15. "Do a Colombo. Do a Colombo"

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.

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.

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.

12. Good Friends in the Komas, I know, I know, it's serious.

Term finished on 15^th 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.

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).

11. Frugality Is My Watchword

With my mind made up to leave, the last few weeks of term have drifted by rather quickly. February became March, and nobody noticed. The students were busy revising for their midterm tests, so lessons became quite repetitive recaps, where I bored myself rigid with explaining how a question tag works. It’s like this, isn’t it? She can’t go there, can she? We should write the answer, shouldn’t we? It was only worth 2 marks out of 40, and they still got it wrong.

My head was elsewhere, filled with overambitious and expensive travel plans, and I spent hours staring forlornly at Google Maps and Skyscanner, willing the perfect route to somehow present itself. Meanwhile, my extravagant £6 per-day living was cut down to take account of the expensive months ahead, and I dabbled in c.1944 Home Front levels of frugality, aiming to get by on less than 50 Rufiyaa (£2.10) per day, and saving the rest. I would claim that it was like a return to student days, but as Mai, Kieran and Joe will attest, I was not the most frugal of students. Although in my defence, what I spent on cheeseboards I made up for in bags of bargain potatoes.

However, when pushed, I’m discovered that I’m extremely good at living the old frugal lifestyle. It was actually quite easy (maybe Edwina Currie is talking about the Maldives?), although admittedly my diet became even more repetitive than I otherwise thought possible. For 20 Rufiyaa (80p) at the local cafe I got a pile of spicy tuna and vegetable rice with ubiquitous fried egg, popadoms, a chicken sausage, and a glass of intriguingly fluorescent ‘orange juice’. Sometimes there was even a slice of cucumber on the side - for the necessary vitamins and minerals. This was by far the most cost-effective and filling fare on offer, and I ate it most nights for three weeks, although I did try alternatives. A low point was reached when I started fishing for little minnows in the harbour, and frying them up with potatoes and onion – very underwhelming – especially when the victims still looked like goldfish. On another occasion I attempted to break the monotony by making cheesy pasta (with canned cheese from Bahrain) but it nearly made me vomit, so I returned to the café. I stopped buying Coca-Cola, sweets, coffee, snacks, phone top-ups, internet credit, or washing powder. When an invite came to someone’s house, I took it and didn’t eat for the day, so I could fill up on the banquet that was invariably prepared. (They really did load the tables when Mr Liam was coming to dinner. There would be about two dozen options – each bowl loaded with enough food to make a meal in itself).

Altogether I’ve managed to squirrel away 10,000 Rufiyaa. This equates to about £400, which I’m hoping is more than enough to see me through two more weeks in Male’ and then ten days exploring Sri Lanka. Seven weeks in SE Asia, however, will be financed purely through the power of overdraft...

10. Going Lanka.

Considering I started getting drawn back into the political situation in my last post, I figured it would be a good idea to separate this out, and amongst the general hilarity briefly mention that a few weeks ago I decided to revoke my volunteer contract with the Ministry of Education following the midterm break. This means I’ll be leaving the Maldives in April, and returning to the UK on 12 June, after a few months maxxing out my location with some spontaneous travelling in South Asia.

I was starting to get real concerns about continuing to volunteer in the current political situation and this ultimately discouraged me from continuing. If you want to read about the sequence of events, stuff is available everywhere. Try the Guardian, Minivan News, and Haveeru. It’s both an interesting and seriously worrying situation, and there’s lots of lessons for the future, especially with regards the Arab Spring states!

Anyway, we had four main link bodies in the IVP programme, and all four were either disbanded or their involvement with us was terminated. The Friends of Maldives – who were supporting and funding us from the UK – were unable to continue their role after 7 February, and their founder and chairman was denounced all over state-run television. The next day there were some properly awkward questions in the staffroom over IVP links to the FOM. The UK High Commissioner and her deputy (the new President’s brother) also resigned in protest and advised us to leave. The Maldives Volunteer Corps was forcefully disbanded after the army and police sacked their offices early one morning. And finally our ‘volunteer’ contracts with the Ministry of Education were transferred to the Ministry of Youth and Human Resources without us being consulted. This may have been because the YHR was considered more institutionally aligned to the new regime than the MOE, which is apparently quite dominated by MDP supporters.

So it’s been a weird reversal in the info and support we’ve been getting. Supporters of the new government, who formerly denounced us as missionaries and imperialists, are now desperate for us to stay – because it shows continuity, and that nothing has fundamentally changed in the Maldives except for the President. Meanwhile, many of the people who put us here have since asked us to leave, to ignore the non-political clause in our contracts, and speak out. They want to show Maldivians the real and significant impact on the ground of the events they describe as a coup, and twenty-four British teachers leaving simultaneously would actually make news. This country has the population of Leicester – it doesn’t take too much to make the headlines. I don’t like being played by either party to be honest, but decided to jump the frying pan.

My resignation was effective from the mid-term break – so I’m happy that I held out and completed at least a one-quarter chunk of the planned year contract – and I would consider going back if elections were held and the volunteer programme reinstated, but I’m not optimistic. So in the meantime, I’m going to Sri Lanka, Thailand, Cambodia, Laos etc., for a spontaneous few months of travelling on the borrowed dollar, plunging my overdraft into new shades of red. India was always number one on my list, but who knew that sleeper trains are so oversubscribed with bookings two months in advance? Every train from Mumbai to Delhi had literally 200+ on the waiting list. That will be another year… and for now also means I can keep my blog address!

