Generosity in Thulhaadhoo

Haven't posted in a while as I've been traveling through the north for the past two and half weeks and internet has been difficult to come by. I've been staying with two British biology teachers, Alison Warnock and Sarah Groves, who are lovely!!! on the island of Kulhudhuffushi. It's been nice to spend some time with them and hear about their experiences teaching here with Friends of Maldives for the last 6 months. In Kulhudhuffushi I met some wonderful people. I watched a family prepare Kulhudhuffushi's famous halifoli, thin rice pancakes, I went overnight tuna fishing with a group of elderly fishermen, watched a few 6 a.m. soccer matches, and one day we went with Sarah's class to a local island for a picnic, which was so wonderful, however sunburned we emerged. On one of my last days I had the chance to do some interviews with some of Sarah's students, and together they asked questions of each other and gave opinions on climate change, their hopes for the future, and their dreams.

I also had the chance to go to Utheem, one of the most historical islands in Maldives, for the end of Ramazan celebration, Eid, an incredible experience about which I will post shortly. Tomorrow I head south to Fuvumulah for a week, an island that's its own atoll, rich with history and stories. Then back to Male' for a few days before I leave, can't believe how time has flown. My time is running out! Here's my post on Thulhaadhoo, pictures to come soon:

By in large the streets of Male’ are free from tourists. In fact, often I will go several days without seeing another westerner. When I do, there’s often a clumsy hello-how-are-you dance that ensues. But in one corner of Male’, just round the bend from the Monetary Union, on a tiny block of Chanheedhee Magu, they – western tourists that is – seem to have found their haven. Donning sleeveless shirts, shorts, sunburns, skirts, they wander about listlessly, large cameras swinging round their necks. With whoops and slaps, they are shepherded by a group of shrewd Maldivian men into a row of shops, where they unload their coffers, buying shells, pearls, shark teeth, wooden boxes marked Made in Maldives. But the sad reality is that the majority of these trinkets are made elsewhere, manufactured cheaply on the fly in Indonesia, Sri Lanka, or India.

I first heard about Thulhaadhoo back in July, wedged in a leafy corner of the Symphony Garden café. I was sitting with Adam Manik, the economic philosopher and owner of the traditional arts center, Heritage, in Male’. As I remember, we were chatting about changes in livelihoods and the loss of traditional way of life among islanders. I asked if it was possible to witness such life before all was lost to the tides of change, and Adam paused for a minute, tracing the contours of his French moustache, before arriving at his answer: “Thulhaadhoo, Baa atoll. Where the last rays of ancient sunlight still exist.”

He gave me the number of one Abdu Rahman, a traditional lacquer works artisan – one of a dying breed, he explained. I was sold. Several weeks later, I boarded a tiny speedboat in Goidhoo and headed full tilt northwards, chased by billowing purple rain clouds.

Thulhaadhoo is a tiny island, with a population of just over 3950 people. While it is famous for fishing, it is perhaps best known for its production of beautiful lacquer wooden vases and boxes, a tradition that has been sustained on this tiny patch of land for hundreds of years. Sultans and presidents have long commissioned its artisans to craft pieces for the palace or for royal visitors.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe I only stayed in Thulhaadhoo for 48 hours. Arriving at the dock that afternoon, I was whisked away by a large receiving party: Waheed, the young island chief and Abdu Rahman’s brother, their brother Ibrahim, and friends Easa and Shihan, and a few others. They helped me carry my things across the island, weaving adeptly through the narrow sandy streets to a large compound on the western shore.

There I was greeted by Husna, my host. I can only describe Husna as angular. A striking, tall woman, she has high cheekbones and defined collarbones to match. She was always smiling, and her daughters Zahee and Zaura, like their mother, were charming hosts. By the time I reached Thulhaadhoo, I had mastered very basic Dhivehi verbs and phrases, but nevertheless communication was difficult. Husna and I got along famously through a series of rapid nods and digging gestures.

