I want to do bigger things in life
On Havelock Island in the Andaman archipelago, two indigenous communities — the Karen and the Ranchi — are rewriting what it means to belong to the sea. For generations, their oceanic knowledge was a tool of survival; through Gypsy Divers, founded in 2016, it has become a credential, a career, and a form of custodianship. More than a thousand young people have crossed the threshold from subsistence fishing to professional diving, and in doing so, they are not abandoning their inheritance — they are finally being paid for it.
- Families who once depended on the unpredictable rhythms of seasonal fishing now hold year-round incomes, and the difference shows in concrete walls where leaf huts once stood.
- Women who entered the dive school as domestic workers are leaving as administrators and instructors, quietly dismantling a profession that had long excluded them.
- The urgency is generational: parents and grandparents visit the school to witness certifications they could not have dreamed of, while children are being enrolled in schools their families could not previously afford.
- Gypsy Divers is embedding marine conservation into every course, betting that divers who love the reef will fight to protect it — turning economic transformation into ecological stewardship.
- The model is already spreading: community members who trained a decade ago are now inspiring younger siblings and neighbors, creating a self-sustaining cycle of professional entry into the diving industry.
The Karen and Ranchi peoples of the Andaman Islands have always known the ocean intimately — fathers passing to sons the ability to read currents, spot marine life, and free dive with ease. For generations, that knowledge sustained life but could not build it. On Havelock Island, that calculus is changing.
In 2016, Poonam Darne — one of India's earliest female scuba instructors — and her husband Santosh, a former theatre actor, founded Gypsy Divers on Beach No. 2. Where others might have seen untrained youth, they recognized something rarer: a foundation already laid. What the Karen and Ranchi boys lacked was not skill but certification — the formal architecture that converts inherited knowledge into professional standing. Working with translators and mentors, the school began bridging that gap.
The first cohort was roughly ten Karen boys. They became divemasters, found employment, and drew others in their wake. A decade later, over a thousand divers from both communities have been trained, with hundreds now working across the Andaman islands as instructors, marine guides, and boat captains. Saw Tooaye, 25, joined as ground staff eight years ago and is now a boat captain — and this off-season, he is building a concrete home where a leaf hut once stood. Saw Toole, 35, a seventeen-year veteran of the school, speaks of the ripple his own journey has sent through his community: neighbors and younger relatives following the same path because they watched him walk it first.
The transformation has reached women too. Ashrita Kissipota began at Gypsy Divers doing domestic work and taught herself administration, computers, and operations — she now manages key functions of the school. Across the islands, more women from Karen and Ranchi communities are entering a field that was once almost entirely male.
For Poonam and Santosh, the dive certification is only the entry point. Marine biologists run workshops on coral ecology and conservation, and the school's deeper ambition is to produce not just divers but ocean stewards. "If people learn to love the sea," Poonam says, "they naturally develop a relationship with it and want to protect it." Each morning, as dive boats push off from shore, they carry something beyond tourists — they carry the proof that in the Andamans, the sea can be both a birthright and a future.
The ocean has always been the Karen and Ranchi peoples' first language. Fathers taught sons to read weather in clouds, to sense the pull of currents beneath the surface, to spot a turtle or reef fish where outsiders saw only blue. For generations, this knowledge—intimate, inherited, precise—remained what it had always been: a way to survive, not a way to build. That has changed on Havelock Island, where descendants of fishermen are becoming diving instructors, turning an ancestral relationship with the sea into something their grandparents could not have imagined: a profession that pays year-round, that builds concrete homes, that sends children to school.
The transformation began with Poonam Darne and her husband D Santosh, who founded Gypsy Divers in 2016. Poonam, now 50, is among India's earliest female scuba divers and instructors. Santosh came to the islands by a different route—a theatre actor who had worked with Amitabh Bachchan and Mithun Chakraborty, he brought an unconventional vision to a PADI-affiliated dive school on Beach No. 2. What they saw in the young men from the Karen and Ranchi communities was not raw material to be shaped, but a foundation already laid. These young men could read currents, spot marine life with ease, free dive for long stretches without equipment. The practical skills were there. What was missing was theory, language, certification—the bureaucratic architecture that transforms knowledge into credential.
