is known already.
Ladakh and the islands are rich in ecological and social history. There are traditions and biodiversity that are yet to be explored and scrutinized. As time passes, more and more researchers seem to be showing interest in these scientifically uncharted fields, and rightfully so. Both places pique my curiosity more than places like the Western Ghats simply because there’s so much we’re yet to learn about them.

TEN: Disconnection from the rest of the world.
Finally, these places give you the option of unplugging every electronic device and living in the present. Disconnection from the world isn’t necessarily a direct result of poor internet or telephone towers. These places tend to make you cherish the option of switching off and using your phone and email only for the essential few communications. You can rely on newspapers for news and wave goodbye to social networking. And the best part is that you don’t miss it. Even slightly (disclaimer: this could be only my perspective). I maintain that the less my friends and family hear from me, the fewer pictures I have and the more notebooks I fill, the more fun I’m having.

I hope fervently that things stay this way even in the years to come, however romantic or idealistic that hope may be.

In the Andamans - with 2% internet

04/06/17

It’s five in the evening and it’s pouring. I’m seated in a dimly lit cottage inside ANET (Andaman and Nicobar Environmental Team) with three dogs curled up under the table and the smell of wet mud and wood filling the air. The sounds around me are a cocktail of raindrops falling on broad leaves, pond water, slushy mud and tin roofing. The trees are vibrant, as though tweaked for maximum contrast, with their dark, damp barks glistening against a palette of greens. It is mucky, icky, noisy beauty.

When I first came to the Andamans two months ago, my stomach was tingling with pure, unhindered excitement. I had no expectations, I simply knew I’d love whatever I found once we landed. I was right – I was met by more raw nature than I’ve been exposed to in the past. I realized that wilderness isn’t defined by the animals that one finds or how densely forested a place is. It’s defined by how unhabituated to people and civilization, how removed from familiarity, and how untouched a place and its biodiversity is. The Andamans is that place. A place that’s been changing and interacting with humanity for years, yet a place that maintains a tinge of feral within it. I went away feeling like the land tamed the people there, rather than the other way around, despite its growing villages and towns.

Today, I set off for ANET once more, but this time, my stomach was in knots. Knots of twisted excitement. This time, I had expectations, and worries about whether they’d be met. I embarked on this trip as a reconnaissance survey, to pursue a couple of research ideas for my Masters’ thesis. Now, I have to learn how to focus on a research question and on how to answer it in addition to gawking at the place I’m in. Seated in my plane, the glistening blue waters that shone at me didn’t help my gastric symphony of buzzing bees. After two months of craving, ideation and dreaming, I was going back again – hoping to find enough potential and purpose to keep going back.

The trip from the airport to ANET was familiar and greener than when I last remembered. More fields seemed waterlogged now that the monsoons had arrived, despite the patchy rain over the last few days. I was taking turns in my head before we made them, and was pleased to know I still knew my whereabouts from the last visit. When the car pulled up outside ANET, my knots untied and I immediately relaxed. There’s something about the calm of this place that prohibits worry. Crusoe, Tweemo and Tweepa – the dogs of ANET – greeted me heartily, and in that moment, I knew I had only good things to look forward to.

I’ll close now and watch the light fade.