Interlopers

Dear readers, 

Apologies once again for the time that has elapsed since this blog post and the last one. Your correspondent has been waging war again, this time on the interlopers inhabiting my kitchen: cockroaches.

I have an immense and unreasonable fear of cockroaches. It’s the way they move that gets me. It’s never a great start to the day to walk into the kitchen to find a roach scurrying across the work-surface in the direction of your breakfast. Or to put a piece of toast in the toaster only to have one leap out at you as you switch on the heat. It’s my kitchen and my toaster! And it was certainly time for the interlopers to leave.

Over the course of a couple of months I had managed to empty more than two cans of roach spray into the kitchen all to no avail. The mere smell of the spray was enough to set my pulse racing and I was on the brink of giving myself nerve damage. If things continued the way they were I was quite likely to die of fume-inhalation... They would find me after several days, dead on my back with my arms and legs in the air, twitching slightly...

Things finally came to a head one evening. After a hard day of cleaning, tidying and installing new furniture, hampered by a heavy cold, I had gone into the kitchen to make steak and chips for supper. I stepped away from the kitchen for less than five minutes but came back to discover that the cooker had blown up and there was yet another cockroach getting ready to drag away my steak. It felt like a disaster of catastrophic proportions.

I called my mum. Given the gravity of the situation it was the only proper thing to do. My mum deserves a medal for the number of ledges and high places she has talked me down from over the last few months. She is remarkably good in a crisis, possessing a honed ability to set me back on course once again.

After the phone call I regrouped, drove myself to the nearest hotel, ordered the largest steak on the menu, then sat back to consider my game plan. The cockroaches had certainly won this round, but they had not yet won the war. And if I stopped to think about it objectively I had pest control on my side, so things were not looking good for the cockroaches. We would fight – fight to the death. We would go to the mattresses!

The next morning I put in two phone calls: one to the electrician to come and revive the cooker and one to pest control. Within hours of their visit there were roach corpses littering the kitchen, the hall and even one of the bedrooms. It was clear that the apartment had been harbouring a problem.

I gave it ten days and another can of spray before I called pest control back for another round, to drive out my more hardened adversaries. This time they were thorough.

The final frontier was the kitchen window. It had never been entirely clear where the cockroaches were actually coming from but I had my suspicions that the window was in some way responsible. It is no ordinary window: it’s covered and it has about it a rather sinister air. It overlooks an internal ventilation shaft and I am personally of the opinion that this is from whence the cockroaches came. I turned to the only two lines of defence left available to me: traps and boric acid.

Boric acid comes in the form of a white powder and as I stood at my kitchen window, sprinkling a neat line of white powder along it, it occurred to me that it might be difficult to explain my actions in the event of an in-opportune visit from the authorities. Once finished I laid a neat row of cockroach traps on top of the powder, creating an impenetrable line of defence against the invertebrate kingdom. I stood back, appreciated my courage and ingenuity and attempted to get on with my life. 

Things were going well until several nights later when I was back in the kitchen cooking supper. A pair of antennae appeared on the far side of the toaster. I squealed and leapt backwards – standard – and the damned thing scuttled up the side of the toaster and buried itself inside. My reaction, naturally, was to douse the toaster liberally in roach spray and only after having emptied another half can did it dawned on me that roach spray and toaster might not be an award-winning combination.

I called my mum. Given the gravity of the situation it was the only proper thing to do. She suggested I turn the toaster on. Her reasoning was that it would either fry or evict the cockroach, and if I was going to run the risk of blowing the toaster up it was better to do it while she was on the other end of the phone and able to alert someone of my predicament should the worst happen. After consideration I went with her plan and am pleased to confirm that the worst did not in fact happen. The cockroach did finally venture out, although not before time, and was quickly dispatched by me.

Since then, more than three weeks have past, and I am delighted to report that in the battle of Charlotte versus Cockroaches, Charlotte (assisted by three cans of roach spray, two visits from pest control, a variety of traps, and a quantity of boric acid) has prevailed and taken back possession of her kitchen.

So long Cockroaches! It’s my kitchen now!

A day in the life of DIFC

Dubai International Financial Centre, fondly known as DIFC, is a financial hub for the Middle East, proudly placed to fill the gap between the financial markets of London and New York in the west, and Hong Kong and Tokyo in the east.

Curiously, and in contrast to Canary Wharf, it’s one of the few places in Dubai that doesn’t sport a skyscraper. Instead, the centre piece of DIFC is The Gate which, true to Dubai form, can only be described as iconic. Modelled on the Arc de Triomphe, the immense yet elegant cube with an equally enormous archway through the middle is described as ‘a gateway to a new financial district in Dubai’ – the architect’s words, not mine! I’ve actually tried walking under the arch while looking up to the ceiling with dizzying and near-disastrous consequences.