After dropping my things Waheed and crew led me to the eastern shore, where I watched the unloading of the day’s tuna catch. Bronzed men zigzagged in and out of the waves, a dozen fish in either fist, slowly emptying a row boat piled high with gleaming yellow fin.

As the light faded, I went with Waheed to break the fast in his home. In all of the islands I’ve been observing Ramazan, foregoing water and food from dawn until sunset, 6:20 p.m. You can imagine my hunger that day. A busy morning in Goidhoo and a long boat ride in the hot sun had left my stomach aching, my head dizzy from thirst. At the call to prayer I gulped down two glasses of fresh watermelon juice and three glasses of water. I ate a few short eats – a spicy omelet, some bajiya, and egg pudding, a bit of leaf mashuni. We finished, and settled into joalis, contented.

Not ten minutes had passed before Easa showed up. “My family invites you to break the fast!” he said. “Of course!” I replied, alighting from the joali.

A piece of coconut cake, a slice of apple, and a hot milo later, we were tailing it to Shihan’s. After Shihan’s, the home of Shihan’s girlfriend: Shifna.

“You must try everything,” she beamed as I settled into my chair.

“Kaleah kani?” You are eating? I ventured to Easa, Waheed, Shihan and Shifna, as they rounded up seats to sit and watch me. “No no,” they laughed. “Full!” They clutched their stomachs rather unconvincingly. Shifna giggled and offered up a mas roshi.

An hour later we were back at Husna’s. I’m safe! I thought, dropping into a joali where we sat and chatted with her lovely neighbor Nasiya. Twenty minutes passed.

Suddenly leaving again. Off to Husna’s sister’s, her aunt’s, mother in law, uncle, to see her grandmother – who had once given birth to twins! she told me. Off to the twin’s home, where we waited for the other twin to arrive. Rolling home that evening, stomach quite literally near to bursting, I counted 10 houses I had visited. Before I fell asleep I dashed down a few notes in my journal. This is what I ate:

4 dates
3 Foli (pancake like crepes)
3 glasses of watermelon juice
1 kurunba (young coconut)
8 glasses of water
2 bagiya (curried tuna and carmelized onions fried in pastry)
2 spicy egg omelet
5 heapings of brinja mashuni (tuna, grated coconut, lime, onion, chili, and
chopped brinja, a peppery leaf)
5 roshi (thin Maldivian chapatti)
1 coconut cake
1 mas roshi
4 pieces pudding (Maldivian flan-like egg custard)
2 chocolate biscuits
2 small pieces coconut disc with rihakaru (fish sauce)
2 glasses pineapple juice
1 guava
1 piece of apple
1 spoonful fish curry
½ hot Milo (malt) drink

The generosity I experienced in Thulhaadhoo was overwhelming, and this night, only the beginning.

The next morning I was up early and off to Abdu Rahman’s studio.

Thulhaadhoo is a tiny island. Stepping out of Husna’s house that morning, a glance in either direction afforded a view of the sea. Salty breezes washed through the sandy streets, tempering the heat.

A portion of Thulhaadhoo’s lagoon was reclaimed in 1998 to ease the housing crunch brought on by population growth. Abdu Rahman’s home was built on this reclaimed area. I tried to imagine what it looked like before, but honestly I couldn’t picture Thulhaadhoo any smaller.

In two minutes I had crossed the island and was entering through a thin wooden door, sidling through the bright courtyard to the shade of an open studio at the back of the compound. Along one wall stood a wicker cabinet with gleaming vases and a few boxes left out for display. At the back piles of local woods – among them funa, hiru’ndhu, kaani, and uni - gathered dust. Some pieces were already hewn into rough cylinders.

A few low stools shared the floor with loose shavings and the machine. A smoky haze of saw dust filled the air, cutting the sunlight and muting the shadows. Abdu Rahman sat bent over a cylinder of wood, melting lacquer onto its base so as to attach it to the apparatus on the floor in front of him. He wore a blue checked plaid button down shirt, and simple gray slacks. He had soft features, golden skin and wide brown eyes, rimmed by long lashes. He was a quiet, pensive man, of few words.

