Part-1:Mt.Harriet, Chatham Saw Mill, Cellular Jail

  Port Blair, India
Friday, May 23, 2008

Day 5 - Friday, 23rd May, 2008
 
We wake up with mixed feelings. This is a big day, with a lot of important places to be covered. But it is also the last full day that we have in the Andamans. With an early morning flight (another early wake-up!) for both the Chennai and Kolkata bound folks, there is just enough time to lug our luggage and head for the airport tomorrow. So whatever has to be done, has to be done today.
 
The plan for the day is to take in Mount Harriet first. We are picked up from the hotel at 6.30 and reach Chatham Wharf in time to catch the ferry to Bamboo Flats at 7am. The cab also needs to be ferried across, so we join a large crowd and other vehicles in a 20 minute ride to the Flats. The moment we dock here, we saw all too clearly that the tsunami had been more devastating here. The shop fronts facing the sea look completely destroyed and still bear a desolate look. Up ahead, a clearing filled with headless palm trees and amputated bamboo stumps paints an even more stark picture.
 
A 20mt uphill drive from Bamboo Flats through thick forests gets us to a check-post to the Mt. Harriet National Park. It has been a lonely ride so far, the narrow reserve road flanked on either side by massive trees that crossed over to each other forming a thick canopy overhead. Just beyond the gates, further up, we come to a halt. On our right stands the ruins of the Chief Commissioner's bungalow, abandoned by the British in 1942. There is nothing much except for a two feet granite base of the structure and a few mounds in the middle.
 
The Mt. Harriet reserve premises lie ahead and we drive on. At 365mts, modest by mountain standards, it is still the second highest point in the Andamans. Named after Harriet Tytler, who accompanied her husband Robert in 1862 during the latter's stint in the islands, Mt.Harriet is the second highest point (after Saddle Peak near Diglipur in the north) in the Andaman & Nicobar group. Its proximity and the peaceful locale made it an obvious choice to be the summer residence of the Chief Commissioner during the Raj. While the ferry and the subsequent ride from Bamboo Flats is the easiest and fastest way to reach the summit, it can also be reached in a 55km drive from Port Blair. One of the more underused accommodation options by visitors to Port Blair is the Forest Guest House and the huts that take you far from the bustle of the capital town below - not to talk of the obvious advantage it provides you with in the event of a tsunami!
 

The view from Mt.Harriet

Maintained diligently, the compound looks tidy with cottages, viewing towers and the forest departments offices. With no other tourists, the place feels even more peaceful and relaxed than it is. There is only the gentle whirr of the hilltop breeze that we hear in the otherwise still and quiet all around. A Nicobari hut, obviously a representation, cries out to be visited. We follow each other on the wooden stairs and take in the simplicity of the interiors of the round on top. A viewing gallery at the end of the ground, John said, is where we can get (on a clear day) good sightings of Port Blair and the other islands nearby. We walk past a well-manicured lawn with more resting eco-huts and watchtowers till we reach the elevated viewing gallery.
 

The lighthouse on the Rs.20/- note

It is neither too cloudy, nor too clear. While Port Blair is not exactly visible, we do get to see Havelock, Neil, North Bay and Ross Islands. Presently, John pulls out a Rs.20/- note from his wallet and holds it against the horizon. He points at the scene on the note - a view of the sea from between a forest, with a lighthouse prominently sticking out. Beyond his arm, we see the same vista, complete with the red and white lighthouse standing out against the sky, the sea and the trees. With a little more time on our hands and some better planning, we wish we could stay here for a day and do some nature walks - a trail to nearby Madhuban is a treat for anyone who loves to trek and is keen on birding.
 
But there is a lot still left to cover and we head back to Bamboo Flats in time to catch the 9am ferry. It is rush hour and the ferry is jam-packed, island style, with humans, two and four wheelers taking up every inch of space aboard. Our cab can't be accommodated, but with time being at a premium, John arranges for an alternative vehicle at Chatham Wharf. 

Rush hour traffic from Bamboo Flats to Port B

 
Just adjacent to the wharf is another must-see, the Chatham saw mill - the oldest of its kind in Asia, built in 1836 by the British. Inside, both the museum and the walk-through within the functional mill are worth the experience. On display in the well-maintained museum is a history of the mill and a presentation of the rich flora and fauna of the island group. The informative walkabout also gives you insight of the official tree - the paduak, animal - the dugong, and bird - the Andaman teal; besides exhibits of the various wood processing techniques and equipment used in the mill. 
 

The Chatham saw mill today

For those who are more keen on the action, the mill is the place to be. We sidestep consignments of massive logs and walk past the rail track meant to ferry material within the compound. Strategically built near the sea, transportation of load between the wharf and the mill must have been the reason for the choice of location. We are a little tentative as we enter the mill and walk into the midst of the workers and their action. The noise levels inside, coupled with the sight of the menacing saw blades are enough to make you squeamish. It is more like watching a trailer of the Texan chainsaw massacre. Seasoned mill workers are going about their jobs with deadpan faces even as we gingerly follow each other, struggling to stay out of reach of oversized logs being sliced by razor sharp, motor-driven blades. Some of the equipment, it appears, has been in use for decades. It is heartening to note that the focus on environment conservation and the indiscriminate felling of trees has reduced the output of the mill, with only enough work being done to keep the staff from being laid off.
 
