These are stories from Manjula Tiwari’s first sea turtle project in 1990/1991 in the Andamans and the remote Nicobar Islands. The challenges and adventures on this project defined her career.

A different world
I had read somewhere that many early travelers avoided the Andaman and Nicobar islands because they believed the inhabitants were cannibals. Surely, I said to myself as I hurriedly packed to catch the ship leaving for the islands, this is an outdated view…
I had been told to hire Pau Aong, a Karen (tribe of Burmese origin) and a fine boatman, who would help survey the many islands of the Andaman archipelago. It was a long bus-boat-bus trip from Port Blair to his settlement in the North Andamans. Soon the bus arrived at the start of the Jarawa reserve - one of the very primitive tribes in the Andamans feared for their hostility. Two armed policemen boarded the bus and we were asked to shut our windows because the Jarawas may throw spears at us. The Jarawa reserve is sandwiched between two modern towns and locals in the bus told me stories about how the Jarawas had recently dragged someone off into the forest and probably eaten him. Apparently, the Jarawas occasionally wandered into town and abducted people - the locals suspected that these abducted people were eaten because they were never seen again. After these extraordinary stories, I eagerly looked out of the bus window, hoping to catch a glimpse of these people, but no such luck.
Moving south from the Andaman Islands to survey beaches in the Nicobar archipelago, I often stayed the night at some Nicobari tribal hut on the beach. This provided an opportunity to learn about the lives and world of this peaceful, coastal-dwelling tribe. One time after walking all day on the beach, we arrived at a little Nicobarese tribal village towards early evening. Immediately we were invited into one of the huts and offered hot, refreshing tea. A lot of people were sitting around the hut looking very glum. On inquiring why everyone was so uncharacteristically gloomy, I was informed that earlier that morning, a boat with strangers had stopped at their beach and one of the village men had accompanied them to a settlement further down the coast. He had still not returned and everyone was very anxious. I was surprised that they had let him go with strangers because, in my experience, the Nicobarese would often abandon their huts and run off into the forest when an unknown boat arrived at any of these small, remote, coastal villages. Finally, as the gloom deepened, one of his despairing relatives asked me in great earnestness, "do you think the men in the boat have eaten him?" We later encountered the missing man at another village quite alive and intact. He was just enjoying a few extra days away from home. Certainly, this was a very different world from the one I had grown up in.

Where there is no doctor
Christmas of 1990, I was in the North Andamans, visiting the small Karen settlement - a tribe of Burmese origin - with the intention of recruiting a boatman to help with sea turtle surveys in the Andaman archipelago. It was my first trip to the islands and the start of my very first sea turtle project. Christmas festivities in the village included races and volleyball - one of my favorite sports! Although they were all-male teams, they generously let me participate. I am happy to say my team won, but not without a gash on my knee - it wasn’t large enough to worry about. So I didn’t worry about it, returned to Port Blair, and went skin diving around some wonderful coral reefs in the area. A day later, the region from the gash on the knee down to my ankle was completely infected - walking was painful and the few medicines I had or acquired were ineffective against the pus accumulating along the length of my shin. Kind and non-squeamish visitors even tried to squeeze all the pus out to accelerate the healing, but it didn’t help. Finally, I located the best local doctor and was told I needed a couple of shots. After one glimpse of the unsafe, repeated use of needles and syringes I decided it was worth making a brief trip to the mainland for serious treatment. Fortunately, I was able to do so. Ever since, my field equipment has included a heftier first -aid kit…

To the Nicobars
To get from Port Blair, the central town in the Andaman and Nicobar Archipelago to Campbell Bay on the southernmost island, Great Nicobar, required a four-day journey by ship. When I was not seasick I would sit up on deck watching the flying fish and when we docked at an island I took the opportunity to explore. But my favorite part of the journey was watching the embarkation and disembarkation process when we stopped at an island without a port or a jetty. The first time we arrived at such an island, I stood on the deck looking at the idyllic, tropical island in the distance and wondered what would happen next. The ship anchored offshore and blew its horn…nothing happened for a few minutes and then from around the corner of the island came a group of Nicobarese men and women rowing a slim canoe, much like a Polynesian canoe - there was something so primeval about that scene.  Meanwhile, people on board lined up with their new purchases ready to disembark. As the little canoe drew up alongside the tall ship, a gangway was lowered, and what followed was fascinating chaos. While the two boats bobbed up and down asynchronously in the choppy waters, people staggered up and down the swaying gangway trying to time getting onto and off the gangway very carefully, others jumped off the ship deck. Bleating goats, squealing pigs, and furniture were raised and lowered by rope, young boys climbed up the rope, vegetable baskets fell into the ocean - a very energetic process. I was particularly curious to see how they would get three large drums of oil into the little canoe with everything else. But the drums were simply dropped overboard from the deck and by the time the ship was ready to raise anchor, all three drums had washed up onto the island and were being hauled up the beach by a Nicobari.

