Port Blair

Ross Island

Little Andaman Island

On a lonely stretch of the Brahmaputra river running through the North Eastern Tribal state of Assam sits Majuli Island.  It’s the second largest river island in the world after a Brazilian counterpart.  With the Bramaputra rushing past its fragile banks the place is eroding at such a rate  Majuli’s 150,000 residents will be without a home within 20 – 30 years.  The river will take with it a truly fascinating place, a historic and cultural melting pot of ancient tribes and monks living together in relative peace away from the world’s gaze.  The arduous trip here is  a worthy one, especially given the recent addition of a rare one horned Rhino, lost and running from a nearby national park.

The Island’s  residents include the Mising (pronounced Mishing) Tribe, who found their way here from Mongolia centuries  ago and still live a simple life on the North side of the Island.  The rest of the population is made of of Indian and Assamese settlers, the majority  of whom practice Vishnavism, a form of Hinduism.

This unique little mix is punctuated by the usual nondescript Indian town centers and 60 or so Satra’s, religious boarding schools of sorts housing monks with absolute dedication to their Hindu faith.  The Satra’s can be divided roughly by those that are ‘family’, just meaning the monks can marry and have children, or the ‘bachelor’ Satra’s, which are perhaps the most interesting to visit.  The largest bachelor pad houses 400 celibate monks, some picked out as young as 5-6 for a lifetime of daily prayers, rice and beans.

The bachelors I know from home might struggle with the lifestyle of their Majuli counterparts, with some of the later having barely left the grounds of their complexes since they were children, singing the same songs to the beat of the same drums, celebrating  the often grizzly stories of the Hindu faith under the gaze of ornate winged idols and the occasional tourist.

There were some luxuries; one house visited in the Satra had a TV, with monks of varying  from from kids to living fossils crowded around watching a women’s cricket match live from Bangladesh.  Another of the Satra’s is particularly famous for masks made in house for use around the Island in dances and dramas.  A small demonstration by a mask maker turned the masks (made from cow dung and clay) alive, darting eyes peering out of the striking designs and the sharp movements of the dancer made for a creepy spectacle – in the dark and dust of the Satra it was truly a different afternoon.

These dramas are performed by monks of all ages on a regular basis, usually at dawn or sunset though with a seemingly very random time table that made it difficult for anybody to guess the best time or place to catch one.

Of the few places to stay for tourists on the Island, my choice was run by a Mising family with beautiful hospitality, a hand pump for water in my bathroom,  three square meals cooked on an open fire and all the help we could ask for, all for 12 Australian dollars a day.

In keeping up with what seems to be a theme of my village adventures there was a somewhat crazy gentlemen in the house adjacent to my room.  Removed from his previous village for his penchant for beating drums and symbols daily at 5am, he had found a more patient crowd, thought that patience seemed to be running thin the Sunday he started is racket at 3am.   It says a lot that on perhaps one of the most outwardly religious places you could imagine this guy had been relocated for the timing and intensity of his morning prayer, soon to be moved on again.   My cunning plan to borrow some drums and beat him to it one morning never quite came to be.

The Mising villages scattered around the island were on the whole welcoming, and full of perhaps the handsomest people in India.  It’s well documented Assamese and Mising women are targeted by human traffickers for their beauty,  usually shipped to Kolcutta to work in brothels.  A sad practice that you would hope in 2012 would be well on its way out.

It seemed the closer to the river villages were, the slightly more tense and off guard the locals were made by any outside presence.  At one particular village rumours circulated  that myself and another Aussie were from the government (of where?), perhaps checking out potential villages for relocation.  Strange considering the state we were both in, as outside of wet season the island is basically covered in a cloud of fine dust, hazardous to both the travellers two sets of basic clothes as well as your lungs.

On the last night of my week visit news went around that a one horned Rhino was loose on the Island, having crossed over the river at its narrowest point some 60km from his former cosy national park home.  We were advised to steer clear of the northern villages, though it would have been something to see.

We were not the only ones keen to catch up with the beast, as I write I’ve just finished reading the front page of the Assam Daily Tribune to the rocking of a freezing cold rail carriage.  The  Rhino has been tracked by rangers.  He was found with two spears sticking out of his hide and has had his single horn removed as a deterrent to poachers  (which does grow back apparently), but is still somewhere on Majuli, the rangers unable to contain him long enough for removal.

Next to the article on the beast is a small picture of myself and my travelling mate from Majuli visiting a temple in the small town of Sivasagar; two lanky lads looking a little bemused by the attention at a place where they seem to see few tourists, (or government officials, as is now  the proper title).  A dose of my own medicine perhaps.

