Passage to Dhuvaafaru

When I began to research the Maldives this spring, I came across a few references to Dhuvaafaru – a newly resettled island in Raa atoll. The residents of Dhuvaafaru actually hail from Kandholhudhoo, an island directly across the atoll from Dhuvaafaru, on the western edge of Raa.

After living in Male for almost 5 weeks, I decided I needed to get out, get some perspective, some fresh air, and a break from bustling city life.

Dhuvaafaru’s story fascinated me, and with the contact for the island councilor, I decided I go visit for a few days. For about a week, I had been waiting for a ferry, calling various captains and checking with the Maldives transport authority, MTCC – all with no luck. Launches were too expensive, and I was eager to see how the average Maldivian traveled.

On Monday, August 16th, at 10 p.m., I was just returning from playing basketball with a group of boys in Villingil when I received a call from my friend Saffah at Bluepeace. There was a boat leaving for Dhuvaafaru at midnight from the fish market!

Quickly I did a mental check. Due to the rain I’d put off doing laundry – I could do that in the sink. I’d arranged a few interviews for the next few days – they could be rescheduled. I hadn’t had a chance to pick up any money from the post office – Sarah and Alexa offered to pitch in. Outside the wind howled – so much for smooth sailing. I hadn’t done any of the preliminary research I had planned to do before leaving… All this, and I went for it.

The boat was slightly delayed, so I didn’t arrive in Male until 1:30 a.m. Saffah met me at the Villingili terminal with his motorbike and together we drove to the fish market, where cargo boats traveling to and from the atolls come to stock up on food stuffs in exchange for products from the islands – coconuts, rope, toddy (A coconut tree’s version of maple syrup), dried fish. The ship was large, 1.5 stories, We tiptoed down a wooden plank into the cargo hold.

The cargo hold was packed tight with bulky duffles, boxes piled up to the ceiling, water tanks, a motorbike. As we climbed a small ladder, Saffah told me to keep my things close. It was dark as we entered the sleeping hold, crawling on all fours in the shallow cabin. I couldn’t have been more than 3.5 feet tall, filled with some 50-60 people splayed out on the floor. There was an empty space at the stern, near the hatch. I squeezed in and settled next to a sleeping woman, her dark curly hair cast out over her pillow. I said goodbye to Saffah then and, clinging to my bags, tried to sleep. It was a 9 hour journey. When I woke up I would be in Dhuvaafaru.

But three and a half hours later I awoke to someone tapping my foot.

Light leaked through the open window behind me, and I could barely make out the figure standing on the ladder at my feet. We were moving now, and the waves rocked us back and forth. I sat up and clung to the ceiling with one hand. The guy handed me my wallet. I froze.

Opening it, I shuffled through its contents. All that was left were receipts and discount tickets. Like that. 1500 rufiyya gone. 100 dollars gone. More than 200 dollars! More than I’d spent in 4 weeks on food!

I’d lived in Buenos Aires, world capital for crime, for 6 months and not a peso stolen. But here I was on a boat headed to an island with no internet, no ATM, and my phone credit was maybe 5 RF – enough for a few texts and maybe a phone call.

I began to explain to Shaheedu – that was his name - what had happened. He was wearing a red shirt, over his shoulders, the words “Rule #137 of College: Don’t remember anything,” and green cargo pants. He was sympathetic, running me through the course of events before disappearing to tell the reef captain my predicament. He returned with coffee but little resolution. We stepped outside where the horizon was flat but for a few islands, dark purple clouds mushroomed from the southeast. The sea was rough. How was I going to pay for my passage? How was I going to stay on Dhuvaafaru?

No one else was awake. With nothing else to do but wait, I went back to sleep. When I got up the lady who had slept beside me was up and gazing out through the sliding window past the balcony and towards the horizon, her legs cocked up beneath her somewhat awkwardly. Since waking she had donned her buruga. It was lime green, pinching under her chin. She wore a long dress with a blue flower pattern, and teal track pants with purple stripes underneath. Her round cheeks were slightly pockmarked, her eyes tired beneath tinted glasses.

Kihineh? I ventured. How are you?

She smiled. She was well, she said, returning the question. Did I speak Dhivehi?

Kuda Koh, I replied. A little bit. A very little bit.

Her name was Rugiyya, she was 41 years old, and she was from Dhuvaafaru. She had only just returned to Male from India where she’d been for a checkup on her brain tumor. She pulled down her glasses to show me her eyes, sockets swollen.

Talk about perspective.

Here I was bemoaning the fact that I had lost all my money and Rugiyya was battling a terminal illness -- and still smiling.

Eventually I told her about what had happened and listened as she relayed it to a group of old men sleeping in the traditional sarong, or mundhus, kitty corner to us. Soon a crowd had gathered round, a group of women (including two also named Rugiyya), a four-year-old, several 20-something men. The cook even poked his head up from downstairs.
Don’t touch your wallet, Rugiyya eventually relayed to me after considerable chatter and gesticulating among the group, others peering on, wiping sleep from their eyes. We’ll get the fingerprints at the police station.

Is there somewhere I can get some money? I asked. Someone I could send money back to?

Rugiyya shook her head slowly, her eyes deeply troubled. “Noonu” she said, drawing the word out in a long sigh. “Don’t worry. I will take care of you.”

