The Rocky Road

The sun was shining, and it was ungodly hot. This particular Indian beach was home to working fishermen, going about their day as they and their ancestors had for generations - out with the morning tide and back with the catch. It was a beautiful example of local industry maintained, free from the ever-spreading homogenisation of the world. The pace of life was charming, slow, simple and uncluttered. In such glorious surroundings, with such soothing sounds of sea and surf, how could one not be at peace? Alex, as he dragged moodily on his cigarette and eyed an old man who had hobbled to the end of the beach, hitched up his lungi and squatted to defecate, thought it could do with a bloody good tidy up. 

This was unsurprising. He was recently arrived to India, landing in Mumbai to be met with heat, dust and noise, travelling across to Chennai for more heat, dust and noise, and last night down the coast, for hopefully some peace and tranquility. He felt gloomy and unappreciative. Bloody chaos everywhere. Where others saw beauty and simplicity, he saw shabbiness and bad plumbing. 

His companion Mark on the other hand, currently buying water at a beachside stall, had approached everything with a wide-eyed enjoyment that made Alex wonder if he was putting it on to annoy him. No one could be that cheery, that willing to think the best of everyone. When they’d hopped out of the taxi on Colaba Causeway into a scrum of touts who assured them that the hotel they were aiming for had closed down years ago, and in any case wasn’t a patch on their sister’s husband’s brother’s cousin’s hotel, quite close, very cheap, very clean, Alex could swear Mark had been wavering. Serve him right if he’d gone with them. He’d be hooked on heroin in a dank basement waiting to be shipped off into a life of slavery by now. Even walking here Mark had humoured each woman selling cloth and bangles that had approached them. Alex had been surly instead. What could he possibly want acres of patterned cloth for? Bloody stupid. 

His moody reverie was interrupted as Mark bounced out of the shop. 

“So I got the water, made sure it was sealed bottles and everything. Two litres, should be more than enough to see us to the island.” 

Alex stubbed out his cigarette. “I’ll be honest, I was expecting more in the way of signage, or a ferry. Doesn’t look particularly accessible.”

“Course not. It wouldn’t be a hidden hippy paradise if anyone could just get the ferry over would it?” 

They both eyed the small, densely forested island in the middle of the bay. It didn’t look far at all. A French traveller on the flight to Chennai had told them that this island was home to a delightfully remote tribe of old hippies who had modernised their space just enough to receive the occasional tourist hardy enough to get there. 

“Eet eez a leetle slice of paradise!” he had promised. A couple of days in such surroundings appealed to Mark’s sense of the romantic, and Alex just looked forward to being surrounded by Westerners. Try as he might to hide it, he didn’t trust Indians. Barely twenty years old, he hadn’t travelled outside of Europe before, and was feeling very wary. 

“Anyway,” Mark continued, “The chap in the shop said we can actually walk to it across those rocks over by the cliff there, since the tide’s out.” He was aware that Alex, normally so confident at home, felt on edge out of his comfort zone, so decided not to mention that the shopkeeper had seemed puzzled when he said this.

“Alright then, let’s get on with it.”

The two set off up the beach. Alex gave the old man in the lungi a poisonous glare as they passed him, and he, who had had the same morning routine for decades, smiled a cheery smile and nodded back. 

At the base of the cliff, they stopped and considered their options. Sure enough, the tide was low, and a path of rocks extended all they way from the beach to the island. But these were not tame, passive rocks, worn smooth with the passage of many feet. On the contrary, they were jagged, uneven, dashed by the waves. Sprays of foam spurted up from between gaps whenever a particularly nasty swell hit them. They were black and sharp, distinctly unappetising. 

“Is that the path?” Alex asked incredulously. 

“I suppose it must be.” Even Mark’s sunny demeanour was shaken. “But look, the chap said we could cross there, maybe it’s not so bad. We’ll only know once we’ve tried!” 