Abdu Rahman Moosa first fell in love with lacquer works when he was five years old. Visiting the home of a friend, he came across an old artisan and was so impressed that he decided he would one day pursue the craft. Now at 36 years old, he has been working in lacquer works for over 15 years.

Lacquer works has a long history on the island of Thulhaadhoo. Believed to have been brought by the Chinese some 300 (or 800, depending on who you ask) years ago, the tradition has been sustained for generations, and is unique to Thulhaadhoo within the Maldives.

I asked Abdu Rahman who taught him the craft. “No one,” he replied, through his brother Ibrahim’s translation. He explained that he learned only through experience, watching his forefathers and slowly learning the different steps and techniques.

There have been many changes in his lifetime.

“In olden days we used only the hand, no other technology, but as the world changes day by day the changes came to this work also. Now the people use electric machines and other new techniques. The changes came to the equipment and also to the material. Now they use plastic, even people use glass also nowadays.”

As an inhabited island rarely visited by outsiders, the market for lacquer works has never been extensive. While Abdu Rahman does receive commissions from the President and sends some of his work to be sold in Male’, he sees little return from the store price. The current global economic crisis has also touched down on Thulhaadhoo’s shores. Small groups of tourists used to come on day visits from local resorts and would buy lacquer works. Now they come infrequently are less inclined to buy lacquer ware than before.

Yet he assures me that lacquer works is not in danger of dying out. “I can give the guarantee that this work will be in this island forever. It won’t go. It’s not endangered, it will be continued by the younger generation in this island always.”

“It’s actually increasing,” he added. When he was young, he explained, “there were 5-6 people doing this, now there are 15-20 people doing this.” With the support of the government, he hopes to see training centers like the one started by Adam Manik, flourish, and one day have 50% of souvenirs crafted in Maldives – representing this unique tradition and culture.

Abdu Rahman is one of only two remaining traditional lacquer artisans, however. While many artisans are swapping traditional methods for electric machinery, Abdu Rahman continues to swear by the traditional method, which requires the power of two men, and which yields, he believes, a finer and more even finish.

Perhaps the best way to describe the traditional lacquer works machine, called a kandhu, is to imagine a pottery wheel set on its side. In a studio, the artisan and the assistant sit opposite on either side of the kandhu. The assistant, sitting legs outstretched with one end of a rope in either hand, pulls back and forth in a steady rhythm. The rope, cast about a long metal pole, provides the movement that sets the machine spinning, thus ensuring symmetry in the work.

With great control and sensitivity, the craftsmen moves up and down the piece of wood, first smoothing it into a perfect cylinder before adding contours and hollowing the vessel. After the shape has been divined, first a layer of yellow lacquer is applied, then another layer of color, which is finely polished with dried coconut leaves. While traditional colors are red and black, nowadays pinks, greens, and purples are also employed. When the piece is finished, the craftsman becomes the artist, slowly etching swirling designs that will reveal the yellow underneath.

I spent nearly 8 hours watching Abdu Rahman work. He did so tirelessly, despite fasting, and paused only for prayer time at noon. It was soothing watching the various pieces unfold, the steady of the rhythm of the kandhu lulling us all into a sort of trance.

That night I went night fishing under the full moon. Abdu Rahman was among the crew. Please listen to the audio supplement, coming soon.

Mohammed Usma, a friend of Aniya’s and the island councilor, was a wonderful host in Thulhaadhoo – taking me sailing on a traditional sailing dhoni (now there are none!) – one of my personal goals since arriving in the Maldives, and organizing the fishing trip. That night Abdullah, Husna’s husband, barbecued a red snapper we caught in chili the length of my arm. Mohammed, Easa, Waheed, and Husna’s family sat around the table and ate the fish with roshi.

The first afternoon I spent in Abdu Rahman’s studio he handed me a tray of lacquer and asked me to pick my favorite color. I selected a deep sea green, the color of faru – the Maldivian word for shallow lagoon. The morning I was to leave he presented me with a small jewelry box, striped with black and yellow. It was beautiful. He told me he hoped we would meet again.

“Anaanan,” I replied. I will come.