Ratnam
As the ship pulled into the port at Campbell Bay on Great Nicobar Island on the fourth evening of the journey, I sat up on deck watching the large crowd on the dock. An overwhelming sense of loneliness filled me - I didn’t know a single face in the crowd, no one was expecting me, I had no idea where I would spend the night, or how I would survey the southern group of islands in the Nicobars… But I underestimated the people of the islands…I found friends and surrogate family that worried every time I left Campbell Bay on another survey, and I found Ratnam, my very first field assistant.
Ratnam agreed to help me survey the beaches for any amount of money that I thought was suitable for his help - he didn’t really seem to care about how much he would get paid. He was not a local tribal. He originated from the Indian mainland. Apparently, he had wanted to attend school, but his father had insisted he work in the fields belonging to the family. So, the angry Ratnam caught the first ship leaving the mainland coast and ended up in the Nicobars! I couldn’t have found a better assistant - he knew the islands and he knew many of the Nicobarese who lived along the coast, making it very easy to find floor space in some Nicobari hut to cook and sleep every evening.
I would describe Ratnam as “petit,” but very strong. He called me “Madam” from the beginning and insisted on carrying my backpack even when we waded across deep creeks and most of him was underwater - I remember seeing just the top of his head and two arms straight up in the air holding my backpack above the water as he crossed the creek ahead of me. Even though we lived in very primitive conditions during these surveys, he always insisted on giving me the best of what was available. One night, our only choices for sleeping were the forest floor and a 50 cm-wide plank about 2 m off the ground. “Madam” was graciously offered the plank while Ratnam slept below. I got little sleep not because I had to lie still and flat on my back all night, but because I worried I might roll over and fall from 2 m on my kind and “petit” field assistant who slept below.
As of 2021, it has been almost thirty years since Ratnam helped me on those surveys. I have no idea where he is now, but I always remember him fondly.

Haiku
It had taken almost all day to get across the island to this beach known for its high density of nesting leatherbacks. So, of course, I had to check it out right away. By the time I had surveyed the beach to my satisfaction, it was dark and drizzling and I was tired and wet and covered with sand. I was so much looking forward to a bath and bed. The bath consisted of a mug and bucket procedure in a little clearing surrounded by dark trees, an open sky, sounds of the night, and flickering insects - very peaceful! Bed meant laying down a plastic sheet, putting up a mosquito net, using a backpack as a pillow, and falling swiftly asleep. But both bath and bed were still a-long-walk-through-the-forest away. As I trudged along, here is the “haiku” I put together:
Long dark night, weary feet
Light! Home?
Only a firefly…

Uh-oh!
It was a very dark night on Galathea Beach on Great Nicobar and I was out looking for nesting leatherbacks. As I approached the creek at the end of the beach, I switched on my flashlight. I had no intentions of stumbling into the creek. The forest guards had assured me that it was well stocked with “salties” (affectionate term for saltwater crocodiles) - the “baddies” of the croc world! Suddenly, my flashlight caught two pairs of glinting eyes! HUGE salties judging from the size of the eyes and the gap between the eyes. I made sure there was enough distance between us. As I was processing all this, the two pairs of eyes rose from ground level to at least 2 m off the ground and started moving in my direction! uh-oh! monster crocs?? I will not admit to the heart-stopping emotions that passed briefly before the creatures took shape in my flashlight. I had to laugh……..just cows!! harmless cows!!

Madam in the Mangroves
Getting back to camp after a night’s search for nesting turtles can be simple on some beaches, but quite an adventure on others… Ratnam and I had just completed a long night’s search for nesting turtles - we had walked several miles from the tip of Great Nicobar Island to the mouth of the Galathea River. It was 3 am and we were on the wrong side of the river. Some of the locals had already warned us that the river was teeming with “all the crocodiles in the world.” Normally, to avoid being eaten by crocodiles, we would cross rivers when the tide was low and during daylight hours. On this night our only choice was to cut through the mangroves that bordered the river to reach the bridge that would lead us across to camp. The tide was out, and this sounded like a relatively simple alternative, so off we went into the darkness of the mangroves quite aware that we were treading in prime crocodile habitat. First, we were forced to enter the river and skirt the edge of the mangroves because the stands were too dense. Then the flashlight died on us and we had to feel our way with our hands and feet as we stumbled on the protruding roots in the soft, black mud. To top it all, we soon realized that we were hopelessly lost and disoriented. Finally, Ratnam said to me, “Madam, you wait here. I’ll try and find us a way out,” and disappeared into the darkness. Needless to say, ‘Madam’ did not feel very lighthearted about being left alone in the dark, especially without a flashlight to catch the glint of any approaching croc eyes. So, I found the tallest aerial root and climbed up on it and waited for Ratnam to return - I felt deceptively safer on my perch, which wasn’t even a meter off the ground! I am not sure how long I stood on the root, glancing nervously over my shoulder every now and then, and wondering how in the world Ratnam would ever locate me again. Eventually, I heard a faint voice call out ‘Madam?’ from somewhere. Ratnam had miraculously found a way to the bridge and found his way back to where I was and soon we were back at camp!

