After a full 14 weeks in the Maldives, it was time for me to leave. We packed one final day wandering Male', doing the essential tourist activities; marvelling at giant tuna in the fish market, sipping kurumba through straws that smelt vaguely of petroleum, and spending far too much money on ornamental shells. A hawker also convinced us into buying some 'Maldivian chocolate'. After much contemplative chewing we decided that this weird concoction was a mixture of cinnamon, sugar, dry rice, and chilli. It wasn't bad, but it looked like a dog chew and definitely was not chocolate.
That night we flew to Colombo, on a plane so ludicrously underbooked that it was actually spooky. The gate for its onward flight to Nanking was equally empty. Presumably China Eastern Airways is state-subsidised, because I can't see how 7 passengers paying 50 quid each is enough to cover the fuel, crew and fees for a 196-seat commercial jetliner. (The empty plane did not stop one poor girl diligently scanning the rows for her assigned seat). It was a good flight, through a stunning lightning storm, and with an easygoing cabin attendant who gave both of us a family-size bottle of Pepsi gratis and looked the other way when we started playing hide and seek.
Entering Sri Lanka is not a pleasant experience. The signs of Civil War are still fresh, and heavily-armed soldiers patrol every inch of the capital city. There are military checkpoints and mounted semi-automatics throughout Colombo, but the airport was a key target of the LTTE Tamil Tigers, and it was breached in 2005, so the neurosis and tension is noticeably higher here. Equally concerning is the unmissable sign at immigration proclaiming: POSSESSION OF ILLEGAL DRUGS CARRIES THE DEATH PENALTY. It's difficult to avoid paranoia seeing this. You start thinking, "what if I picked something up accidentally", "what if my luggage was tampered with?". Obviously you really know it's fine, but that fleeting creeping doubt is scary when the consequences of a mistake or misunderstanding are so horrific.
After spending the night in a little guesthouse near the airport we boarded a 'luxury' bus to shoot the 90 minutes drive into Colombo. It was still battered, packed like a tin of sardines, but there was apparently some A/C, and thus cost 50p instead of 30p. It was a fascinating journey, with the roadside packed full of small businesses, market traders, cows, shacks, and hilarious advertising hoardings. Most of these are the same: a grinning cricket player with a bat nonchalantly slung over one shoulder, holding the product to camera in his other hand. Sri Lankan marketing execs are either the laziest or cleverest in the world. I saw the exact same cricketing pose advertising: a) Milo chocolate milkshake; b) Mobitel internet; c) Coca-Cola; d) Kot-Mee instant noodles; e) some miscellaneous shower gel. Sri Lankan Tourism also get in on the cricketing/advertising panacea with one of the most astounding non-sequiters I have ever seen. "BE BOWLED OVER BY SRI LANKA'S WILDLIFE" demands the roadside billboard, complemented by a quite unremarkable image of an elephant having a nice stand in a field. Not holding a bat, guarding a wicket, or throwing a novelty cricket ball in the air. Just standing there. Sri Lanka Tourism do not get puns.
This was not my roadside hoarding however. Not even close. That honour goes to a rare non-cricketing billboard for Fedex, with some abstract silhouette of humans, lots of Sinhalese writing, and the perfect tagline: "NO TWO PEOPLE ARE THE SAME. WHY SHOULD THEIR FREIGHT SOLUTIONS?"
This is just so laughably ridiculous, clearly blue-skied by some snotty little graduate (me in six months), probably responding to a remit of "repackaging and individualising the customer/servicer interface", whilst ignoring the clear fact that freight solutions are the one sphere that really demand uniformity. It's just a glorified postal system. I felt like yelling at Future-Me: "Because everyone's freight requirements are the same. Get it from A to B. Safely. Efficiently. They don't want a personalised service. They want structure, order, systemisation, the most certain method of concluding their recent freight-based dilemma without further stress or trauma. They are not buying choice cuts of meat for a barbecue."
Marketing execs are clearly the biggest bullshitters in the world. I want to be one.
