Ass world

It was a long time ago. I didn’t have a family then, but I had enough foolishness.

And brought me hard through India to the Andaman Islands. Yes, yes, the very islands that A. Conan Doyle mentions in his novel The Sign of Four. 
At first, the trip promised to be completely carefree - landing at the airport of the capital of the islands, Port Blair, visiting the island, and then moving every few days between several of the largest islands on a sea-going boat. Already during the Calcutta-Port Blair flight, it became clear that something would go wrong. A sudden cyclone, atypical for these places at that time of year, shook the poor airplane so that it seemed to want to shake the passengers out of it. There was a storm at sea, the boats did not go, and in Port Blair we were stuck for an unknown period, reading the weather forecast, and hoping for the same sudden disappearance of the cyclone.

For several days we managed to memorize a simple, but invariably thermonuclear Indian menu at local restaurants, change several hotels, travel around the island by car rickshaws, look at Andaman prison, get under tropical rain, and the cyclone never thought to leave. Once we were allowed to go out to sea on a boat, but it swayed and wore on the waves, that the captain gave the order to return to the port.
The hotels were crammed with the same stuck tourists as we are. We got acquainted with each other, and we ended up with a rather motley company from Ukrainian, Armenian, Latvian, Hindu, French and German. Ukrainian, Latvian and Armenian perfectly communicated in Russian, Hindu with everyone - in English, the Frenchwoman lopotala only in her own way, but she was understood by the Ukrainian, and the German woman expressed herself in English. Universal gathering turned into a real bird market.

The Hindu was also a supporter, and got an appointment with the Minister of Tourism of the Andaman Islands himself. He promised that the cyclone was left to rage just a couple of days, so you should not leave their luxurious islands. In the meantime, the boat does not go, you need to use a wonderful comfortable bus, which literally for some 11 hours of travel through the island jungle will take you to the north of the islands, where you will enjoy all the delights of this region. Moreover, tourists rarely get there, and practically virgin tropical land is at your complete disposal. In our imagination, he painted wondrous, enticing pictures: the uninhabited Ross and Smith Islands, interconnected by a thin isthmus of the earth ... absolutely virgin jungle ... overgrown mangrove trees ... deserted sandy beaches with golden palm trees hanging over the sand ...

The name of the end point of our path - Diglipur - I remembered for a lifetime. 11 hours of shaking in an old bus without depreciation and hard benches instead of seats turned my ass into a chop. The minister did not lie - there were no tourists even at the stage of boarding the bus. Only local intelligentsia. 
The jungle was really incredibly colorful, wild, untouched.

The only thing that said about civilization is the road through them for the local bus. We rode, accompanied by police on motorcycles, as the path lay through the island, forbidden to visit by tourists. There still remains a tribe that wears loincloths, uses spears to hunt, and is afraid of cameras in panic. Directing the camera at them is absolutely impossible - overwhelmed by their superstitions, they become very aggressive, attack the bus, and at the same time can rip jewelry and for some reason clothes of red color. We saw them. Several people came out of the forest, and stood looking at our bus, with spears in their hands, flashing with small evil eyes. It was some kind of surreal spectacle. It is as if a documentary film is being shown outside the bus window. As a result, there were no excesses.

Twice the bus had to be ferried. All passengers disembarked, and the old rusty ferry barely creeping along the bay transported the bus first, and then returned for the passengers, since it was equivalent to killing everyone at once.

In one of these crossings, I wanted to go to the toilet, and I, as a shy girl, and already just ofied with the indiscretions of the Indians (the locals were staring, pointing with fingers and discussing something constantly), rushed to the only structure in my field of vision. Its architecture left no doubt as to why it was erected, and I anticipated a couple of minutes of solitude.

And in the very center of the Andaman jungle, surrounded by island Indians and mangroves, I experienced (as Mikhail Zadornov said) a feeling of PRIDE for our people!

On the wall of the toilet in Russian in huge block letters with chalk it was deduced: ASS OF THE WORLD