COLINPUR CAPER

   It is not often that you actually find a place “tucked away”, off the beaten track and untouched by the ever-increasing all pervading malignant human presence. I know it sounds a mite harsh but then I really do feel strongly about the way we have gone overboard with the travel bug without having adequately developed our civic sense to preserve nature. But that’s another story. So I heard about this place called Colinpur from a colleague and decided to go there as he said it does not figure on most tourist itineraries. But nothing prepared me for the stunning show put up by Mother Nature at this fantastic corner of the world.

   To get to Colinpur Beach one first needs to find the village of Colinpur. I tried to read up on who the village was named after. The best I could come up was Sir Colin Campbell, the hero of the Crimean War, and the commander-in-chief of the British forces in the subcontinent at the time. Possibly Campbell Bay, way down South, is also named after the same gentleman. But then again, I might be completely wrong.

   Getting to Colinpur village involves a drive and a very pleasant drive it is too. I have always maintained that the Andamans are a unique mixture of the hills and vales around Ootacamund and the coastal splendour of Goa. Another lovely thing about the Andamans is that you can drive almost anywhere with your windows down (except when it’s raining) – so pure is the air. So I buckled up into my trusty Esteem and set out to find this little known neck of the woods.

   Getting out of Port Blair, I open throttle on the wonderfully smooth road leading to a rather run-down suburb (if I may call it such) called Bathu Basti. There are quite a few variants to this name and I’m told each version has its own die hard fanatics. Obviously, supporters of Bathu Basti cannot be expected to see eye to eye with guys who swear by Bhati Basti or even Bhatu Basti! At least they all agree it’s a Basti. Even the road here appears to have been constructed by a poor contractor – and I don’t use the adjective out of pity.

   Anyway, the road improves dramatically on the other side of the Whatever Basti and I motored merrily along the road to Wandoor Beach. At about the halfway mark, a new road germinates. This I discovered, was the beginning of the Great Andaman Trunk Road which runs along the entire length of the South Andaman Island. I recalled someone telling me it was the Japanese who first made roads in the Andamans. Bouncing along certain rather uneven stretches I’m convinced they were the last to repair them as well.

   The range of landscape I encountered within the first five to ten kilometres was quite extraordinary, with a sandy stretch suddenly giving way to a quite densely vegetated one. The road, oft weather-beaten, managed to hold its own after the initial scare and I crossed the quaintly named Ferrargunj at a fair clip. I pulled over to ask for directions (contrary to what those Mars and Venus books say) and was told to look out for a turn-off at Colinpur village. Armed with this new knowledge, it was only a matter of time before I trundled up to Colinpur, the village.

   My recollection of Colinpur is actually just a bubbling little square. The people lounging around the shops and roadside and seemed mostly of Bangla origin and very keen to ensure I did not miss directions to the beach. I turned off the Andaman Trunk Road and found myself crossing a really old but sturdy metal bridge over a nullah. If the road was a bit narrow earlier, it now became barely of vehicle width and I seriously wondered what I’d do in case I encountered oncoming traffic. But apparently the road led exclusively to just the beach so I drove on, soaking in that unique blend of Ooty and Goa I was talking about.

   The road ended abruptly in a small clearing – almost a dead end. I got out and looked for my bearings. The smell of salt and the wash of surf hit me though I was surrounded by lush greenery. I spied a small pathway leading off from the clearing and followed it towards increasing sound of water. Abruptly, I broke into sunlight and one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. Welcome to Colinpur!

   The beach was typical of most beaches on the isles in that it had vegetation very close to the water’s edge. In fact, at Colinpur, the water touches the tree line at places during high tide. As I looked out to my right, the beach stretched out long and straight – the sand interspersed with broken branches and sometimes, even whole trees toppled over. I took a leisurely stroll along the water’s edge, enraptured by the ceaseless but gentle movement of the “in-between-tides” water. As I turned back I was struck by how peaceful everything was. This was not Wandoor or Chidiya Tapu where one could suddenly brush against a distasteful packet of wafers or step upon the ubiquitous plastic mineral water bottle, completely destroying the idyllic experience. This was not Havelock where you waited an eternity just to click that snap without people in the frame to spoil the scene. This was perfection – slow, lazy, peaceful, uncluttered and sublime.

   However it was the other end of the beach which was the icing on the cake. Colinpur beach ends in a slight crescent such that one end of the beach is a bit more sheltered than the rest. There, among the trees that hugged the sand, I spied a cosy little cottage. Just one cottage. I was instantly reminded of the Phantom’s very own slice of paradise – Eden Island. There was an ochre coloured boat pulled up half ashore with a securing line pegged into the sand. All very picturesque. Even as I watched, a bunch of kids, clad only in shorts, raced out on the beach from nowhere and pushed the boat into water, screaming and whooping for joy. As the boat bobbed around in the knee-deep water, the children had the time of their lives jumping into the water and clambering back on again. I clicked six kids suspended in mid-air, joyful abandon apparent on their faces – a priceless picture indeed.

   This end of the beach also has a partially submerged Japanese Bunker from World War II. Though a man-made feature with straight lines and sharp edges, it blends in with the beach as it juts out of the water, one turret clearly visible – a mute testimony to the mindless destruction from both, the World War and the tsunami waves.

   Colinpur Beach saved its best for last. I have rarely seen such an extensive palette on display within the space of about twenty minutes. An egg-yolk yellow sun dipping into the grey black water behind the Japanese bunker against a violent red-orange sky was my most lasting memory. I am always amazed at how quickly the sun disappears from view once it touches the horizon. It is a fascinating sight. I quickly clambered back up the path to my car in the gathering dusk and drove back thinking I had spent a rare moment of true oneness with Nature at Colinpur Beach.

   Back across the metal bridge, Colinpur’s village square was bustling with activity. The lights were on, the little chai hotels doing brisk business. I stopped for a cuppa and spied quite a few carrom boards set up beside the tea stalls. The local pros were hard at play, furrowed brows, powdered hands and all. I edged nearer for a closer look. One of them immediately invited me over to play. This instant warming up to a complete stranger is unique to India. Soon I was sending the carrom-men flying into pockets egged on vociferously by a totally unknown group of good-hearted men. It was a heady feeling. The chaiwallah announced my tea was ready. I dragged myself away from the board and savoured the strong tea typical of the roadside stalls and wondered if I could have spent a better day anywhere else in the world.