What a pleasant interlude! The bus dropped us somewhere in the bustling market hub of central Colombo, near Fort Railway Station. Laden with sweat and big backpacks, we were attractive target for tuk-tuk drivers, who clearly sensed a fee commensurate with desperate Westerners. For some reason we started bartering, before realising we had no real destination in mind, so strode with purpose up various back alleys and staircases into a succession of dirty guesthouses. After a few hours we found a room in a particularly disgusting street, where a grubby but habitable double room cost us 1500 rupees (7 quid) per night. The bed sagged to the floor, the toilet seat was left in the shower, and the cistern had to be manually filled with a hosepipe before flushing. I now know the internal mechanism of a toilet by heart. On the sink was an empty foil packet from the hitherto unknown but presumably reputable CUPID♂ brand. Clearly the previous occupant had medical issues. But at least the guesthouse boy swept the floor, and got us new sheets. It was a dive, but fine for a few hours each night.
That afternoon we tramped around Colombo, and jumped in a tuk-tuk to the posh Galle Face Hotel for a stunning view of the sun setting over the Indian Ocean. Even at this exclusive place (waiters in tuxedos) we could procure pints for just 80p, so I enjoyed my first affordable beer in 3 months and reclined into a sofa, Kindle in hand. Posh hotel, cold beer, awesome location. Bliss. And even better when they got the bill wrong. We paid, and cheesed it.
Thursday 12 April 2012
14. A Shark in the Dark
On 28 March my brother arrived in Male'. The original plan had been for him to join me on Ihavandhoo for two weeks, but now that wasn't possible so we decided to split the time between a lazy week swimming in the Maldives and a hectic week travelling in Sri Lanka.
I met Bryn at the airport, slightly fatigued after a 15 hour trip, and then cruelly frogmarched him across Male' to catch a local ferry bound for the island of Maafushi. (A 200 dollar spedboat or 2 dollar ferry - you do the math. s.) This was an inhabited island, so hotel rooms could be procured for about 10% of the resort cost. It meant adhering to Muslim rules (no alcohol, bikinis, or idolatry) but otherwise had all the necessities for a nice relaxing beach holiday. Including some powerful A/C which made me swoon with happiness. Being on Maafushi also gave us access to local people and affordable cafes, so Bryn got to see a glimpse of island culture and traditions, which visitors to resorts tend to be cocooned away from.
The best part of Maafushi was the truly stunning reef. Our beachfront room opened out into the most phenomenal snorkelling I experienced in the Maldives. A vast colony of fragile living coral which was home to fish of every size, shape and colour. It was particularly stunning in the morning, when the tide was out, and sunlight reflecting through shallower waters really framed the diversity and variety of life below. Every day we snorkelled several times, for several hours each go. One evening I even managed to glimpse a big four-foot reef shark, all angular and point, which emerged from the deep waters and passed a few metres in front of me. It was there, and then it was gone. No time to be afraid. But finally I had completed the four things on my snorkelling list: shark, manta, turtle and sting ray. Admittedly I only acknowledged this list after seeing all four, and if I'd seen a whale it would probably have been a list of five, so I'm not sure it counts as an achievement.
After three full days we were exhausted, and my cash reserves were reaching Lehmann Brother levels, so we hopped the ferry back to Male' where accommodation was cheaper, i.e. free. (Thank you Lorne and Kat). We passed a few more days on various other empty beaches, where we saw parrotfish and a stingray and only a limited amount of litter. In a moment of highly-anticipated triumph I finally finished Bill Clinton's epic seven-million page autobiography, started many weeks before on Ihavandhoo. It ranks as one of the worst-written books I've ever read; just a tedious account of every day in office, except for a few months in 1997/8 which he mysteriously skips over very quickly. I've since read Dubya's book, and the difference could not be more stark. Clinton may have nicer politics, and a far superior record in office, but Bush is a much better writer. Or at least he found a much better ghost writer.
I met Bryn at the airport, slightly fatigued after a 15 hour trip, and then cruelly frogmarched him across Male' to catch a local ferry bound for the island of Maafushi. (A 200 dollar spedboat or 2 dollar ferry - you do the math. s.) This was an inhabited island, so hotel rooms could be procured for about 10% of the resort cost. It meant adhering to Muslim rules (no alcohol, bikinis, or idolatry) but otherwise had all the necessities for a nice relaxing beach holiday. Including some powerful A/C which made me swoon with happiness. Being on Maafushi also gave us access to local people and affordable cafes, so Bryn got to see a glimpse of island culture and traditions, which visitors to resorts tend to be cocooned away from.
