Before the pilot announces our descent to Gan International Airport, I’m handed a certificate with “Equator Crossing Certificate” along the top and my name printed below with the date, sector and flight number. How charming, I think, believing that such an occasion is only reserved for seafarers. The landing strip is huge for such a tiny island, having been built by the British as an airbase after World War II.

Equator Village, our accommodations for the night, is tucked around the corner from the airport, less than a half mile away, within walking distance. It looks basic and simple, a mere shadow of its former glory days as officer quarters for the British Royal Air Force. I can tell immediately that this is not your typical Maldivian water villa luxury retreat. The lobby is open air, the wiggling palm-leaf fans look as if they are about to drop to the floor at any moment. With sweat starting to form, I find a seat on a well-worn, not-so-white cushioned sofa to wait while the staff collects our passports. We’re brought fresh juice and cool towels. There’s a British edge to the dated décor, a formal stuffiness embedded with a balance of tackiness. The peeling, Pepto Bismol pink plaster walls are topped with crumbling plaster crown molding painted a garish naval orange. The harsh, orange-yellow flicker of exposed compact fluorescent bulbs highlight the cracked ceiling. It’s simple and quaint. This place will grow on me.

This was a one-night stay, with no time to check out the island, so I make the best of exploring the vast, lush grounds of the resort and the seaside pool. Randomly placed lounge chairs tucked between leaning palm trees are spread along the sea. I nestle down with my book, enjoying frequent visits by the island chickens and the numerous fairly friendly island cats. This down-time provides just the needed reprieve from the get-up-and-go travel of the past few days.

The next day, our 15-minute flight takes us to our next island, Fuvahmulah. The single hangar has just enough room for the luggage retrieval spot, a couple of seats and a single security screening area. We make our way outside in search of our driver. I immediately spot a young girl holding a sign approaching everyone that passes to see if the name on her sign matches. I watch her exasperation and angst grow as time and again she’s rejected. I have no idea she’s looking for us while the others, in deep discussion, are oblivious to her plight. Her makeup is perfect. Her tight curly black hair, neatly held back with a perfectly centered part, falls just past her shoulders. Wearing no hijab, she has on torn jeans with a loose, black, drop-shoulder t-shirt. She is the first young girl dressed like a Western teen that I’ve seen. She makes her way towards us.

Our travel companions gather, and someone finally sees her sign. A relieved smile greets us.

“Hello. My name is Mahaasin. Follow me.”

We are led to a waiting car and load in. She then hops on a sleek black motorcycle, the kind with large side cylinders that looks fast. Mahaasin leads the driver to our “home” for the next three days.

The asphalt road leading from the airport quickly turns to a bumpy dirt road. Orderly lanes of scooters, motorcycles and cars operate within their own invisible laws of mutual understanding. The branching village roads lead to concentrated town sectors, or wards, with centrally located shops. Many storefronts are abandoned, some with dusty, paper-covered glass and some with the glass broken out altogether. We head down a desolate road. It’s very quiet, late in the afternoon when temperatures are at their highest.

Our house is a jewel box of exotic woods, stone and other tiles, with finishes and veneers. These posh materials contrast with the other nondescript residences of the island Maldivians. The house is more like four-star hotel territory. It seems out of place in this very small, traditional island settlement. Mahaasin explains that it is the residence of the current Vice President of the Maldives, who now resides in the capital city. The conversion to a guest house is recent, with it only being opened one month ago.

After settling in, I ask Mahaasin about the island and activities.

Stumped, she says, “We are known for our dive center and diving.”

The island of Fuvahmulah, nicknamed the Galapagos of the Maldives, is not a well-known destination, even among divers, but is fast becoming one of the greatest places to dive in the world.

“Anything to do on the island?” I ask.

“Not really,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.

I smile and inquire further. “Can you show me around the island?”

At that moment, the lights turn on in her head. Like any young American girl, she now registers the economic opportunity.

“I can take you. For $20 per hour?” 

Good girl. She’s getting the hang of it, just as my daughters would.

“Yes. Of course.” I smile.

We plan for the following day as she turns towards her computer to plan, the wheels still revolving in her head.

The house is quiet as I linger a bit longer in the living room-turned-lobby. I notice another couple at the single dining table wrapping up a late dinner as I head up a narrow staircase to our room.

The next morning, Mahaasin and a kitchen staff have breakfast waiting at the table. Several young men are in and out of the kitchen, creating a lively restaurant setting, a stark comparison to the silence of the day before. Afterwards, I notice the same couple from the previous evening sitting in the living room. Their massive, professional-grade camera equipment sits nearby along with other camera bags and their scuba gear. Their slim, fit physiques match their passion: these are hard-core divers.

I smile, say “hello” and ask where they’re from.

“From Milan,” she replies.

And before conversation starts, the man, watching me check out his equipment, holds up his phone, inviting me to look. I see a picture of him a foot away from a tiger shark the size of an old Buick.

Additional stunning National Geographic-caliber pictures of the underwater life he captured on film follow. Although he doesn’t speak English, I’m sure my wide eyes convey my excitement. The photos continue, with images of large manta rays, whale sharks and the pristine reef life which I experienced while snorkeling. I point out the goosebumps on my arm. He enjoys sharing his passion with me, no words necessary. Their driver arrives, and we say our goodbyes.