9. Alidhoo-dhoo-dhoo, push pineapple shake the tree...

Well… it’s been a while. Too long if I’m honest. Over six weeks since the last update, and I’m not entirely sure that I remember what’s happened in the interim. So you may have to settle for a long, confusing and incomplete summary split into several incoherent chapters – the sign of a master story-teller at work.

But I’ll get at least some chronological balance, because one of the proper highlights happened way way back in late February, and is pretty much unforgettable. After seven weeks ensconced on my own little acre of Indian Ocean real estate, and with unmistakeable signs of islands fever setting in, I was able to jump ship and experience beautiful Dhidhdhoo, lured by the glowing recommendation of the Chris Collective. (Plus there was an unconfirmed rumour that a nearby exclusive resort offered a decent rate to previous cohorts of volunteer teachers). I chartered my own bathtub and driver for a quite monstrous 1000 Rufiyaa (£40) and set out across the Ihavandholippu Channel. It was a choppy twenty kilometre journey through tuna-infested waters, and took nearly two hours, but the time, money, danger and soggy clothes were rendered worthwhile when I stepped onto the hallowed Dhidhdhoo jetty, where Chris and Chris were waiting for me.

That afternoon we sang, danced, got merry on Coca Cola, and generally enjoyed our youth by going fishing. It was not the most successful of expeditions.  I first screwed up by letting go of the reel when Chris H threw the baited line in. Cue some spontaneous swimming to recover this vital equipment - it was more of an embarrassed clamber than triumphant return to the pier, and left me sodden for the rest of the afternoon. But even holding the reel didn’t improve the fishing; our expertise only stretched to snag every single discarded garment that was quietly rotting under the pier. Some shirts, dresses, a headscarve, blanket, and pair of trousers later, and we were ready to set up a fashion house, Liam Vuitton, specialising in reclaimed wet and rotting Maldivian junk.

The next day we were up bright and early for a speedboat connection to Alidhoo Resort, which zipped across to the service jetty in five minutes. Apparently they were not expecting us. The deal supposedly arranged between Dhidhdhoo’s fixer and Alidhoo’s management via some mutual friend in Male’ did not seem to have materialised, so after tentatively explaining why we were there to the lackey on reception, we quietly slunk off to the poolside bar, hoping to grab a few drinks before the management kicked us off the island. An hour later, with a cool $8 glass of Fosters in one hand, and a pool cue in the other, the manager arrived in a golf buggy. If a golf buggy can look ominous, this looked ominous. I heard the Imperial March tune from Star Wars playing in my head, and prepared for the worst… But no summary exit for us; the manager had a quick chat with Chris H, mentioned a discount on beer, free buffet meals, and some casual reference to a ‘day-room’, which he said was being arranged by reception. After being given the keys to Room 101 (again – ominous), we later discovered this ‘day-room’ was actually free stay in a $400-a-night suite, complete with kingsize-bed, Jacuzzi, outside bathroom, beachfront verandah, and a cool bowl of fresh water with hollow-coconut-on-stick-implement for washing sand off your feet. It was like blagging the jackpot!

So for the next 36 hours we swam in the infinity pool, sunbathed, read, showered (communally) in hot water (Chris C enjoyed that too much), stuffed ourselves with gorgeous buffet food, got tipsy on $2 beers, and watched hilariously inept Chinese tourists learn to snorkel in the swimming pool. One girl held on to the ladder for an hour, face down in the water staring at her feet. It would not have been so funny if she weren’t wearing a life-jacket, brand-new wetsuit, and if the pool was deeper than one metre. With such hilarious anecdotes, what wasn't to love about our new home...

It was a shame to leave Alidhoo, but the long weekend was ending and reality was calling. So we returned to Dhidhdhoo with heavy hearts but also heavy wallets, not quite believing what had happened, nor what to do next. Somehow, the earlier failed fishing expedition did not deter a return to our Waterloo. Three hours later we had learnt two more important life lessons: that crabs are mainly constituted from smelly yellow gunk, and that fish do not like eating this.

The next morning I got back to Ihavandhoo to find the island agog with excitement. Former President Nasheed, ousted in the event of 07 February, was conducting a whirlwind tour of the northern atolls - where he remains extremely popular and his Maldivian Democratic Party (MDP) have a clear majority of support. He was stopping in Ihavandhoo that afternoon. Yellow banners and flags were flying across the island, and little paper Maldivian flags were being handed out to everyone. I took my camera down to the rally, and pretended to be an intrepid photojournalist. Scratch that. I am an intrepid photojournalist. Was very tempted to line up for a third handshake with the Island President, but didn’t fancy seeing myself on national television again. A photo of us volunteers meeting Nasheed back in January was being circulated on the new regime’s television station as evidence of the links between Nasheed and the Friends of Maldives (FOM) NGO - the new regime claimed this partnership was attempting to subvert the traditions, culture and religion of the Maldives. So we were already being used as political pawns, which was extremely frustrating! Anyway, I got some snaps, and being mistaken for someone important by the welcoming committee, was handed a lovely kurumba (coconut) with a straw. The life of a photojournalist….

I’m going to write my next blog post immediately. It needs a new heading, because it deals with some totally different stuff.