A friend of mine reckons DIFC is the place where it all goes on; the place where the deals are sealed, the money is made and the cogs of the financial world never cease turning. Granted he does work, sleep, eat and party within a 500 metre radius of DIFC but I think he’s probably right. As financial centres go, this place is pretty damn impressive. Apparently, its offices are the workplace of more than 11,500 employees, 97% of whom are expatriates and 35% of whom are women, working for over 1000 different banks, asset management firms, insurance companies, law firms and host of others. It has its own legal and regulatory framework and it’s very own courts to ensure that those laws and regulations are upheld. It also has its own underground shopping precinct, a gym, dry cleaners, hairdresser, a collection of modern art galleries and some of Dubai’s finest restaurants and hippest after-work hangouts. It would be entirely possible to live your life in DIFC and never have to go elsewhere.

Now, I have to confess that I am not fortunate enough (or misfortunate enough, depending on your point of view) to be employed by any of the firms that operate out of DIFC, so I can’t vouch for what goes on within the offices of some of the world’s most prestigious firms. But I have spent sufficient time in DIFC, in search of coffee and Wi-Fi, to notice that daily life in the public areas has a rhythm all of its own.

The day kicks off around 7am as the cafe staff and shop attendants, the early birds, and gym goers arrive. For the maintenance and cleaning staff, almost all of whom are from the Sub-Continent, the day started much earlier and initially the telescopic cleaning brushes, mops and dusters far outnumber the suits and laptops. By 8.30am the umbrellas on the balcony are up and the cleaning staff have faded away. Prime commuting time has commenced and judging by the queues at Caffe Nero and Caribou Coffee, one can only assume that a considerable number of the morning’s financial transactions will be fuelled by a quantity of caffeine in a take-away cup. You see the odd person wander past with a Bluetooth ear piece – because that early call just can’t wait – and there seems to be a trend among the women for bringing their lunch to work in a mini cool bag. It goes without saying that there are no men sporting cool bags.

By 9.30 most of the DIFC community are tucked safely away in their offices, save for the canny few who managed to pass off coffee and a cigarette as an important morning meeting. Around 11am a small crocodile of tiny children with attendant day-care nannies wind their way round the balcony on their morning walk. They smile and wave, the cafe staff smile and wave back, and if you look carefully you will notice macho bankers wearing the kind of slushy grin that is most carefully concealed from broody girlfriends.

Things begin to hot up on the balcony around 12pm, as people emerge from their offices to ‘do lunch’ and by 1pm the place is buzzing. Tune into any of the conversations around you you’ll hear such classic lines as, ’We need to figure out how to monetise that.’ Meanwhile downstairs in the Marble Walk the queue at Subway extends around the cafe and out the door. I was under the impression that no self-respecting professional should ever actually be seen buying food in Subway but this clearly isn’t the case in DIFC.

Back on the balcony the lunch rush is over by 2.30 but the cafes continue to hum. Visiting friends and proud parents who dropped by for lunch mill around, reluctant to return to where ever they came from. I’ve also become aware that there is a significant and rather sneaky contingent of people who arrive for a working lunch with a collegue or client and manage to eek out their lunch with puddings and several coffees until well into the afternoon...

Going-home time starts about 6 and runs right through to 8 or 9 in the evening. 10pm and place is virtually deserted, save for Zuma, hottest spot in town, which I’m reliably informed is always busy.

And so another day has passed in the desert and somewhere in the bowels of the building a small army has arrived for another night of cleaning. In just nine hours the financial market will re-open and another working day will kick off all over again but for now it’s time for your correspondent to sign off and head home.

Until next time dear readers, TTFN xxx

Quirks

The other day I passed the Emirates Macaroni Factory. It’s located somewhere between the glassy towers of Business Bay and the dusty chaos of Al Quoz industrial estate and nobody seems too sure as to why it’s there. As far as I’m aware the UAE is not famed for its production of macaroni. I’ve filed it as an odd quirk in a city laden with quirkiness.

Take taxis. Taxis are a relatively cheap and fast way to get around Dubai but it is a well-known fact that most taxi drivers have only been here two weeks, speak limited English and have absolutely no idea where they are going. A sweeping and unjust generalisation you may say, but I have first-hand experience of the hysteria into which taxi drivers can descend if you ask them to take you somewhere other than the Burj Al Arab. Granted they are not helped by the government’s propensity for removing signposts and re-routing roundabouts overnight, but London cabs they ain’t.