This trains final stop is stop is Guwahati, the capital of Assam and something of a frontier town for trade from Bangladesh and Myanmar, much of it illicit.  It’s a place where the mist of the Brahmaputra and the choking dust and smog of the dry season combine and settle over what’s perhaps hell on earth.  Its hard to see but what you can doesn’t resemble much like anything fit for human beings to call home,  the majority here suffocating and struggling like fish stranded on the banks of the river that runs through it.

Strange to think in this lifetime  a Google of Majuli might turn up pictures of the last of 400  year old temples sliding into the river, Monks and Mising Tribals packed into boats leaving  the Island for the first time for an uncertain future to places I can’t imagine they would know just how terrible are compared to their Island in the sun.   The early sounds of drums and kids playing happily in otherwise quiet villages replaced by the sounds and sights of modern India; god help them. `

As a motley crew of farm animals sprinted past Natarajan’s modest dwelling on the shore of the usually sleepy Hut Bay he sensed something was seriously out of order.  Already he had felt the earth shake like he never had before in his 87 years.  Grabbing his cane he joined the frantic procession and headed as fast as his aging legs would carry him to a nearby hill with just seconds to spare.  Turning his gaze back to the sea he watched as the Boxing Day Tsunami, higher than the highest coconut palms he recalls, swept away his home and the entire town beneath him, washing back and forth until there was virtually nothing left.

Before boxing day 2004 this man, now 95 and in and possession a piercing set of eyes and and razor sharp wit, was one of the oldest of his generation on this forgotten speck of land called Little Andaman Island.  It’s an Indian territory and as far removed from the every day as most might imagine to still exist.

By the end of the afternoon he would be the single oldest survivor by many years on an  Island then home to approximately 30,000 Indian settlers, Nicobarese Islanders from the South (of Burmese origin) and the native Onge tribe, a mysterious group who have inhabited this place for over 40,000 years.

Vying for the title of the oldest living culture on earth with Australian Indigenous,  the method and exact timing of the Onge’s arrival here is still a mystery to anthropologists.  DNA matches have shown East African origin, and evidence of what is perhaps purest Negroid people in the world.

The Onge, along with Natarajan and the islands animals, had the 6th sense to head for the hills, not a single person from the tribe was killed while the death toll amongst the Indian population was catastrophic. The  island was close to the epicentre of the infamous earthquake yet perhaps furthest from the world’s consciousnesses in the wake of the disaster.

Little Andaman is actually the largest in the Andaman islands chain, a string of lush tropical lands home to some of the more fascinating tribes left o the planet.  With the exception of the Nicobarese, all are threatened by the usual factors - encroachment on territory, new diseases and demoralization at their loss of identity.   In the case of the Onge only 80 or so remain.  Some occasionally used to roam into town for supplies, but haven’t been seen for years except for a select few medical workers granted access to Dugong creek, their strictly off limits area in the North of the island.

A tragic recent incident left 15 of the remaining Onge dead, undoubtedly speeding their decent into extinction.  One of the tribe had passed around a drink he found in a container on the beach.  The container turned out to be washed up medical waste, with death coming swiftly to the mainly teenage drinkers curious enough to try it.

Little Andaman had been on my wish list for a long time.  Like many forgotten corners of the globe it has been surfers who have paved the way,  for better or worse.  Information is still vague on the place and tourist infrastructure is virtually zero.  A surf movie watched as a  teen, featuring the first of the now ubiquitous Jack Johnson’s music, showed perfect waves and glimpses of the Onge, and its sat in my imagination ever since.

After a day spent day dreaming leaning over the rusty rails of a ferry from the Andaman capital Port Blair, I arrived via rickshaw in a small town at Km 16.  Towns here are simply marked by their respective distance along a straight road along the eastern side of the Island.   Of the few backpacker style places to stay both were full.  Not only full, but full of dread locked hippies listening to trance music and making jewellery.  Each to their own but I’d rather choke.   So it was that I found a concrete cell to call home near to a beach I knew had surf.

After a little surfing pantomime to a small crowd of bemused locals yielded no firm directions I set out on foot, eventually finding my way to a beach you really only could dream up.

Heading towards the point  I found the waves I’d come for, just me for a few hours, yelling at the top of my lungs like a madman with nobody around to hear or see the joy I had in getting to this place and finding what I’d dreamt of for a very long time.

Heading back along the beach in the dark I remembered that the place has a reputation for crocodiles, the uncompromising saltwater type, pushed inland by the tsunami but now making their way back to river mouths along the coast in large numbers.  Later I’d find out a 14 year old girl had been killed close by just  weeks previous, but for that moment I forgot about the risk as a blood red full moon rose, fire flies lighting a path through misty forest back to the main road.

