| Sultans of Surf |
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Page 6 of 7  In 2000 B.C., the Maldives were a busy trading junction for Egyptians and Mesopotamians. The region was once known as the Money Isles because cowrie shells, international currency in early times, literally washed ashore on their beaches. There are still plenty of shells on islands like Lakanfushi, but these days the economy is driven primarily by fishing, shipbuilding, and tourism. The island is pancake-flat, like all the rest of the islands in the chain. In fact, the highest natural spot in the Maldives is a whopping six feet tall (the lowest high point of any nation in the world).The islands have gained some notoriety recently with regards to global warming, as some experts predict the rising sea will swallow the Maldives by the end of this century. The streets are narrow and built on a grid. The houses are modest and boxy. Little kids on bicycles giggle at us. Women wear traditional Muslim burkas covering their heads and look away with shy smiles as we approach. The men eye us warily, but warm up quickly. On one narrow street, a man with a gray beard and a Santa Claus belly sitting in a low-slung chair in front of a cinder-block home calls to us: “You, sit down,” he says, gesturing beside him. “Where are you from?” After a few minutes of conversation, we find out that he’s 89 years old, though he looks just 65. We figure that’s the result of pure island living, where the odometer on life moves a lot slower than elsewhere. I know I feel younger after just a week here. We while away the afternoon chatting with the old man, who would clearly be spending the afternoon sitting in his chair whether we had happened by or not. On the way back to the skiff, we stop in a café and buy tea and an assortment of small fried cakes, almost like hush puppies with tuna and curry hidden inside. As I sit on a low seawall enjoying my curry balls, I watch a handful of middle-aged women and girls in burkas playing an improvised version of baseball or cricket using a tennis racket and ball. Their faces are alight as they take turns whacking the ball through a stand of palms and racing between bases. Back onboard the Ocean Dancer, a few of the boys are still playing poker. About the time we return, a dhoni carrying Dayton and the rest of the group motors up from a dive with Mesnard, where they saw a troop of six massive manta rays. “Traitor!” yells Peak. Dayton just smiles. |
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