The best part of Maafushi was the truly stunning reef. Our beachfront room opened out into the most phenomenal snorkelling I experienced in the Maldives. A vast colony of fragile living coral which was home to fish of every size, shape and colour. It was particularly stunning in the morning, when the tide was out, and sunlight reflecting through shallower waters really framed the diversity and variety of life below. Every day we snorkelled several times, for several hours each go. One evening I even managed to glimpse a big four-foot reef shark, all angular and point, which emerged from the deep waters and passed a few metres in front of me. It was there, and then it was gone. No time to be afraid. But finally I had completed the four things on my snorkelling list: shark, manta, turtle and sting ray. Admittedly I only acknowledged this list after seeing all four, and if I'd seen a whale it would probably have been a list of five, so I'm not sure it counts as an achievement.
After three full days we were exhausted, and my cash reserves were reaching Lehmann Brother levels, so we hopped the ferry back to Male' where accommodation was cheaper, i.e. free. (Thank you Lorne and Kat). We passed a few more days on various other empty beaches, where we saw parrotfish and a stingray and only a limited amount of litter. In a moment of highly-anticipated triumph I finally finished Bill Clinton's epic seven-million page autobiography, started many weeks before on Ihavandhoo. It ranks as one of the worst-written books I've ever read; just a tedious account of every day in office, except for a few months in 1997/8 which he mysteriously skips over very quickly. I've since read Dubya's book, and the difference could not be more stark. Clinton may have nicer politics, and a far superior record in office, but Bush is a much better writer. Or at least he found a much better ghost writer.
Saturday 7 April 2012
13. Kurendhoo Excursion (can't think of a pun).
Th holiday ended and returning volunteers slowly trickled back to their home islands; those willing to stick it a little longer, to see how the political situation develops for us, whilst others - like myself - had already taken the decision to leave our contracts. Four were already back enjoying a mini-heatwave in the UK.
To pass the few days until my brother was due to arrive in Maldives I was convinced to join Jon and Joe on their cargo boat back to Kurendhoo, a small island in Lhaviyani Atoll, just north of Male'. It was still an eight hour boat ride, stowed away amongst boxes of oranges destined for some swanky resort. I read Les Miserables by the starboard reading light, and attempted to sleep on a wooden crate. It was one of the more bizarre nights of my life, and also contained the only moment of serious danger in my fourteen weeks, when we narrowly avoided a horrific collison with a speedboat. Around midnight some mental driver decided that, with a full ocean to choose from, he had to cross immediately in front of our path. It may have been nothing more than a game of high-stakes chicken, but probably closer than he intended. He must have been travelling at something like 60km/h, and missed a crash by mere feet. Our captain killed the engine, which probably prevented it. Jon and I were braced for impact, although it would have done no good. At that speed any collision would have been catastrophic, a fireball of flying debris and many casualties. Our fellow passengers slept on, unaware that we nearly became subject of a minor sub-heading in the BBC News Asa sub-topic. It took some minutes for the adrenaline to subside.
Somehow Jon and Joe managed to roll off the boat and into school for Day One of the new term. I opted to sleep for the rest of the morning. That afternoon we enjoyed coffee and fantastic hedukka short-eats at the local MDP cafe, and started preparations for a night-fishing expedition - i.e. us clumsily failing to snag any small bait fish in the harbour, until the Maldivians got so exasperated they took over and promptly landed two dozen. We set out trailing lures for tuna (I got 3), but as it got dark the real fun began, with waited lines and live bait, after barracuda and elusive red snapper. With 8 fish to my name, bettering my previous night-fishing record by 7, it was a highly-successful and enjoyable trip.
On my second day on Kurendhoo we snorkelled along the fantastic island reef shelf, and then turned up for the daily football game, from which I soon retired with a growing blister, exhaustion, and probably some mild heatstroke. I don't know how Maldivians can keep running around in 35 degree heat; I was knackered by the warm-up (shooting practice). But Jon and Joe have acclimatised, and battled through the match whilst I got extremely lost on their island.
That night I returned to Male', after a few great days, and another island ticked off the Maldives list. Eleven down, and just two thousand, one hundred and eighty nine to go. It was the same boat, but this time much emptier, so I could nab one of the highly-prized mattresses in the cabin, and bunk down to sleep most of the way back. In such luxury the journey simply flew by.