As if on que to complete a surreal afternoon, a bus swept past, still dripping wet and board under arm I jumped  on to  blaring sounds from blown speakers and the blank stares of a tough Indian crowd.

Over the next month, with a spluttering 2 stroke Yamaha and some great company from the only other surfer on the Island, time was occupied exploring parts of the island not off limits to tourists (of which there are actually few), watching new freinds fish (a skill I never really had the patience for) and hanging out with the amazingly open and freindly Nicobarese Islanders, relocated here in large numbers after  there homes on islands further south were destroyed.

One afternoon a Nicobar family invited us in to watch the cricket, while their toddler son, nick named ‘Giggsy’ after the silver fox Ryan Giggs from the Manchester United Football club,  played happily around our feet.  There are no parts of the world where you won’t find a Premier League fan – and little Giggs was certainly evidence of that.  Strangely the island has no Internet connections to speak of yet many homes have more TV channels than most have back home in Australia.

During a flat spell of surf a call to find a few beers was made.  It turned out to be a harrowing evening in the one drinking hole on the Island.  One young local  guy took a liking to me, and   after a brief introduction and a few slurred compliments he grabbed my head with both hands and proceeded to start licking my face, his mate having to physically force him out the door.  Life lived  within a 20km sq radius was clearly to much for this guy.

A few days later after a trip over the handle bars of my bike it was time to leave.  Lying in a ditch with a few scrapes and a screaming little girl, who I’d swerved to avoid,  leaning over me I decided enough was enough.  Selling my board to the one local surfer proved to be the perfect way to bring the surf back up, with perfect waves hitting the reef on the morning of departure.

The Onge reservation of Dugong creek is apparently the most special  part of what is already a postcard of a place; a large bay filled with small Islands, with Dugong and fish in large enough numbers to sustain, and strict control of visitors.  As much as I’d have loved to have met them, the thought of the remaining tribe living out their days in that paradise is enough.  I’m sure there must be surf there to, the morning sun glinting of waves breaking with no fear of molestation by privileged  intruders,  just the Onge calving out the type of existence the next generation will only read about.

At the other end of the Island sits Natarajan, laughing with passers by while perched on the balcony of his little shack, sometimes chatting to himself, mostly sleeping.  The stories he must be recalling I can only smile at the thought, especially the one where he outran waves bigger than the trees in his front yard, following farm animals and his intuition to safety.

Thanks to Stefan the company and help with the lighting on some of the shots here, and the Nicobarese for generally being the friendliest bunch I’ve come across.

Lathmar Holi is one day out of a weeks celbrations herlading the end of winter in the North of India.  Typically Holi involves covering each other with coloured powder and dye, while in Barsana (a few hours south of Delhi), the day reaches a climax with women from a nearby village entering the town and beating some of the local men with sticks. 

After a frustrating few days travel I was really hoping the women were really going to put their backs into it – I wasn’t let down, it was an intense day that I’m glad I, and my camera gear, survived intact.

The town itself is topped by an impressive temple on a steep hill that one had to reach inorder to complete your devoutions.   At the bottom of the hill teenage boys primed their weapons – water canons filled with colourful liquid,  sacks of powder and I’m sure some sly rum for the journey.    Walking the 1km or so to the top felt like war, with target number one being tourists, of which I counted just a handful for the day.  It was worse for a girl who I met at the top who’s parents I’m sure would’nt have recognised through the dye and shell shocked look on her face.  

Later in the day as the women, dressed in coulourful though menacing looking viels, started to beat the men I got a little to close to one particular woman with great intent but poor aim.  I felt the wind of her heavy death stick whizz past my head, the tip thumping down just beside me.   Not for the first time at a third world festival I wondered what exactly I was doing. 

With the day winding down getting out of the town was like being shot at by snipers after the war was over.  I took to running to avoid the now drunken aim of teenagers perched on roof tops along the narrow lanes.  It was a surreal day, and probably the most fun and stress combined you could experience.

I hope the pictures here do the day some justice as I’m sure anybody who has been to Hli will appriciate the risk to gear and self it took to get them.  

It really is a place you could only dream up.  What’s left out of the day dreams are a few major hassles in getting there and staying healthy.  It’s a flight and ferry ride from Bali; if the ferry runs.  Last year I lost five days in a far less picturesque place waiting for a ride out, slightly losing my mind in the process.  Add to that on arrival you have a pretty monotonous diet, little in the way of reliable electricity or running water and serious malaria risks.  2010 saw a severe outbreak of typhoid in the ground/well water.  This year a travelling companion went down with cerebral malaria, a strain of the disease that can be fatal within a week.

