They must have used invisible ink to draw the Andamans. Appear and disappear from the Bay of Bengal to the tsunami hits, or more often for abstruse political alchemy. Essentially unknown until 1788, when Lieutenant Archibald Blair landed here between puffs of purple pipes and sweaty uniforms, have returned anonymously with the same speed with which the natives bury it at the time the subjects of His Majesty, probably mistaken for albino lizards.
yes walked on two legs, but the desire of devious predator sparkled in their eyes. They said come in peace, to bring the lights of a civilization more advanced, yet behind the collar whitened to hide the sick idea of \u200b\u200bbuilding the most ruthless prison archipelago of their rising empire. The "Cayenne" of India, just to inflate the chest with the French, cleverly concealed in one of more than five hundred islands that stretch east of Madras and also incorporate the outcrops of the Nicobar Islands.
Today the seven rays of the penitentiary in Port Blair were shattered, with severe disappointment of Jeremy Bentham and his infallible "Panopticon", but the reasons for the Indian independence incredibly assumed the tone of the old conquerors. Recent statements by the parliamentary Bishnu Pada Ray, that "the Jarawa tribe of the children should be removed from their families and moved to college education, have the unmistakable flavor of a colonial superpower ambitions by arrogant. Role that India plays with great ease as well as in Assam Tripura, Sikkim, like that in Kashmir, stamping her feet at all, but each time being forgiven by the West in trouble too to raise its voice.
Perhaps it is still able to be touched by the disappearance of the last surviving tribe of Bo, passed away last January after he desperately tried to deliver to posterity a treasure of native 65 thousand years, but does not give up close to a road, every day, spreading lethal germs and bait consumed in the heart of a forest from which the black man refuses to emancipate themselves. Indeed, now toying with the idea of \u200b\u200bbuilding a railroad near even.
Volta face entrepreneurs Barefoot India, having allowed them to build a luxury resort in the sacred lands of the nomadic hunters and trumpeted the idea of \u200b\u200blaunching here New Maldives wink to Survival, when you need to wash your conscience and indignation for the tour operators offering safaris "tribal" and yet it seems a pose of convenience to clear a vast forest in the entire peace from precious wood.
Thimbok Chuglum and delivered daily by the ton under the blade of the sawmill Chatham, among largest manufacturing facilities in Asia, depending on even since 1836. On the other hand we know: the Indian has a nose for business, both the spirit of the belly, and it matters little whether it is necessary to resort to the hated symbol of imperialism of Her Majesty.
Yet something still does not work over there: as they quickly realized the captain Henry Man, the Andamans are not tamed. After several abortive attempts, the terrible prison in 1858 seemed really running, but keep him alive cost more effort than putting the clamps at the foot of the Indians. To crack the whip on their backs skeleton was not used to silence the haunting bustle of the jungle.
rebellious spirits chained to a chair in jail not freed from the grip of suffocating roots, from day to day crept into the crevices Victorian respectability, its crumbling neo-Gothic spire exactly how faith ecumenism of the Union Jack.
Over Ross Island, the night was filled with screams left, while the intestines of pigs, abandoned on the streets by the invisible men of the forest, foretold a horrible punishment. That which would have deserved Doodhnath Tiwari, a mutiny of the 14th Indian regiment, able to escape the bars of the prison in Port Blair, but not the inevitability of fate, captured by Aborigines during his bloody escape, he gained their confidence up to marry the two daughters of chiefs and Geeja Leep.
But when they decided to lay siege to the British contingent, attacking the police station in Aberdeen May 17, 1859, slipped from his old tormentors warning them of the mortal danger looming over them. He earned a stained dall'ignominia freedom, the British broke in pieces the rebels, but the Aborigines lost forever confidence the man who came from the sea. "Eenen piti piti" renamed the stranger: an evil man.
Since then, the Andaman jungle has become even more impenetrable, swallowing the Jarawa, the Onge and Great Andamanese, while the round-Sentinel Island has never ceased to be complacent, bulwark of an invasion were raised to impossible any attempt to land on its pristine beaches continues to be dyed with blood and cyanide. Even the Japanese were able to fortify their bunkers after the fleeting attempt to drive the British fleet between 1942 and 1945: there are some small just surviving in Ross Island, standing for the joy of Indian military in them are celebrating today the liberal left the barracks of the garrison.