In later years, both boys shuddered at the memory of that journey. In deference to the heat, they wore flip flops, to which years of London living had left them ill-accustomed. They never stirred out of doors without rucksacks containing portable mackintoshes, snacks for Alex (who hadn’t quite got the hang of the food yet), malaria tablets, plasters, and sun hats. Mark wore his bulky film camera around his neck, and Alex carried the plastic shopping bag containing the two litre bottles of water, which swung dangerously with each wobbling step. 

They picked their way with care, knowing full well that one wrong step could twist an ankle or worse. The spray battered them, their flip-flops came off and had to be rescued, and occasionally they would have to pause and wait for the waves to subside before crossing to the next rock. At points they were on all fours, desperately assuring themselves of a safe foothold before committing. The worst part was when they crossed the half way mark. Up until then, they had the option of going back, but now there was only forward, with the prospect of a return journey just as treacherous. 

It took them an hour. At the end of this time, they stepped gratefully onto dry land, relatively unscathed if somewhat dishevelled and extremely sweaty. Mark nursed a slight cut on his ankle, and Alex rubbed sand from his eye as they looked about them. Certainly the view was not encouraging. 

They stood on a small beach or cove. On three sides of them, rocks and thick vegetation rose up, making a passage to the interior extremely unlikely. On top of which, now that they were actually here and could get an idea of the scale of the island, it seemed very improbable that there was a hidden paradise within. In fact, it looked doubtful that there even was any within. The island seemed little more than a sharp point in the sea, covered in jungle.

Alex groaned and sank to the sand. By some weird biological freak, it was covered with the scattered bodies of very small, very dead fish. They made their presence felt, smell-wise…

Mark was defeated. “I think the French guy was wrong about this. Or else we’re at the wrong place…”

“You think?!” Alex got to his feet, and moodily paced the small beach. It was only about ten feet square, so didn’t take long. Eventually he picked up a stick, and prodded at one of the fish. 

“Poor little buggers. I wonder what happened to them?”

“Maybe they thought there was a wonderful paradise here as well. Beached themselves en masse.”

Alex laughed for the first time. He poked thoughtfully at the fish again, then took up a golfers stance. 

“Fore!” He swung his stick in a vigorous if unscientific arc, connecting with the fish and sending it a disappointing six feet into the surf. Mark smiled ruefully, and looked about for a stick of his own. 

Thus passed five or ten minutes mindlessly whacking dead fish back into the ocean. The futility and grimness of the exercise seemed to suit them both. When they’d cleared the beach, they lay down and lit cigarettes. It was nonetheless a fairly nice view, gazing back at the fishing village so close yet so remote from them. 

“That fellow’s in a hurry.” Alex gestured idly to a local man striding quickly along the distant beach. There was something about his gait that arrested the attention. In that scene of unhurried tranquility, his air of purpose stood out. 

“Maybe he’s left the oven on.” Mark replied drowsily. “What’s he got in his hand?”

“Dunno. Too far away. Looks annoyed though.”

The distance was too great to make out any facial expression, but somehow the man did look annoyed. There was something in the lines of his figure and movement that suggested irritation. 

“He’s really going isn’t he. Wonder where he’s going to?”

“Not really anywhere to go. All cliffs round that end. We were just there.”

A sudden tension crept into their mood. 

“You don’t suppose he’s coming here do you?”

“Why would he? There’s nothing here.” 

They sat in silence for a second. The man had now passed the last of the huts. Whatever his destination, it lay at the cliff end of the beach. 

“There’s us.” Alex spoke at last. “What is that in his hand?” 

They strained their eyes to make out detail. He seemed closer, for all that he was still on the mainland. 

“Fuck me it’s a machete!” Mark caught a flash of sunlight on steel. 

“Are you sure?! Why’s he storming about the place with a machete? Someone’s in trouble!” 

“We’re in fucking trouble! He’s coming here!”

Alex sat up. “He’s not is he? Why would he?” 

