In 2019, I stood at the Jirkatang check post in the Andaman Islands, waiting for a convoy to move. The air was thick with the specific humidity of the tropics—a smell of salt, wet earth, and diesel.
Waiting for the convoy at Jirkatang.
I was there for the same reason everyone else was: to see the limestone caves of Baratang, a natural wonder hidden deep within the archipelago. But to get there, we had to do something that felt increasingly wrong the longer I thought about it.
We had to drive the Andaman Trunk Road (ATR).
The rules at the check post were strict, barked out by officials who were doing their best to manage an impossible situation:
- • Speed limit 40 kmph.
- • Travel only in convoys.
- • No stopping.
- • No rolling down windows.
- • Absolutely no interaction with the Jarawa tribe.
The intent behind these rules is protective. The government is trying to shield the indigenous Jarawa people from disease, exploitation, and the cultural erosion that comes with contact. But as I sat in that car, sandwiched between a truck and a tourist bus, a feeling of shame crept in.
We were essentially driving a highway through someone’s living room and then congratulating ourselves for driving slowly.
The paradox was visible. We build infrastructure that cuts through a delicate, closed ecosystem, and then we police the inevitable friction with rigid rules. We are the intruders, peeking out from behind glass, while strict policies try to sanitize the fact that we are encroaching on their territory.
This trip to the Andamans—now officially Sri Vijaya Puram—was a lesson in the complexity of sustainable tourism. It is a place where unparalleled beauty meets the hard reality of human expansion.
The Pandemic Test: When Isolation Became Survival
Since my visit in 2019, the world has changed. The COVID-19 pandemic forced us all into isolation, but for the tribes of the Andamans, isolation is a survival strategy that has lasted thousands of years.
I often wondered how they fared when the rest of the world shut down. The answer is a testament to the wisdom of "leaving things alone."
During the pandemic, the administration moved the Jarawa tribe to the west coast of their reserve to strictly avoid any contact with the ATR or outsiders [1]. They were effectively quarantined from the "civilized" world that was crumbling under the virus.
However, the virus did breach the perimeter. In August 2020, members of the Great Andamanese tribe—a group that has been more integrated into mainstream settlements—tested positive for COVID-19. Eleven members of this dwindling tribe (which numbers only around 50 people) were infected. Fortunately, they all recovered, but it was a terrifying close call that highlighted the fragility of these groups [2].
The Sentinelese, famous for their extreme hostility to outsiders and total isolation on North Sentinel Island, remained entirely untouched. Their aggressive defense of their borders—often viewed as "savage" by modern standards—likely saved them from a pathogen that could have wiped them out.
The lesson here is stark. We often view connectivity as progress and isolation as backwardness. The pandemic proved that sometimes, disconnection is the ultimate resilience.
The New Threat: The Making of a "Linguicide"
While the Jarawa face the threat of a road, a new and perhaps larger threat is looming to the south in Great Nicobar.
A recent article in Frontline described the proposed development in the Great Nicobar region as "linguicide" [3]. The government plans a massive transshipment port, an airport, and a power plant in the biosphere reserve.
"The argument is that such projects do not just displace people; they erase the environment that sustains their language and culture. If you remove a tribe from the forest that contains the roots, animals, and seasons their language describes, the language itself dies."
We see this same pattern in leadership and business design. We build "roads" that cut through delicate team cultures or customer trust. We launch intrusive processes or aggressive metrics. Then, when the culture starts to break, we introduce "convoys." We add compliance training. We add strict oversight. We try to manage the damage with policy, rather than questioning the design of the road itself.
The Guide: How to Visit (And Why You Should)
Despite the heavy context, I cannot deny that the Andamans are one of the most beautiful places on Earth. If you visit, you must do so with a sense of responsibility. You are a guest in a fragile home.
Here are the places that make the journey worth it, based on my 2019 itinerary:
1. Havelock Island (Swaraj Dweep)
This is the crown jewel of Andaman tourism.
- Radhanagar Beach: Often voted the best beach in Asia. The sand is white powder, the water is a startling turquoise, and the sunset here is a spiritual experience. Unlike many popular beaches in India, there are no shacks on the sand—just trees and ocean.
- Elephant Beach: Accessible by a boat ride or a trek through the forest. The coral reefs here used to be vibrant, though bleaching has affected them. It is still a prime spot for snorkeling.
2. Neil Island (Shaheed Dweep)
If Havelock is the busy hub, Neil is the quiet village. It is smaller, slower, and arguably more charming.
- Laxmanpur Beach: Famous for its natural rock bridge (the "Howrah Bridge") and tide pools where you can see sea cucumbers and colorful fish at low tide.
- Bharatpur Beach: The water here is so shallow and clear that you can walk out for hundreds of meters.
3. Port Blair (Sri Vijaya Puram)
The entry point and the historical heart.
- Cellular Jail: This is a must-visit for every Indian. Walking the corridors where freedom fighters were exiled is a somber, grounding experience. The Light and Sound show in the evening brings the history to life.
- Ross Island (Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Dweep): This was the British administrative headquarters. Today, it is a ghost town reclaimed by nature. Roots of massive Ficus trees strangle old colonial bakeries and churches. It is a poetic reminder that nature always wins in the end.
Check out this walkthrough of the ruins at Ross Island:
4. Baratang
This is the controversial leg of the trip involving the ATR.
- Limestone Caves: Once you cross the tribal reserve and take a ferry, you take a smaller speedboat through thick mangrove creeks. The caves themselves are fascinating geological formations—stalactites and stalagmites formed over eons.
- Mud Volcanoes: Small, bubbling mounds of mud created by natural gas emitting from underground decay.
The Responsible Traveler’s Manifesto
The Andamans are not just a beach destination; they are an ecological test case.
The Jarawa do not need us to drive 40 kmph. They likely need us to not be there at all. But since the road exists, our duty is to be the most invisible tourists possible.
- Don't try to spot the tribes. If you are on the ATR, keep your eyes on the road or the jungle, but do not treat humans like safari attractions.
- Carry your trash back. The islands struggle with waste management. If you bring a plastic bottle in, take it out.
- Respect the silence. These islands are quiet. Don't bring your city noise with you.
Visit the Andamans for the beaches and the peace—they are worth it. But when you travel that road, remember that sometimes the best way to protect a value isn't a better rule. It is the discipline to not build the road in the first place.
[1] ThePrint, "Officials monitoring Jarawa and Sentinelese test positive for Covid," 2020.
[2] Mongabay-India, "Closer watch on vulnerable tribal groups in Andamans," 2020.
[3] Frontline, The Hindu, "The making of a linguicide in Great Nicobar," 2025.
#ReadyThoughts #Culture #Leadership #Sustainability #Andaman
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