Viper Island would be some more in the background to give yourself a rare moment of revelry camaraderie, but the ruins of the gallows that many souls are still treacherous Indian taken: despite its name, there are more crocodiles hide poisonous reptiles that were determined to perpetuate the myth of the island of no return.
Nobody really knows how many and where are the survivors of these battles forgotten by history: it is estimated that the forest Great Andaman 320 diehards still hides, but they are only numbers stolen from hospital laboratories folders scattered between Port Blair and Diglipur, where the pride of the savage has to bend to the miracle of witchcraft of the invader.
Why be offended when their foot ferns of Little Andaman Baratang has been violated and the anger of the sacred volcano of mud, since the flat hunting have been turned into rice paddies and caves of petrified animals in shelters of the god Ganesh, the inevitable punishment of the ancestors came.
You die for a sneeze. We die to a boil. You die for morsels of compassion. Those who roll the windows of the bus thrown at breakneck speed, along a road that resembles a winding scar just one day is a colorful drink, another a packet of crisps, another absurd t-shirts, received between hands of those who today can not help but bow to heaven and invoke the power of miracles.
So much so that you no longer need to live in hiding: the Andaman Trunk Road opens a window on a changing world dark and fascinating, made of steel monsters and coarse laughter, violent arms of you thrown ground when trying to respond to large because of life, or pull you away when you want only to forget the pain that the world has suddenly awakened. Just like a wounded animal and offended, curled leaves behind those who once saw warriors boldly break from the chest instead of shiny fat. Some people do not give up and he still dares, while the cars in the queue waiting for a ferry or a rusty little family burns incense under a fig tree, convinced that Krishna and Shiva live wherever their dedication to stumble.
A rustling of branches. Stealthily. Shadows that suddenly take shape. It is they, the blacks of the implacable men forests, nostrils that dilate terrified, but the machete easy. Those who blows you at a glance, yet would die the desire to understand the hiss of your tongue. Those who will spend almost next to a gentle touch with their bows, but that pride with his chin high in the forces. Before disappearing into thin air, to once again restless shadows, opening gates where the tangled nature of his bowels.
We think chainsaws to flush them out with the complicity of some poor elephant forced to leave the path of logs padauk lifeless.
Or the mad waves of the ocean, as occurred with the fateful tsunami of 2004, when their land was washed away by the destructive fury of the water, suddenly materializing on the front pages of newspapers.
angry scream of a nature too long injury, ready to pick up those children that the greed of others would still be sentenced to an inglorious end, relegating them away from their homes, dressed in rags, cheap, giving them a way of life that none of them ever understand.
Bo I have gone well. The Onge were taken away from huts Community of Little Andaman, to close at Dugong Creek and South Bay in the prefabs neglect bureaucrat. Creaking behind fences that are no longer stories and legends to be preserved. For what remains of the Jarawa, who are forced to wander like ghosts among ferns and vines, you are relying to reception centers dotted around the islands from the late '90s, when some of them took courage and began to sniff the villages of stranger. To bring the heads of the Bangladeshi smugglers, spintisi where they should not. Very little can be done to the Great Andanamesi, finally, swallowed up in a hurry by the powerhouse Indian civilization, which in 1971 was about to lose even the last 19 survivors, anonymous citizens have become the largest democracy in the world.
's all that remains of the epic migration that, at the dawn of history, led by tribal hungry heart of East Africa towards an uncertain boundaries, where the joint Papua od'Australia do not fare any better. Next to this step, arrowheads from bone, shells and baskets sanders hemp will be the only evidence visible to the curious few who venture into quest'avamposto progress; dusty relics of the anthropological museum in Port Blair, which compete the green imperial pigeon, the crab-eating macaques and some 200 species of native animals segregated rust behind the house at the zoo.
Life at the Bar. The fate of the Andamans.
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