I'm sitting in Venom, which is not a shit club in Newbury with giant fibreglass snakes on the dance floor. It is, in fact, a first floor bar - part of a resort across the road from our accommodation at Havelock 5. Some of the villages on the island have names but all of them are conveniently numbered. Some really are villages where locals live and work. Others, like 5, are little more than a line of resorts, restaurants and scuba clubs along a stretch of beach.
Despite the incongruous dance music that strains from a tortured speaker behind the bar and its unfortunate name, Venom is actually quite a nice place. It's all stained wood and wicker furniture, open on three sides. The barmen are really nice and remember what Alice and I like to drink from our first visit. They serve awesome homemade fish fingers.
Tonight I'm here by myself. Alice is back at our resort indulging in some Wimbledon. I've escaped to catch up on some long-overdue journalling and reflect on the last few days
...
Most of the hotels in Port Blair , where we sailed from, have a check-out time of 8.30 so we set out early to Phoenix Jetty. Our ferry was not until 11:30 so, after a quick recce that found us outside a closed ticket office, we catch a rickshaw to a nearby hotel for breakfast. The driver asks for 100rs initially and remains impassive in the face of my contemptuous laughter. We settle on 40rs - still a rip-off - and off to breakfast we go. On the way back, Alice flags down an auto and gets 30rs quoted as the first offer. I must be doing something wrong.
Back at the jetty, at a more sociable hour, we meet a Czech couple. They arrived first thing that morning from Havelock Island in the hope of sailing to Little Andaman, another island further south. They got half way there and had to return to Port Blair due to rough seas. They are returning to Havelock and we follow them to the ticket office.
The office looks like a cross between a squat and a sixth-form common room, except standards of hygiene have slipped tremendously. A few people are waiting but nobody seems to be selling tickets. I perch on a dusty desk and listen to the Czech guy talk about his travels.
...
I should mention at this point that I have just tried to order some fish fingers to go with my beer. The barman apologetically tells me that they are not available and humbly suggests I have some chicken 65 instead. This isn't even on the menu. He looks at me as if he's expecting some kind of tirade. I, on the other hand, am ecstatic and promptly order a plateful, along with another Kingfisher to celebrate.
Back to Phoenix Jetty.
...
The ticket man arrives and the customary anti queue ensues. Unflapped by the fistfuls of money and IDs being shoved in his face, he writes out tickets at glacial speed. I can see him languidly crossing of the few remaining seats on a sheet of paper with each ticket and manage to get in just before they run out.
Our designated ferry, Onga, docks and the crowd that has accumulated starts to filter out onto the jetty. We wait in the sun for the signal to board. The Czech guy speaks to one of the sailors hanging of the side of the ferry and reports back that the the ferry is not sailing back out, the reason unclear.
After half an hour or so, another ferry arrives and the crowd presses onto the other edge of the jetty. There's a precarious moment as the mass of people swings onto the narrow gangplank, seemingly oblivious to the small children in the crowd. After some pushing, shoving and a little shouting, we're on.
Rather than being the light craft I was expecting, our ferry is a all steel and diesel fumes. There are about 80 seats in a fairly small space below deck. It's a hot and sweaty three hour journey with a stop at Neil Island on the way. As we near our final port, we climb up on the rear deck and watch the wake of the boat stretch into the distance. The air tastes of salt. Heavily forested islands glide past on either side.
Despite the incongruous dance music that strains from a tortured speaker behind the bar and its unfortunate name, Venom is actually quite a nice place. It's all stained wood and wicker furniture, open on three sides. The barmen are really nice and remember what Alice and I like to drink from our first visit. They serve awesome homemade fish fingers.
Tonight I'm here by myself. Alice is back at our resort indulging in some Wimbledon. I've escaped to catch up on some long-overdue journalling and reflect on the last few days
...
Most of the hotels in Port Blair , where we sailed from, have a check-out time of 8.30 so we set out early to Phoenix Jetty. Our ferry was not until 11:30 so, after a quick recce that found us outside a closed ticket office, we catch a rickshaw to a nearby hotel for breakfast. The driver asks for 100rs initially and remains impassive in the face of my contemptuous laughter. We settle on 40rs - still a rip-off - and off to breakfast we go. On the way back, Alice flags down an auto and gets 30rs quoted as the first offer. I must be doing something wrong.
Back at the jetty, at a more sociable hour, we meet a Czech couple. They arrived first thing that morning from Havelock Island in the hope of sailing to Little Andaman, another island further south. They got half way there and had to return to Port Blair due to rough seas. They are returning to Havelock and we follow them to the ticket office.
The office looks like a cross between a squat and a sixth-form common room, except standards of hygiene have slipped tremendously. A few people are waiting but nobody seems to be selling tickets. I perch on a dusty desk and listen to the Czech guy talk about his travels.
...
I should mention at this point that I have just tried to order some fish fingers to go with my beer. The barman apologetically tells me that they are not available and humbly suggests I have some chicken 65 instead. This isn't even on the menu. He looks at me as if he's expecting some kind of tirade. I, on the other hand, am ecstatic and promptly order a plateful, along with another Kingfisher to celebrate.
 |
| Secret 65... mmm... |
Back to Phoenix Jetty.
...
The ticket man arrives and the customary anti queue ensues. Unflapped by the fistfuls of money and IDs being shoved in his face, he writes out tickets at glacial speed. I can see him languidly crossing of the few remaining seats on a sheet of paper with each ticket and manage to get in just before they run out.
Our designated ferry, Onga, docks and the crowd that has accumulated starts to filter out onto the jetty. We wait in the sun for the signal to board. The Czech guy speaks to one of the sailors hanging of the side of the ferry and reports back that the the ferry is not sailing back out, the reason unclear.
After half an hour or so, another ferry arrives and the crowd presses onto the other edge of the jetty. There's a precarious moment as the mass of people swings onto the narrow gangplank, seemingly oblivious to the small children in the crowd. After some pushing, shoving and a little shouting, we're on.
Rather than being the light craft I was expecting, our ferry is a all steel and diesel fumes. There are about 80 seats in a fairly small space below deck. It's a hot and sweaty three hour journey with a stop at Neil Island on the way. As we near our final port, we climb up on the rear deck and watch the wake of the boat stretch into the distance. The air tastes of salt. Heavily forested islands glide past on either side.
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