It is now past 10 and we pause for breakfast. A quick bite at Annapurna and we are back on the road. And it is not just the dosas and filter coffee that have us energised - the next fixture is virtually the most looked forward to...the Cellular Jail. The brief glimpse we had of the structure in the fading light and the sound and light show had only whetted our appetite for a closer look. 

The Cellular Jail

There is something arresting (pun unintended!) about just the gates that lead you inside the jail. Maybe you have read up on and seen so many images of this iconic establishment that seeing it in brick and stone before you is an unsettling sight. We begin our visit with the small but well done up museums that serve well to be a foreword to a chilling story.
 
The photo exhibition housed in the left wing of the entrance building jogs your forgotten history lessons and puts the role of the jail in perspective with India's freedom struggle. A display of paintings in the hall next door captures on canvas the angst of the period. On the right wing is a more telling exposition of the life and times of all who lived and all that happened within the prison compound. Tableaus, representations, actual items used and informative write-ups do the job to prepare the visitor emotionally to see the real thing inside.
 
Despite having felt the goosebumps at seeing the structure the first time, we can't help feeling the same again. The neat compound with flowerbeds and tourists all around still doesn't take away the horror and shock the setting invokes. A shed near the garden, just in front of the wing is a grim reminder of the brutality meted out to the prisoners. An oil kolhu meant to be operated by the inmates stands before a comfortable chair - this is the seat used by the prison warden to watch over the spectacle before him. 

History up, close and impersonal

Between the cabin of the jailor and one corner of the cell's wing are the gallows. Stairs take you down to the bowels of a large pit-like room where the prisoners are walked to for the last time. Just how near the sea is to the jail can be gauged from one stark, startling fact that we are told by John as we peer into the dark depths of the gallows. Once a prisoner is declared dead and his body dropped down in a miserable heap, the wooden floor below is tilted till the lifeless fighter got his freedom from his chained life, and slid down a concrete chute into the swirling waters of the ocean. It is in that one moment that he literally is sent to Kalapani.
 
But none of this can match the prime exhibit of the complex - the cells themselves. Just climbing the stairs sends a tingling sensation of walking up the bloodied paths of a sad page in history. The corridor says it all in a way words cannot. Stories of how David Barry and his men let loose their inhumanity and even shielded the goings on from the outside world are legendary. But if they were hard at heart, the resolve of the freedom fighters was harder. But it's the painful memories and the indignation suffered by the best lives the country produced that have proved to be the hardest.
 
Seven wings built around a central tower had to be a result of a stroke of the cruellest genius. Guards had a clear view of all wings without the wings themselves having any contact with each other. Built to house 696 inmates, the cells are just 12ft by 7ft, with an iron grill door with heavy padlocks and bolts; and a trapdoor to shove in food. Calls of nature were answered in tiny pots that, often, overflowed till the inmate is let out for his daily load of toil. Punishments were as abominable as the imagination of the jailor could get. From slaving on the dreaded oil-grinding machine to being fettered to solitary confinement, there were innumerable variations of torture which had been perfected into a fine art by the jailers. But it is probably the mental trauma - more than the physical - that often broke many of the prisoners. Most of them didn't know if their families were alive, of if the families knew that they were alive. For that matter, they didn't even know if there fellow inmates were alive. It is said that two brothers were in the jail for years without either of them knowing this.
 

The corridor of injustice

Prominently marked on the staircase and labelled outside the cell itself, Veer Savarkar's cell - his abode of one full decade - is at the extreme end of the corridor. An additional grill door has to be crossed to reach the main one. Inside, his photograph and a write-up brings the historically challenged to speed on the great man. It's hard to imagine that he lived in that very cell - and gazed at those walls for hours on end, day after day, for a full ten years. Apparently, most cells bore writings and drawings in chalk or coal till the present day authorities decided to whiteish the walls! Which is probably just a little less inexplicable than opting to convert one full wing of the jail into a modern hospital!! I am sure this level of cleanliness and medical facilities would well have been appreciated if these were implemented a hundred years ago rather than today!!!

A cell in the jail

 
Standing atop the terrace of the jail, a 360 degree view is probably the visual treat that those unfortunate prisoners who lived here for years never had. While on one side are the intact wings of the jail and the converted one housing the hospital, on the other stretches a canvas of sea, islands and ferries. There is an eerie silence and a balmy breeze blowing in from the sea that makes the scene almost surreal. 

The view from the top of the jail

 
Below, inside the tower, there is a tribute paid to the freedom struggle - the names of all who were imprisoned, images of newspaper reports and photographs line up the walls. Kalapani, in all its fearsome notoriety, has always been that gruesome chapter in history, the ultimate romanticisation of patriotism and British brutality. For most Indians, it is a long time ago and a long way away. That's understandable, to an extent. But, anyone who has seen this incredible monument would have just isted a week and his airfare if he did not get a lump in his throat and felt his hair on his neck stand on end. And what better way to sum up the message that this experience is likely to leave one with:
 
'When you go home
Tell them of us, and say,
"For your tomorrow
We gave our today.'"

The history lessons continue, only the classroom changes. We escape from the Cellular Jail, pretty much prisoners of its harrowing past. Next up is another chapter from a forgotten past, an island that's not about beaches and corals - more a theatre of ghostly stories and settings.