Lessons from the Wise: Goidhoo

In the early morning hours of July 2, 1602, a French sailing vessel, The Corbin, floated blindly through the dark waters just west of a stretch of coral islands called the Maldives. At dead reckoning they were pointed northeastward, to India. But as dawn neared, the navigation went awry.

“Everyone was fast asleep that night even those on watch. The mate and second mate had been carousing and were drunk. The light usually kept on the poop for reading the compass was out, because the man at the wheel who had charge of the light and the hour-glass, had fallen asleep as had also the ship's boy that attended him…

What was worse, the ship was steered to the east half-an-hour or three-quarters at most, too soon. So, while we were thus all asleep, the ship struck heavily twice, and as we started with the shock, she suddenly struck a third time and heeled over. I leave you to imagine the condition of all on board - what a pitiful spectacle we presented - the cries and lamentations of men who find themselves wrecked at night on a rock in mid-ocean, and await a certain death. Some wept and cried with all their might; others took to prayers; others confessed to each other…

We all thought that the ship must go to the bottom, as we could see nothing but heavy waves going over us; and that, in fact, must have happened if we had struck upon a rock. About three-quarters of an hour after, dawn appeared, and we sighted some islands at not more than five or six leagues distance beyond the reefs…” – Pyrard de Laval, French sailor, and prisoner in Maldives 1602-1607.

Appearing with the dawn that July morning were the islands of Goidhoo atoll. Goidhoo atoll is a small string of islands just north of Male atoll. While other atolls in Maldives are splintered into sometimes 100s of islands, Goidhoo is unique in that it is comprised of only three main islands: Goidhoo, Fehendhoo and Fulhadhoo.

They are perhaps best known as the site of the shipwreck of The Corbin, and the marooning of Pyrard de Laval, a Frenchman who was to stay as an “unwilling guest” in Maldives for five years, in which time he learned to speak Dhivehi and wrote an exhaustive account of Maldives culture.

But in more recent history, Maldivian prisoners were banished to these shores. During the presidency of Ibrahim Nasir, the three islands were populated by hundreds of prisoners. In Goidhoo, political prisoners and thieves were sent. To Fehendhoo – female prisoners and their small children, including those charged with conceiving out of wedlock. In Fulhaadhoo, those who had committed murder.

Without food and appropriate accommodation, the prisoners were constantly in conflict with the islanders. On the island of Fehendhoo women were given the equivalent of six coke bottles of rice each month for food. Begging became a common occurrence, and starvation was experienced on both fronts. When fishing boats returned to harbor, they had to remove the rudder and sails to stow in the home. Lines were cut, fish were stolen from the beachside, often there was no food to break fast during Ramadan.

Apart from Fulhaadhoo, after their sentences, most prisoners left the islands to return home or settle somewhere new. Their legacy, however, continues to affect island life today.

Approaching Goidhoo island by ferry, crossing the channel from Male atoll towards the northern atolls, the island appears to rise out of nowhere from the water, palm trees sprouting amidst frothy surf. Above thick jungle hover the branches of a towering banyan tree, the center of the original settlement, I was later told. Zaheena, who first recommended I visit Goidhoo, once told me her personal theory: the more banyan trees an island has, the stronger the Buddhist influence there before the conversion to Islam in 1153.

There to meet me at the jetty was Mohammed Nizam, principal of the local school, and a friend of friend in Male’. That afternoon he came directly from classes. He was still dressed in shirt and tie, and as we approached he leaned back on the seat of his motorbike.

Nizam is 33 years old. He attended Majeedhiya school in Male’, and in his heyday was one of the best volleyball players in all of Maldives. He has a full beard and is quick to laugh. He is passionate about education, development of Goidhoo, and his children.

His wife Nazima is a teacher of Dhivehi subjects at the Goidhoo school, and is a wonderful cook. Together they have two children: Afaaf – 8 years old and already nearly fluent in English. She became my garden guide while I was there, teaching me to recognize different trees and plants that lined the sandy streets: the pomegranate, guava, banana, custard apple, stone apple, lemon and tamarind tree. White rose, bougainvillea, thousand flower, and spider lily.
Iufaaf, a feisty 1 and a half-year old, tottered about with a toothy grin. In Maldives, one is expected to refer to his/her father and mother as Bappa and Mama, to siblings and close friends as Data or Bebe. But Iufaaf, ever witty, has picked up on the names of his entire nuclear family. He calls his father Nizam, and only a few days into my stay, in the early mornings I could hear him muttering in the hallway, Ayeee? Ayeee?