To pass the few days until my brother was due to arrive in Maldives I was convinced to join Jon and Joe on their cargo boat back to Kurendhoo, a small island in Lhaviyani Atoll, just north of Male'. It was still an eight hour boat ride, stowed away amongst boxes of oranges destined for some swanky resort. I read Les Miserables by the starboard reading light, and attempted to sleep on a wooden crate. It was one of the more bizarre nights of my life, and also contained the only moment of serious danger in my fourteen weeks, when we narrowly avoided a horrific collison with a speedboat. Around midnight some mental driver decided that, with a full ocean to choose from, he had to cross immediately in front of our path. It may have been nothing more than a game of high-stakes chicken, but probably closer than he intended. He must have been travelling at something like 60km/h, and missed a crash by mere feet. Our captain killed the engine, which probably prevented it. Jon and I were braced for impact, although it would have done no good. At that speed any collision would have been catastrophic, a fireball of flying debris and many casualties. Our fellow passengers slept on, unaware that we nearly became subject of a minor sub-heading in the BBC News Asa sub-topic. It took some minutes for the adrenaline to subside.
Somehow Jon and Joe managed to roll off the boat and into school for Day One of the new term. I opted to sleep for the rest of the morning. That afternoon we enjoyed coffee and fantastic hedukka short-eats at the local MDP cafe, and started preparations for a night-fishing expedition - i.e. us clumsily failing to snag any small bait fish in the harbour, until the Maldivians got so exasperated they took over and promptly landed two dozen. We set out trailing lures for tuna (I got 3), but as it got dark the real fun began, with waited lines and live bait, after barracuda and elusive red snapper. With 8 fish to my name, bettering my previous night-fishing record by 7, it was a highly-successful and enjoyable trip.
On my second day on Kurendhoo we snorkelled along the fantastic island reef shelf, and then turned up for the daily football game, from which I soon retired with a growing blister, exhaustion, and probably some mild heatstroke. I don't know how Maldivians can keep running around in 35 degree heat; I was knackered by the warm-up (shooting practice). But Jon and Joe have acclimatised, and battled through the match whilst I got extremely lost on their island.
That night I returned to Male', after a few great days, and another island ticked off the Maldives list. Eleven down, and just two thousand, one hundred and eighty nine to go. It was the same boat, but this time much emptier, so I could nab one of the highly-prized mattresses in the cabin, and bunk down to sleep most of the way back. In such luxury the journey simply flew by.
Friday 6 April 2012
12. Good Friends in the Komas, I know, I know, it's serious.
Term finished on 15th March, and I spent a few days tying up loose ends, enjoying fishing, snorkeling, and the companionship of Ihavandhoo chums. It was tough to say goodbye – in ten weeks I’d grown fond of the island, its people, and even my classes. Most of them.
One problem was posed by the tough old landlord. Two weeks before he moved into our spare bedroom, and since then Andrew and I had been communicating with him through hand signals and mutual guesswork. His fishing boat had been damaged and was undergoing some extensive repair work in the harbour, so he wanted a place away from the fibreglass dust and heat. Never mind that he was related to half the island and practically owns every house on Ihavandhoo - he was chief and was moving in, although still disappeared to his daughter's place for breakfast. At first we were happy enough for him to stay, but then five of his crew moved in and started sleeping on the floors, and sitting up chatting and smoking late into the night, so we put the metaphorical foot down. It was meant to be our place, and we were now paying the bills for eight people who were keeping us awake when we had to be up at 6am every morning. Not impressive.
I didn't want to tell him of my imminent departure, because I could ill afford to hand over the March rent from my small savings. The wages owed to me by the school would easily cover several months, so he wouldn't be out of pocket - I just couldn't face paying and then not getting the wages. So I had to pack surreptitiously on the last night, and carefully smuggle half the suitcases to Merlin. When I left the next morning, with just two bags, I looked merely overprepared for six days in Male', and not like I was doing a runner. (Technically I wasn't).
In pursuit of an authentic Maldivian experience (and to save money), I eschewed a flight in favour of the ferry - a marathon 18-hour direct journey through glittering atolls and shimmering seas. (Fresh from my class on adjectives y'see). Maybe 200 people were crammed onto the good ship Komas, and this lent the journey a friendly, communal atmosphere. This did not equal comfortable. The boat was small and split into several four-foot decks, so there was only space to sit or lie. Lying on wooden boards for eighteen hours is not fun.
That night we slept on the roof, under a stunning night sky, unspoilt by light pollution. Bloody uncomfortable, but it was quieter and cooler than the cramped lower decks, and I could stand up. Everyone had warned me that it would be bitterly cold, but I was confident that the Maldivian standard of 'bitterly cold' would not overly trouble a British constitution. Wrapped in a thin cotton bedsheet it was fine. Poor Merlin suffered a little more - but no problem; finally I had a use for one of the two jumpers my mum somehow convinced me to take to the Maldives! I think it was a compromise after we negotiated her down from five.