Still, there’s nowhere like it.  I’ll leave the name off the images here, its there for others to find.

Some of these images were recently featured on the popular travel site TakeMeToTravel.  Thanks to Wy-Lin for taking the time on the post, the site is well worth checking out.

Crumbling Coast

The 12 Apostles are one of Australia’s iconic sites, located along Victoria’s great ocean road.  There are actually only eight of the stone stacks left, with a couple of these seemingly not far away from crumbling into the sea – like much of this stretch of coast.

Two of the remaining 12 Apostles..Check the crack in the cliff side

The same stacks from Gibson Steps beach at low tide

The remaining apostles

The Great Otway National Park

Just a short detour off the Great Ocean Road is the Great Otway National Park.  The park is home to a bunch of popular waterfalls to visit and photograph.

Beauchamp Falls

Beauchamp Falls

Beauchamp Falls from water level

Beauchamp Falls

Hopetoun Falls

Triplet Falls

Triplet Falls

A decent chunk of driftwood on Gibson Steps beach

Australian Travel Photography

On my first visit to Nusa Lembongan, a small island off the south coast of Bali (over 10 years ago) the local ferry took 4 hours and was an exercise in pure fear in almost any sort of weather.  Today there’s a fast boat that gets you there in 30 minutes.  The island is fast becoming one of Indonesia’s most popular spots, with nearby Bali overflowing with people its an easy way to escape the madness.

Overlooking Bali's Mt. Agung

Local kids flying kites

Seaweed farmers are increasing under pressure from tourism operators using up land on the foreshore

Happy local kid

Kite flying season

Yes, this is what the sunset can look like here

Traditional fishing boat

Larger outrigger

Seaweed farmers

More local transport

More photos from around Indonesia can be found here

Blessed with architecture arguably as grand as more popular cities in Europe, along with a rougher edge and less of a swamped feel in summer, Budapest is a joy.   The highlight for me was sitting on a peak hour tram in the city center one afternoon.  A young and pretty stunning girl (which seems to be the norm here) lit up a cigarette, clearly not the done thing on a crowded tram.  An older gentleman in a bowler hat  politely asked her to put it out – her response “go f…’ yourself’.  Eastern Europe – always cheerful.

Budapest by night

Overlooking the city

Heroes Sqaure

Well kept grounds

Stalin's Boots - In 'Communist Park' one of the stranger attractions on the outskirts of the city

Romantic evening

A lightning powered apartment block in the Budapest suburbs

Copenhagen

Images from two days in Copenhagen watching people make the most of the sun during what was something of a heatwave for this part of the world.

The Beach - Copenhagen style

The challenging post of looking over a Copenhagen crowd on a hot day

Keeping it real

Street Art

Evening at a pretty impressive office building in the town centre

Same

Again

I did kill an hour here

People watching on the hottest day of the year

The easy way to get around this great city

Shutters

Taking pictures of old statues - fun on a 35 degree day

From the other side - midday sun and fill flash

and

These two – snapped on what I’m sure was a first date at the archery range, Budapest

The truest of loves

 Travel Photography from Europe

Images from a recent road trip that started in Prague and wound through some of the more well known, and not so, towns, cities, gypsy villages and back again.  Kutna Hora and Cesky Krumlov are two of the more well know tourist attractions  outside of Prague.

Kutna Hora

Once the second richest town in Bohemian times thanks to silver production, the town is now more famous for the  Sedlec Ossuary (Kostnice Sedlec), a building made almost entirely out of bones.   I happened to be there on a weekend that coincided with a medieval festival, making a tour of very old buildings thankfully more interesting than usual.

Festival Action

Medieval times looking good

Festival

Local fella not dressed for the festival

Man dressed for the festival

St. Barbara's Church (Kostel Svaté Barbory) Construction on this church began in 1388, but thanks to union delays it wasn't fully completed until 1905 (a few wars didnt help either)

Bones inside the famous Sedlec Ossuary (Kostnice Sedlec)

Sedlec Ossuary (Kostnice Sedlec)

Cesky Krumlov

Cesky Krumlov is far and away the most popular day trip from Prague.  Undoubtedly a beautifully preserved town, it’s let down by the sheer crush of people in summer, and the fact the old town center is a massive tourist trap – which makes it feel more like a movie set rather than having any real life of its own.  Still, worth the time if you get the chance.

Cesky Krumlov by day

Cesky Krumlov

By night

and

This guy – snapped at the not so famous Basalt columns at Panska skala rock – Liberec region.

Panska skala rock

 Travel Photography from Europe