After 38 miles with zero wind we left the remote beauty of Cinque Island for the “hustle and bustle” of Neil Island, the second most populated island in the Andaman Islands. We dropped anchor around 4 PM and Dad called port control to let them know our location. About 30 minutes later a police boat side tied with Seachild, asking us if we had permission to land on the island. After we assured the police officer that yes, we still had the same permit that we acquired when we checked in, the officer told us we needed to check in with the police station when we went ashore.

After a sunset cocktail we went ashore and immediately stopped at the police station. For 6 o’clock on a weekday the police station was armed with multiple officers, male and female. Only one spoke enough English to understand what we were asking. They seemed to have no idea what was going on and finally took copies of our paperwork and passports. While the miscommunication between departments and employees is frustrating, the general hospitality is very kind and welcoming. An officer brought chairs for us to sit on while several others hunched over our paperwork behind a clear glass panel.

India is a conservative country and a patriarchal society. While I try to respect other cultures, this can be a hassle when it’s so hot and humid that sweat drips down every crevasse of your body and collects in extremely unflattering pools around your face and clothes. It is much more comfortable to wear shorts and a tank top, yet this is at the expense of being respectful and modest. Even after sunset, wearing a semi-modest dress, I drew unwanted stares and was still incredibly hot. The locals, for the most part, wear long-sleeved collared shirts and intricate saris and never show a drip of sweat.

My impatience began to grow the longer I sat there, sweat dripping down every crevasse, watching these officers fumble over what I saw as simple and straightforward paperwork. We had the right permits, we had copies of our passports, we checked in at the necessary time and had already talked to a police officer – what more could they possibly need? The plus side was the officer carrying an old school rifle strutting up and down the hallway. His uniform fit him perfectly, forming his shape like a navy-toned glove. Every few minutes he would stop in front of a full-length mirror to double check his attire, sticking his hips out in a beautified salute.

We finally left the police station and went to dinner at Moonshine, at the recommendation of the police officers. Thinking it was a close distance, we started walking down the populated Indian street. The dirt-covered road was crowded with open shops, food vendors, and locals. Bright colors and savory smells greeted us at every step. The women flashed like beacons in the darkness, their saris catching brilliance from the overhead street lamps. The food vendors were crowded with groups of men, patiently waiting their turn for a fresh samosa.

Five minutes later we were out of the main square and still looking for the infamous Moonshine. The street lamps were noticeably intermittent, with only the occasional synthetic light to warily draw us forward. Not wanting to walk a long distance in the dark, Mom popped into a small hotel to ask for a tuk tuk. Many buildings in India are painted in bright pastels and this one was no exception. The two-story building was painted bright pink and had a small bar next to it. The receptionist was immaculately dressed in a form-fitting long sleeve shirt and blank pants, showing no signs of sweat or dirt. He luckily spoke very good English and ordered us a tuk tuk. While we waited, the receptionist offered to take us to the adjacent bar to grab a beer.

To state the obvious, bars in India are not like bars in the United States. Back home it is common to find both males and females getting lose and having fun. Before entering this bar on Neil Island, the receptionist turned to Mom and I and warned us that there would only be males in the building. “But don’t worry, they are harmless!” As I mentioned previously, India is a patriarchal society. This became extremely apparent as we followed the receptionist into the bar glowing bright red and reeking of stale liquor. The bar was packed with males, who all turned to stare at us as we walked over to the bartender. I suddenly felt a dozen eyes lingering on every inch of exposed skin. While they didn’t speak to us, their stares conveyed more than words ever could. The countertop was dark and sticky with a red tub displaying the plethora of liquor options. I told Dad I wanted a Kingfisher and immediately left the uncomfortable stares for the uninhabited and brightly lit hotel lobby.

Kingfisher is the national beer of India. Most establishments serve them ice cold, a refreshing contrast to the hot and humid air. The Kingfisher Premium Lager is well over 8%, a fact that would become more apparent as the night went on.

Finally our tuk tuk arrived, so we chugged the rest of our beer, gave a hearty thank you to the receptionist, and hopped into the tiny three-wheeled vehicle. It almost looks like a three-wheeled motorbike covered in a hard top shell with no doors. To start the tuk tuk the driver had to yank a hand-pull lever will all of his might. We were farther from Moonshine than anticipated so the tuk tuk was certainly needed. The drive was 70 ruppies, just over $1.

When we finally got to Moonshine, we were the only customers in the establishment. We befriended the waiter, a Bangladeshi refugee, and continued to drink Kingfisher while waiting over an hour for our lackluster food. An hour of drinking Kingfisher is plenty of time to adjust your perception of reality. Instead of focusing on the humidity and the increasingly ridiculous bureaucracy, you notice that the waiter is watching Bollywood videos with intense enthusiasm. Instead of feeling completely foreign, you engage in thought-provoking conversations with anyone who speaks enough English.

For those of you who are not familiar with Bollywood videos, I highly recommend watching them on youtube. There’s bright colors, youthful dancing, usually a nice car and some type of simple romance. Indians love their Bollywood videos with a passion that is only matched by their love of cricket (a sport that I still don’t understand, yet Mom somehow got the basics down).

After we ordered we were informed that the police had called the restaurant asking for additional information. We would have to stop by the police station again on our way back to the boat. At this point Kingfisher was starting to taste really, really good. So to compensate for the frustrations involved in visiting this country, Kingfisher provided a great alternative to becoming annoyed.

The tuk tuk back was slightly more expensive due to the fact that the driver was at home, in his underwear, when the restaurant called him. This seemed like a justifiable reason, so we didn’t argue the extra 50 cents back to the police station.

At the police station they merely glanced at our paperwork again and sent us on our way. Apparently an additional permit is needed to stay on the island. Since we were staying on a boat, we did not need an additional permit number. In my more-than-tipsy state I couldn’t understand why they didn’t just look at the copies they had taken, instead of asking us to come back to the station. The feistiness was beginning to emerge, so Mom and Dad rushed me out before any damage could be done.

The walk back to the dingy was quiet and dark until several stray dogs began following us. Stray dogs are everywhere in India and they all look the same, some type of hound with long skinny legs and pronounced dark noses. A dog we befriended earlier caught up with us by the pier, her head stuck in a half-gallon water bottle.

While in hindsight this might sound inhumane, at the time we found this image hilarious. After all the jumping through hoops, drinking beer, and immersing ourselves in a different culture, here is a mutt with her head stuck in a clear water bottle. We all doubled over in laughter as Dad had to attempt several times to free the mutt from certain asphyxiation. She must have been stuck like that for at least several hours. When I patted her head she was completely soaked from the condensation of her plastic helmet.

After the remote wilderness of the southern Andaman Islands, that first night in Neil Island was a great crash course into the culture of India. While we only spent four hours on shore that night, the experience was not under appreciated.

Sometimes all you need is an ice-cold premium lager to put things into perspective.