Saffah called then. He had called the captain and was trying to arrange accommodation in Dhuvaafaru.

“You can stay in my home,” Rugiyya said then. “You can call me Mum.”

It took us 36 hours to reach Dhuvaafaru.

The seas were stormy and we stopped periodically to wait for better weather. Outside and above the sleeping cabin was a wide deck open to the sky, spanning the whole ship. A group of ten or so young men were sleeping up at the bow, under the shade of the captain’s cabin. We stopped and anchored at Meeru Island resort for breakfast. A few tourists roamed the beach, no doubt perturbed by the heavy rain clouds, which had not figured into their vacation plans. I marveled at how different our experiences were.

Later when we stopped for lunch, garu dhia, (traditional fish soup – fresh fish with rice, chili, lime and raw onions), a pod of dolphins paraded past us, their dark bodies moving in and out of the sea with ease. That night we moored in the northern reaches of Male atoll, waiting to brave the passage, Kaashidhoo Kuda Kandu in the morning.

There was an outpouring of kindness from my fellow passengers as we made our way to Dhuvaafaru. Ali, a fisherman from Maakurathu, the island just south of Dhuvaafaru, made it his personal goal to see that I was well fed. He wore a green checked shirt, and his dark beard was cut short, swirling at his jawbone. He would come up and tap my foot as I was sleeping, offering water, biscuits, supari – seasoned fo, or betel nuts.

Shaheedu and his friends Ibu, Hassan and Amadey would check up on me periodically. “Do you need anything sister?”

The ship captain waived my fare. Finally, Ali – a different one this time, long curly hair dyed with henna – presented me with a handful of small bills assembled by the passengers. They had raised over 1000 RF for me!

By the time we arrived in Dhuvaafaru late Wednesday afternoon I had many new friends.

I can't describe what a wonderful time I had in Dhuvaafaru. My host family - Rugiyya, her brother Ismail, his wife Anthu, Maama - the grandmother, daughters Mayaa and Mahiyaa treated me like one of the family. The generosity of their family and other islanders was astounding! Anthu taught me to make roshi, curry and mashuni. Ismail introduced me to many people (their family comprises over 1/3 of the population of 4,000!), Mohammed Nasih, a teacher from Baa atoll, was extremely helpful, as was Mohammed Nasih the principal. Ibu introduced me to his family and to his girlfriend's family. I had the chance to interview several bright school boys and Rugiyya's uncle Adam, a seaman. I also talked to several fishermen and fisherwomen.

On my last day, we took a dhoni and Rugiyya, Ismail and a few friends went to Kandholhudhoo, the island abandoned after the tsunami. It was eerie walking through the abandonded streets. I generated so much research in Dhuvaafaru - I'm still not sure of the best outlet for it, but I will hopefully post something soon. Changes in livelihood, imprinting history on a landscape, erosion and outsourcing of traditional fishing practices, development, family, religion. I sailed through my journal while in Dhuvaafaru!

I'm still processing the interviews I gathered in Dhuvaafaru. All of my audio work has been very time consuming! I will post more about Dhuvaafaru next week, when I return from Goidhoo, a small atoll just north of Male atoll, where historically convicts were banished. I will be staying on the island of Goidhoo, a large island with only 500 people, known for its agriculture and a historical mosque. I will also be visiting Thuladhoo, an island in the south of Baa atoll, where my friend Adam Manik has told me "the last rays of ancient sunlight" exist. Laquer works, a traditional Maldivian handicraft is almost gone. I'll be working with two brothers there to record and document the craft.

Back in Male I've been arranging travel through the atolls - which is difficult here as tourists don't travel outside of resorts. I've also gotten in a few interviews. One with a woman who's studied psychology abroad for a great deal of her adult life, about seeing the changes in Male and also her intense value in education. Very interesting! Another with Salle, my friend the graphic designer/businessman/artist, about his career as an artist growing up in Maldives. Another with Nabylu, the new sales and marketing manager for the Holiday Inn. His story is remarkable, rising up through the ranks in the resorts, to work for Intercontinental Hotels, one of the largest chains in the world. His interview was my first real window into the resort world. I met with Humay and her husband Martin to look for Nasirah, a woman who collects bottles near the fish market in Male - but with no luck. Great conversation though!

As it's Ramadan, all of the restaurants are closed during the day until 620. I've been breaking fast each evening with different friends. During Ramadan Maldivians pull out all stops baking a variety of short eats - small delicacies involving pastry, fish, chili, lemon, coconut, curry in some combination, curries and roshi (flat bread), and cakes. I've been lucky to break fast with Zaheena's family - who make some of the best short eats I've tried here! A few times this week I've stopped by Aniya's, learning wonderful recipes from Aniya and her daughter Dhaanish. Last Saturday we had a big breakfast with friends at my friend Shifa's home, and a few days ago Shifa taught me to make pumpkin mashuni, my favorite!

These last few days in Male have been full of goodbyes! My friend Sarah left for her semester in Nepal, Zaheena leaves this Friday for uni, and Alexa and Muku, my couch-surfing parents, have left for Exeter in the UK. I feel as though I finally have a great group of friends here in Male, and time is ebbing away. I suppose this is what my entire year will be like, intimate relationships lasting for only a short time. Safe travels to all, and here's to paths crossing in the future!