Working with translators and mentors, Gypsy Divers began training local youth as professional divers. The first batch was around ten Karen boys. They became divemasters, found jobs, and inspired others to follow. In the decade since, the school has trained more than a thousand divers from the Karen and Ranchi communities, along with schoolchildren, recreational enthusiasts, and Army personnel pursuing rescue certifications. Hundreds now work across the Andaman diving industry as instructors, marine guides, and boat captains. Families that once relied solely on fishing now have stable income across all seasons. Children are receiving better education. Wives and parents visit the dive school to witness milestones that would have been unimaginable a generation ago.
The shift has opened doors for women too. Ashrita Kissipota, 33, a Ranchi woman, began at Gypsy Divers as domestic help. She gradually learned administrative work, paperwork, computer operations. Today she manages key aspects of the school's operations. Across the islands, more women from Karen and Ranchi communities are entering a profession that was once almost entirely male. The economic transformation is visible in concrete—literally. Saw Tooaye, 25, from Mayabunder, joined Gypsy Divers eight years ago as ground staff. He is now a boat captain, ferrying divers to dive sites, overseeing water operations, often starting at 5 am and finishing by 2 pm when conditions are calmest. This year, during the off-season between June and September, he is building a concrete home for his family. He once lived in a hut made from leaves. When he speaks about his work, his eyes light up. "I want to do bigger things in life," he says.
Saw Toole, 35, has been with Gypsy Divers for seventeen years and now works as a dive master, teaching safe diving practices and assisting with PADI-certified courses. When guests leave, they shake his hand and promise to return. His journey has rippled outward. "Seeing me, many people in my community have become interested in diving, becoming dive masters and earning a livelihood for themselves," he says. He wants the younger generation—his own children, others in his community—to follow the same path. For Poonam and Santosh, diving is only the surface of the mission. Marine biologists conduct workshops on coral reefs, conservation, and ocean ecology for students and local staff. The goal is not merely to create divers but ocean custodians. "If people learn to love the sea, they naturally develop a relationship with it and want to protect it," Poonam says. As dive boats leave the shore each morning, they carry more than tourists into the blue. They carry the hopes of a generation proving that in the Andamans, the sea can be both inheritance and opportunity.
Citas Notables
The practical skills came naturally to them. What was difficult was the theory, the language and the certification process.— Poonam Darne, founder of Gypsy Divers, on training Karen and Ranchi youth
If people learn to love the sea, they naturally develop a relationship with it and want to protect it.— Poonam Darne, on embedding conservation education in diving training
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What made the Karen and Ranchi communities so naturally suited to diving work when it finally became available?
They already knew the ocean intimately—not as tourists or outsiders, but as people who had lived alongside it for generations. They could read currents, hold their breath for long periods, spot marine life instantly. The practical skills were already there. The missing piece was the formal training, the language, the certification that turns knowledge into a profession.
Why did it take until 2016 for someone like Poonam Darne to see this potential?
Because the ocean, for these communities, had always been a survival tool, not a commodity. It took someone from outside—someone with diving credentials and a different vision—to recognize that their inherited knowledge could be formalized and monetized without losing its value. That's not obvious. It required imagination.
The story emphasizes concrete homes. Why is that detail so important?
Because it marks the difference between subsistence and stability. A leaf hut is temporary, vulnerable, seasonal. A concrete home is permanent. It means your children can plan for a future. It means you're not just surviving the year—you're building something that lasts.
Are there risks in this transformation? Could diving tourism damage the very ocean these communities depend on?
That's the tension the story doesn't fully explore. The school is embedding conservation education into training, trying to create ocean custodians, not just divers. But tourism always carries risk. The hope seems to be that if people love the sea, they'll protect it. That's faith, not guarantee.
What does Saw Tooaye's ambition—"I want to do bigger things in life"—really mean?
It means he's no longer thinking in terms of survival. He's thinking in terms of growth, possibility, legacy. A generation ago, bigger things weren't even imaginable. Now they are. That shift in what feels possible—that's the real transformation.