 Shompens
The simplest way to get across Great Nicobar Island to the beaches on the west coast was to catch a ride part way with someone driving along the single paved road that cut across the island in one of the very few motorized vehicles on Great Nicobar. Several plans were made and canceled - the bad mountain road and the deplorable condition of the jeep with its tractionless tires and ready-to-jump-off body parts delayed the expedition. Finally, Ratnam and I hitched a ride with a doctor and a teacher who were headed to “Shompen Complex”, a collection of 2-3 huts in the middle of the rainforest - a controversial attempt to provide education and medical care to the Shompens, a primitive tribe found in the deep forested interior and occasionally along the coast of only Great Nicobar. The Shompens are a semi-nomadic tribe of Mongoloid origin and apparently fewer than 200 of them remain (in 1991). Their interactions have been largely limited to the coastal Nicobari tribe, with minimum contact with the non-tribal settlers (although this trend may be changing). In the two years that the doctor had been there, he had never had a patient and the teacher who had written out the Hindi alphabet on the blackboard had never had a student. Apparently, if the Shompens did come, they collected the food being offered, indulged in some wrestling, and disappeared into the forest. Very little of their language is known and the only times I met Shompens (only men, never women) along this road, it was mostly a silent encounter during which they exchanged honeycombs for tobacco/cigarettes with the local non-tribal men.
Another time, Ratnam and I met a Shompen walking on the beach along a river we were preparing to wade across. He was wearing a styrofoam box on his head and carrying a long stick and probing for turtle nests. (Although sea turtles are protected under the Indian Wildlife (Protection) Act of 1972, the indigenous tribes are exempt from this Act). Again, few words were exchanged, but he rowed us across the river one at a time in his dugout - possibly an ordinary moment for him and Ratnam, but significant for me.

Notes in the rain
Today, even in the heaviest downpour I can collect data calmly, safe in the knowledge that my “Rite in the Rain” notebook will not wimp out on me. But there was a time when I was ignorant of such sophistication and I doubt my shoe-string budget would have allowed such luxury. I had just finished surveying some of the smaller islands and was catching a boat back to my base in Great Nicobar. When we set out in our small, open, wooden boat, the ocean was calm and the rain came down like a curtain. Steadily, the gentle swells grew larger and very soon we were riding up the crest of big waves and cautiously surfing down the other side. The boatman and his crew were a very merry lot - chewing beetlenut and chatting amongst themselves, they were completely unalarmed by the ocean’s sinister behavior. Needless to say, I did not feel quite as jolly. It was a great relief when they decided to stop in a calm bay for lunch. With my spirits revived after a delicious chicken curry cooked by the Nicobarese, I set out to explore the beach. Although I had previously surveyed most of that island, this stretch had remained unsurveyed because of logistical difficulties. So, I was very excited when I found the beach pockmarked with leatherback nests. I reached into my bag for my low-budget, regular notebook and pen and found everything completely soaking in rainwater - the paper was too wet to write on and the pen was dysfunctional. As I despaired, the boatman started rounding us up to head back to the boat. How could I leave this beach without getting my data??? My panic button was switched on - I tore off some big Scaevola leaves from bushes nearby, broke off some thorns and sprinted up and down the beach scratching notes into the leaves with the thorns….a few years later, I could still read my notes on those dried leaves…

Island Philosophy
While doing beach surveys in the Nicobar Islands, we had to wade across broad and often deep creeks that were also prime saltwater crocodile habitat. To reduce the risk of being eaten by crocodiles, we would cross rivers when the tide was low (even then the water often came up to chin level) and during daylight hours when apparently the crocs are not moving back and forth between the ocean and the creek. In addition to these simple precautions, I was told, “Madam, throw your soul over to the other side before you cross the creek. Nothing can harm you then.”