In the meantime, I notice that Mahaasin has changed her clothes from earlier. She now wears black leggings with a tight, high-neck, black-lace, long-sleeved, pearl-buttoned blouse that shows a bit of stomach depending on the angle. Her lips are a brighter red than the day before, and the sides of her hair are pulled back and twisted into a tight, neat bun perfectly centered on the top of her head. Despite the heat, I have black tights on with a long chemise to make sure I am covered appropriately.

I compliment her pretty top.

“Are you on Instagram?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“I am as well.”

Right on cue, I hand her my phone for her to type in her tag name so that I can follow her.

“Wow,” I say, as I view her profile. “32.4 thousand followers.” I suck in a whistle. She’s a minor celebrity influencer, in my opinion.

She tells me we’ll be going together on her motorcycle.

“Have you heard of our freshwater lakes?” she asks. I know she had done her homework.

“No. Here on the island?” It sounds strange to me, considering the island is only five kilometers long by one kilometer wide.

“We’ll go there first,” she declares.

“We also have surfing, where the break is. I’m getting pretty good at it.” She explains to me that it’s the only place in the Maldives where conditions allow the surf to break near the shore, making excellent waves for surfing. I think she’s planning on taking me there as well.

I climb on the back and we head out towards the main road.

A short ride takes us into a park entrance where we park and walk among lush tropical foliage, mainly high grasses, that lead us to the larger of the two lakes, known as Bandaara Kilhi.

“Locals don’t swim here. It is very deep,” she says.

A picturesque wooden dock leads into the pristine, still water. A gazebo at the end anchors it. The outer shoreline is marshlands, buried in reeds, like a lush green shag carpet in need of a trim. There are pontoon boats along the shore and on other docks. The whole sight seems out of place and in stark contrast to the rest of the island’s coral beaches.

“At one time it was a lagoon, connected to the ocean. Over time, it closed up and became freshwater,” she explains.

“We have lakes just like this,” I say with a laugh. It reminds me of my childhood spent on many a Michigan lake.

We stop off at a couple of beaches, the leaning palms providing a perfect backdrop for pictures. I offer to take her photo and Mahaasin eagerly accepts. Her subtle, demure poses are practiced and mastered.

I notice a lot of trash, mainly plastic bottles strewn about. This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed this along the roadside and beaches. There’s also an unusual amount of Red Bull cans scattered around. I couldn’t help but hear the ding ding ding ding ding of the bell in my head. Aha! A vice! We all have them.

The last stop we make is along the roadside. We walk through an old, battered-down iron fence into an unkempt field.

“This is a very important historical site, she says as we look down at a circular stone bath sunken into the ground, holding very green, mildew-ridden water.

I see a sign. It says, “Vasho Veyo.”

“What is its significance?” I ask.

She pauses and a huge smile crosses her face. “I don’t know.” I can’t help but laugh, very loud, after such an innocent, endearing reply. Although having grown up on the island and never having left it, she never learned its historical significance.

To her relief, I find a sign explaining that this skillfully handcrafted bath is made of coral stone built by the locals nearly a thousand years ago. It’s one of the few pre-Islamic structures left in the country.

As we make our way back to the residence, she brings me to a roadside stand where a short man with a long, graying beard expertly cuts open a coconut, quickly carving around the top, which he punctures for a straw. Finally, my first fresh Maldivian coconut! I manage to carry it on the bike, making sure it gets back for John to finish eating.

Our days on Fuvahmulah wind down with two more outings around the island with Mahaasin along with my own work keeping me busy during the hot hours of the day. I’m thankful for my time with Mahaasin, a time that I will never forget.

One of my favorite parts about traveling is meeting people. Whether it’s a multi-day adventure with someone or a short, meaningful conversation, in the end, we’re all friends. No one has their guard up and no one questions your motives. It’s just you, in that moment. And before you know it, a simple “hello” can take you on an unforgettable adventure. This is what traveling does for me.

On our last night, after arriving back in Male, we’re standing outside waiting on a taxi when I notice a young Asian girl.

I ask, “Where are you from?”

“I am from Thailand.”

Her arrow-straight, jet-black hair hangs down past her shoulders, almost to her waist. She wears a white t-shirt, fire-engine red pants and unmarred white Adidas shoes with the same red stripes as the old Stan Smiths—just made more hip.

I conjure up the images of her beautiful country gotten from photos shared with me, since I have never been to Thailand.

“And what brings you here to the Maldives?” I ask.

“It is considered a dream destination, yes? So, I say, I have to go.”

She pauses and continues. “I have decided to leave here early.”

“Oh? Why?”

“My country has mountains.” She makes an upside-down “V” with her fingers. “And beaches, just like here. But it is so much more beautiful.” Her eyes light up as she’s animated with pride.

“Here, just flat sand and beach. My country way more beautiful,” she says again. “And so much cheaper. Things here so expensive. You come to my country. You will see.”

“But what about the people? Getting out of your comfort zone and expanding your knowledge of other people’s way of life?” I’m almost pleading towards the end.

Her taxi arrives and we part ways, leaving me thinking about why she would want to go home while I only want to go on.

— Email comments to Julie@bayoucitypress.com or leave public comments below. Visit Andi’s See Andi Run blog.
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