Islam Under The Sun

Male is not Venice and an atoll is no lagoon, but you might be forgiven for some momentary confusion while the prettily coloured dhoni carries you across the waters from the airport to the town.

The dream is swiftly shattered. Male is a dusty, largely modern town in an Islamic state. You may feel like slaking your thirst with cold beer, but you cannot: the island is dry. It means cola or pineapple juice and probably an early night.You will be condemned to a night in Male if your flight to the Maldives arrives after dark, as night helicopter journeys are not permitted.

 

The islanders do good business with their stop-over-hotels and a clutch of souvenir shops selling goods chiefly imported from India and elsewhere . If you are lucky you may get a helicopter or a boat first thing in the morning.

People go to the Maldives to use the resorts which have been installed on the uninhabited islands. There are holiday camps to suit every pocket and every nationality. My flight back to Colombo was like the Tower of Babel: there was even a party of Russians returning lobster-red from a fortnight in the sun.

More and more hotels are being granted licences and Maldivians are getting rich on tourism. Meanwhile the government insists it will keep the two cultures apart: the narcissistic western sun-seekers, determined to rid themselves of their clothes at the slightest provocation, and the prudish, Muslim fishing communities in the distant atolls. Few feel that they will succeed.

I flew to Sonevafushi resort on Kunfunadhoo Island in the Baa Atoll, 40 minutes north west of Male. It is worth getting a window seat on the helicopter: the atolls are extraordinary from the air.

They are lagoon enclosing coral rings which occasionally break through the surface of the water to become a patch of sand or a clump of coconut palms.The largest I saw could not have been more than two miles in circumference. Until the arrival of the resorts, fresh water determined which of the islands was inhabitable or not.

The administrative centre of Baa Atoll is Eydhafushi where I had an interview with the local political chief. Two Maldivians from the resort came along to interpret. One of them had been abroad to study (there is no university in Maldives) and both came from Seenu Atoll across the Equator, where the British used to have their big airbase at Gan. Contact with the west had wrought a wholly different sort of Maldivian to the simple fishermen from the north.

The chief was fairly bland. He explained that Sonevafushi was increasing its size by a third and that another four resorts were soon to take up residence on uninhibited islands in the Atoll. That meant more jobs, and sales of handicraft and fish. On the other hand, he expressed concern for the way westerners dressed and thought they had a detrimental effect on morality.

We walked through the scorching streets of Eydhafushi. There were no cars, just mats covered with fish to dry in the sun.The old way of building, coral stone bricks surmounted with palm thatch, was making way for breeze-blocks and corrugated iron. There was a new mosque, a medical centre, a school teaching up to the equivalent of A-level and a big radio transmitter: the first fruits of western money.

The next day the dhoni took me in the other direction, to the fishing community on Mahlos. Unlike Eydhafushi, it was enchanting. There was no jetty, and to reach the shore we had to jump into the shallow water between the prow of the dhoni and the beach. On the sand were wide-eyed children who had gathered to see the still rare apparition of the white man.

Apart from a little shop selling more imported bangles, Mahlos is unscathed. The people are curious and trusting.We went into their homes and looked at their medieval kitchens and sampled what they were preparing for the long nightly blow-outs of Ramadan.

They kill the occasional hen these days, but otherwise their diet cannot have changed much in the last two millennia: fish, coconuts, breadfruit, snake gourd and curry leaves, enlivened with imported fruit and spices.

The villagers, led by a canny local schoolmaster, accompanied us on our walk and took us to see the islands pride and joy: a 14-pronged coconut palm growing in a disused cemetery. Then what seemed like the entire population of Mahlos escorted us back to our dhoni.

The following evening the men of Mahlos returned our visit. They sang and later danced to the accompaniment of a drum. I wanted to know what they were singing about, but they could only tell me that it was a Berber song. It had to come a long way from Morocco.

In 10 years this endearing simplicity will be gone. They will have learned western ways from the tourists. For the Sonevafushi resort it is probably good news. They will have company and holiday-makers will be able to vary their diet by hopping to the other island camps.

I could not help feeling a slight sadness, however, that this was coming to an end, but maybe it does not matter it is not Venice after all.