Goidhoo is a large island, with just over 700 people and thousands of coconut palms. Thick, green jungle covers most of the large island. Sandy boulevards patrolled by scuttling red land crabs and small lizards converge on the main settlement, a small network of coral and concrete dwellings which fan out from the Banyan tree on the northwestern shore.

In Goidhoo, land is free. Arriving off the boat from Male’—where development these days is only upwards, and outrageously expensive at that – the landuse in Goidhoo seems far more rational. Unique to most islands in the north, Goidhoo has many agricultural plots, where rows of eggplant, kopi (similar to spinach), chili, cucumber, and pumpkin are grown. Alongside stretches of coconut palms and rich fishing grounds, it would seem as though the islanders have everything they could ever need.

Fehendhoo

Early one morning we left in a small fishing dhoni to visit the island of Fehendhoo, where Pyrard spent a grueling monsoon season upon his arrival.

The boat belonged to Nizam’s father in law, and his sister Inasha and his daughter Afaaf joined us. Fehendhoo is a thin finger of land, thick with palm trees. The school in Fehendhoo was closed this past year, and the population is rapidly dwindling – many relocating to Male’ or the capital of Baa atoll, Eydhafushi, for better education and facilities. There’s talk of one day resettling to a nearby island. Goidhoo perhaps, or maybe Thulhaadhoo. But until houses are provided by the government, many will choose to stay in Fehendhoo, unable to face the financial burden of starting up anew.

The streets were nearly abandoned as we walked through the main settlement, coral walls crumbling in places, gardens overgrown. We passed by an abandoned phone booth, standing lopsided in the road. A dangling phone cord swayed with no receiver.

Passing through an old fishery, we walked along until we stopped under the branches of an old banyan tree, gauzy moss swaying in the sea breeze. A few men were swinging in joalis, and we stopped briefly to chat. Inasha and Afu giggled as they took turns balancing along an old wall.

Back across the main street and along a narrow lane, we passed through a traditional thatch dwelling. Nizam knocked but no one was home. (Later that week I would spend an hour or so learning thatch weaving from a group of women on Goidhoo. Now thatch is used only sparingly in construction of dwellings on Goidhoo – here an outer shed, there the wall of an outdoor kitchen. In fact, most of the thatch weaving is sold to resorts.)

Pausing only briefly, we passed under a canopy of passion fruit vines and moved farther down the lane, where we stumbled upon Zuleha. “I can’t remember my age,” she told us. “But I have been in Fehendhoo for 45 years.” She told us about a lifetime of waiting for a home in another island from the government, about warding off begging prisoners, and of the current flight from the island. “Seeing the gardens and the fruit trees lie untended,” she explained, “that’s what makes me most sad.”

Zuleha and Maumood, Fehendhoo.

Moving back towards the shore we came across her husband, Maumood Mohammed. He was busy shaking the branches of a stone apple tree, throwing his not-eating hand (or left hand) back as he stooped over with great effort to collect his bounty. I bent down to gather a few for him, and as he straightened, he grinned a toothy smile. His face was that of a fisherman, stained dark by the sun, and peppered with large freckles. His ears were large, but even so, the oversized spectacles he wore looked as though they might tumble off his nose at any moment.




Maumood first arrived in Fehendhoo with his wife and three children after some of the Fehendhoo islanders came and encouraged people to resettle there.

“When I first came there were nine houses and seven families. There was not a girl who was unmarried on the island. There were no houses built with concrete or building blocks, all were from leaves and parts of the trees, and coconut palms. As time went on I was the first person to build a house out of coral bricks.”

“I believe there is some magic in this island. I don’t know where it is. Maybe it’s in the soil or in the water. There were times when we didn’t get food. Even when the people were banished to this island, that time also, we would get shells from the sea and even eat some dried breadfruit - not even good food - but still the people were healthy and the people live long here. So we always had the sea.”

I asked him what it was that he was most proud of in his long life.

“I was the number one fisherman in the atolls I worked. I was recognized as that. Even from this atoll when they had to send the best fisherman to Male', I was selected.”

“When I was fishing, there could be no other person who could start early as me. I would be the first person to set sail from this island. Even when a fish was caught I could look at the fish and tell what kind of school this fish belongs.” Just by glancing at the sea, Maumood told me, he could read the current, the wind.

