Every so often I look up from what I'm doing, be it cleaning the toilet or writing more hate mail to Henry Kissinger, and I think, "I wonder what they're doing right now, at this very moment, on North Sentinel Island..."
North Sentinel Island is a small land mass (72 square kms) plopped right in the middle of the Bay of Bengal, and the folks that live there, the Sentinelese, are the last remaining untouched indigenous people on earth. Anthropologists have been trying to study the Sentinelise forever, but every time they row within spear-throwing distance of the island - they're speared. Which begs the question: Just what are those savage brutes hiding? Oil? No. Gold? Unlikely. The fountain of youth? Certainly not. Then what, you ask?
Six words: Richey-from-the-Manic-Street-Preachers. The enigmatic rhythm guitarist and lyricist mysteriously disappeared in Febuary 1995, but since then he's been spotted in places as far reaching as Lazarote, Goa, and the islands of Fuerteventura. So, why not North Sentinel?
I can see him now, perched high atop a crude bamboo throne, reading a long-past dog-eared copy of Larkin's The Whitsun Weddings, while bare-breasted Sentinelese women fan him with fronds and minister his every... Bing! Sorry. My 200 words is up.
Ambience: Spooky
Difficulty: Exertion will pay off
Keywords: guitar pop, conspiracy, Travel
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