I didn't want to tell him of my imminent departure, because I could ill afford to hand over the March rent from my small savings. The wages owed to me by the school would easily cover several months, so he wouldn't be out of pocket - I just couldn't face paying and then not getting the wages. So I had to pack surreptitiously on the last night, and carefully smuggle half the suitcases to Merlin. When I left the next morning, with just two bags, I looked merely overprepared for six days in Male', and not like I was doing a runner. (Technically I wasn't).
In pursuit of an authentic Maldivian experience (and to save money), I eschewed a flight in favour of the ferry - a marathon 18-hour direct journey through glittering atolls and shimmering seas. (Fresh from my class on adjectives y'see). Maybe 200 people were crammed onto the good ship Komas, and this lent the journey a friendly, communal atmosphere. This did not equal comfortable. The boat was small and split into several four-foot decks, so there was only space to sit or lie. Lying on wooden boards for eighteen hours is not fun.
That night we slept on the roof, under a stunning night sky, unspoilt by light pollution. Bloody uncomfortable, but it was quieter and cooler than the cramped lower decks, and I could stand up. Everyone had warned me that it would be bitterly cold, but I was confident that the Maldivian standard of 'bitterly cold' would not overly trouble a British constitution. Wrapped in a thin cotton bedsheet it was fine. Poor Merlin suffered a little more - but no problem; finally I had a use for one of the two jumpers my mum somehow convinced me to take to the Maldives! I think it was a compromise after we negotiated her down from five.
We arrived in Male' at 7am, so I went for breakfast before scooting to Hulhumale with all my luggage, a big man-made island designed to handle both rising sea levels and the Male' population overspill in coming decades, and now is slowly filling with amenities and tenement blocks - not the most typically Maldivian of places, but a pleasant enough solution to some big problems. HM also had the best restaurant that I found in the Maldives, where a fresh orange juice and breakfast could be savoured for under a pound. My favourite was the kulhimas, a sweet spicy chutney sauce layered on chunks of meaty tuna, and scooped up with roshi. Elsewhere the kulhimas was more of a fish curry. Not so appetising for breakfast.
The next few days passed in a pleasant blur, catching up with all the other volunteers. Everyone seemed to need a break and change of scenery. All those castaway in distant atolls had bolted for the comforts and amenities of Male', whilst the people based in Male' were backpacking in Sri Lanka. Strange how even the picturesque paradise islands of the Maldives become somewhere to escape from after ten weeks.
Male' city was still rocking with political protests and marches. Two days after arriving there was a big demonstration which was met with tear gas and rubber bullets. Dozens were arrested or hospitalised, and some buildings were set on fire. Yet the next day all as back to normality, or normality as it pertains to Male' - the standard chaotic throng of mopeds, taxis, vans, and people, all weaving through each other at any and every opportunity. One night we got tickets for an Asian Champions League qualifying game. A veritable Clash of the Titans between top Maldives team Addu Victory, and the aces of Kuwait City FC. It was a decent game, ending 2-2 (as if you need to be told), although the preponderance of female volunteers meant most of the game was spent admiring the legs and hair of Addu's number 19. (I wish I was joking).
The next few days passed in a pleasant blur, catching up with all the other volunteers. Everyone seemed to need a break and change of scenery. All those castaway in distant atolls had bolted for the comforts and amenities of Male', whilst the people based in Male' were backpacking in Sri Lanka. Strange how even the picturesque paradise islands of the Maldives become somewhere to escape from after ten weeks.
Male' city was still rocking with political protests and marches. Two days after arriving there was a big demonstration which was met with tear gas and rubber bullets. Dozens were arrested or hospitalised, and some buildings were set on fire. Yet the next day all as back to normality, or normality as it pertains to Male' - the standard chaotic throng of mopeds, taxis, vans, and people, all weaving through each other at any and every opportunity. One night we got tickets for an Asian Champions League qualifying game. A veritable Clash of the Titans between top Maldives team Addu Victory, and the aces of Kuwait City FC. It was a decent game, ending 2-2 (as if you need to be told), although the preponderance of female volunteers meant most of the game was spent admiring the legs and hair of Addu's number 19. (I wish I was joking).
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