“Who taught you this?” I asked, intrigued.

“I learned through experience,” he began to say, “watching other fishermen as a young boy.”

After forty-five minutes the interview was wrapping up. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” I asked.

He spoke for a long time after that. This is what Nizam translated:

“When I was very small my uncle took me to an island called Makunudhoo. It’s very far. There I met one very old person. I didn’t know actually who he was. That night my uncle asked that elder person to tell him some things about the sea. The old man replied, ‘Let this child sleep, then only I will tell.’ Then my uncle told him, ‘This boy is the son of a certain man in my atoll.’ The person came and hugged me then, and told me, ‘You are my grandson!’”

Then my grandfather pinched my earlobes very hard, and he shouted twice. He said to me, “Now you know that it hurts. So remember this, remember my words. There is no other person in Maldives who knows better than me about the sea. Even if angels come down and tell you what grandfather says is wrong, don’t believe.”

That night my grandfather told me so many things.

“Like what?” I asked, hanging on his word. Nizam translated.

“While going fishing we would look for birds. If birds are going in a particular direction we know that fish will be there. Regarding the season, we looked for the clouds on the horizon. We know by looking at the clouds whether there will be strong winds that day or whether it will rain or storm, so clouds helped us a lot.”

“How do you read the clouds?” I asked.

“We see some faces in the clouds, like a doll face. If it’s going to be strong wind there will be some faces in the clouds. If the wind is going to reduce, then the faces will disappear. Like that we know.”

I asked him about how fishing had changed, and what he thought of modern fishing practices and the growing tourist industry. When I asked what advice he might have for a younger generation of fishermen at first he faltered. “Now I’m very old. Even if I had something wise to say, they will not listen.”

“But if they did?”

“If given a chance to give advice, I would tell that they should unite together, and be more friendly, and try to develop this island so that their children will have a future.”

He was beaming by the time we closed the interview. I thanked him for sharing his story. "Thank you," he said.

I stayed in Goidhoo for a week, listening to the stories of the former chief and Nizam’s father, two incredible men on the island. The longer I stayed, the more I was impressed by the community resolve. Even when prisoners on the island outnumbered the residents three to one, they banded together and remained strong as a community.

In fact much of the development on the island is due to the work of a dedicated community – not government development. Five years ago, when the government refused to extend the school curriculum from grade 8 to grade 10, they banded together to sell 2000 palm trees to nearby Reethira resort, a venture that raised 1,000,000 Rufiyya – close to 100,000 dollars. Despite protest from the ministry of environment and atoll governance, the investment was carefully planned – the paths around the islands were widened, future housing plots cleared. In accordance with government policy, two new palms were planted for every one displaced. Similar dedication brought a small harbor, generators, and computers in the school.

Goidhoo is perhaps the most beautiful island I have ever visited – so lush and peaceful. One night we caught over fifty jack fish off the jetty, barbecuing them in chili over a small fire to eat with toasted kashi, coconut. I caught my first fish almost immediately – but somehow managed to snap my pole not in two, but in three pieces! The next evening I had a chance to play volleyball under the full moon with the women’s team. I learned how to do thatch weaving and make coir rope from coconut fibers. I went running on the long beaches, and walked round the island one morning – a long haul!

It’s very rare for an outsider to visit Goidhoo, set back as it is in its reef, and apart from Baa or Male atolls. But Nizam welcomes development. If it is rolled out in a manner that benefits the community and respects the environment, it is worthwhile. The former chief of the island, Abdul Gayoom, a remarkable man of 75 years, perhaps best capitulated this point.

“Previously we were living in a small area, now the island is getting developed. Before we were in huts, but now the dwellings are also modern. It is due to development. This development we are not bringing. It is coming to the world, and if change is coming to the world, gradually and automatically the development will have to come here also. Nobody can stop that development.

I asked him if he thought there was a good or bad development, how we might distinguish between the two, and whether he was worried about losing traditional culture.

“Development should be positive. Some people here confuse fashion with development. Fashion is not development. Development should bring prosperity, it should be wise, good. I’m not worried we’re losing our culture. Because I believe that even though we might want to stick to our culture we cannot. Changes will happen and that is a fact. Nobody can deny it. With modern development, culture will have to gradually change. If the culture is changing in a good way, it will change and it should change.”

Thanks to everyone for their kind emails and encouragement. It means a lot! And to my wonderful host families along the way, without them, my experience would not be the same!