“I dunno, maybe we shouldn’t be here. I dunno what the laws are!”

The man had reached the rocky pathway that led to the island. There was no longer any doubt, he was definitely coming over. Alex got to his feet. 

“Ok yes, he’s coming here, and he’s got a machete. It took an hour to cross that though, we’ve got time. There’s two of us…” 

Mark grabbed Alex’s arm in terror. “He’s half fucking way! It was an hour for us!”

“Shit. Ok, got your stick? We’ll try and go round him and back across the rocks. ” 

The man was dangerously close. The rocky road that had caused them so much grief may as well have been a paved footpath. Clutching their sticks but trying to look as if they just happened to have picked them up, the boys advanced. The man opened the conversation, shouting across the waves in rapid Tamil. 

“What are you doing here? This isn’t a tourist place!” 

Alex replied, his voice tense. “We don’t speak your language. What’s the machete for mate?”

“What?” The man got the gist, and replied in his own language. “Oh this? I cut wood here, for the fire!” He made hacking gestures and grinned. This was enough for Mark.

“I knew it, he’s going to chop us up.”

“It’s ok, we’ll just manoeuvre around him…”

Alex shouted back. “We’re just heading back now. We don’t speak your language! Why do you have a machete?” He pointed again at the implement.

“I told you, for cutting wood!” The man swung his machete vigorously again. What was wrong with these boys? Were they stupid? “You can’t go back that way the tide’s coming up and the rocks are too dangerous anyway!” To the English-speaking boys, he may as well have been yelling the shipping forecast.

Throughout, the man had been leaping across the rocks like a mountain goat. The boys, for all their plan of moving around him and back the way they’d come, had not got far. Now he gestured with his machete for them to step back to the beach. 

“Fuck, that is a big machete. Let’s just do what he says…”

The two boys backed on to the beach, and Mark held up his hands in a pacifying manner. 

“It’s ok, if we were trespassing we didn’t mean to, and we’ll go now. If you’ll just let us past…”

He pointed at the rock path, but the man interrupted loudly with another rattle of, to the terrified boys, incomprehensible rage.

“You can’t go that way, you’ll get yourselves hurt! Look, it’s not hard, there’s a sandbar that runs all the way back to the beach straight ahead, it’s barely a foot deep the whole way.” He pointed across the sea towards the beach. Alex and Mark conferred in low voices. 

“He’s driving us into the sea. Obviously we’ve trespassed on some important land and we’ve got to pay.” 

“Maybe it won’t be too bad. At least we’ll be away from him, maybe we can make it. We can both swim.”

“This is India not Bognor! There’ll be currents and sharks! Jellyfish!” 

The man was losing patience. “I’ve got to get on and cut wood, it’s fine, just walk that way!”

They turned in the direction indicated by his jabbing machete. “Ok Mark, let’s do it. We’ll just look out for each other. Maybe a boat will take pity on us. It’s our only choice, he’s clearly about to hack us up.”

“Alright then, here we go.” 

Had they not been British, barely out of their teens and therefore acutely self conscious, the boys might have held hands at this moment. As it was, they squared their shoulders, huddled together, and stepped into the sea. The sand was soft and welcoming, the water came no higher than their shins. They moved determinedly, expecting at any minute the sea bed to fall away, leaving them to be snatched by a current or picked off by monsters of the deep. But it didn’t. Feeling brave and noble they marched on, heads held high. The man on the island called out: 

“Nice to have met you!”

Both boys quickened their pace, and Alex muttered “He’s probably astonished we haven’t drowned yet. Probably furious. Keep going, he might come after us.”

They pressed on, never looking back. In an astonishingly short time, they reached the fishing village and hurried off, back to the safety of their hotel where lunatics weren’t allowed to roam about threatening people with weapons. The man gazed after them bemusedly, then shook his head. “Bloody tourists.” 

He turned, and began to hack his way into the jungle.