I managed to reduce a taxi driver to the brink of tears the other day by asking him to take me a gallery in Al Quoz. ‘I thought you knew where you were going!’ he wailed, increasing his speed with every fresh wave of panic, rendering it virtually impossible for me to work out where we were, let alone where we needed to get to. He eventually ejected me onto the side of the road, begged me not to come anywhere near him and tore off in a cloud of dust. When I finally tracked down the gallery I asked the manager why they don’t have any signposts outside. Apparently the Municipality has a problem with them advertising their existence. Curiouser and curiouser.

Sticking with the theme of transport, let us turn our attention to the road to Abu Dhabi. Dubai is just one of seven Emirate states in the UAE and there comes a time in every Dubai resident’s life when a trip to Abu Dhabi becomes unavoidable. But how to get there? I stopped briefly to consider all the public transport options there are for travel around the UK: train, bus, plane, ferry even. Well, despite the vast acres of open desert available there is no train; the bus takes nearly to a day to travel in each direction and it’s too close to fly. No, there is just one road to Abu Dhabi and embarking on the journey means putting yourself at the mercy of all the madmen on the road, chatting away on their mobile phones, feet on the dashboard, roaring down Sheik Zayed Road at 180 Km an hour with only a finger on the wheel. You suddenly become very aware of your own mortality and, after two trips to Abu Dhabi last week, I have vowed not to go again for a really long time.

On a different note, whose grand idea was it to install revolving doors at the entrance of every building? There must be a higher concentration of revolving doors in central Dubai than anywhere else in the world. The smarter the building, the more likely the doors are to have their very own set of pot plants or antique urns. Unfortunately your correspondent has something of a phobia of revolving doors. I can’t help the suspicion that one day I am either going to be crushed or disrobed by them and it is a real effort of will to maintain my composure.

Then there are the encounters with maintenance staff. Our fridge freezer has been performing under par from the day we moved in to our flat. I promptly informed the maintenance manager of the problem and a series of visits commenced. The men come in threes: one in charge, one to carry the spanner and one to watch. Sometimes there’s a fourth but he usually waits outside... There is much standing around and sucking of teeth. They open the freezer door, they close the freezer door. Then the one in charge commands the one with the spanner to make a tiny adjustment. He closes the freezer door once more with the utmost delicacy and care. ‘No problem!’ he says, the door is fixed. Please sign the maintenance papers. ‘No, no!’ I cry and demonstrate what happens when door is handled a little less delicately. We appear to have reached an impasse: I refuse to admit defeat (and suffer several years of melted ice cream) and they refuse to admit there’s a problem.

I suppose that’s what happens when a multitude of different cultures converge upon a dusty spot in the desert and set about trying to develop it at a rate of knots. There are bound to be some quirks and points of tension. You end up living an odd existence in which it is entirely possible for your bank to send you a text within seconds of buying a pint of milk, to inform you that you’ve made a transaction, but you have to present yourself in person, with a ream of supporting documents if you want to pay your water bill.

Certainly some of the frustrations westerners face in Dubai are a result of the British colonial bureaucracy imported from India, presenting us with hoops which we find both irritating and unnecessary to jump through. But then, as my dad observed the other day, matters could be worse. We could be living in Kuwait. The Kuwaitis, it seems, have imported the French Napoleonic legal system from Egypt, so they’re really screwed.

And so another day draws to a close in the desert.

Until next time dear readers, TTFN xxx

Destination: Dubai

I’m sitting here eating a piece of desperation cheesecake, so named because desperation is the emotion its purchase was borne out of. We’re talking about the kind of tired desperation that stems from trekking the entire length of Dubai carrying your life in a bag; the kind that leads you to try opening the front door with your metro card; the very kind that results in you needing to buy the over-priced piece of cheesecake necessary to relieve this unpleasant emotion.

I’m only slightly perturbed that desperation is the emotion that marks the end of my third week in Dubai. As a quietly confident and eternally optimistic being I have no doubt that the feeling will pass. Active job hunting is really quite tiring, hence the cheesecake, but one could hardly say that the last three weeks have been dull. In fact, they have been something of a social whirl wind. Your correspondent has been spotted at the races, the polo, a VIP lunch at Art Dubai, not to mention the book launch brunch.

For the first ten days I was at the mercy of the Mothership, obliged to do her bidding at every turn. Thus, I spent many hours trailing round Ikea and the like, desperately (there’s that word again) trying to look engaged as we discussed the finer points of bedroom furniture. On the upside there were plenty of pit stops for food. It was a bit like my childhood memories of trips to the garden centre: enduring tedious hours of wandering with the promise of an ice cream at the end.

With the Mothership safely dispatched, I turned my attentions to the serious business of finding a job, setting up office in coffee shops sporting WiFi. I’m now on my third coffee shop, having picked up a series of unwanted yet persistent admirers along the way – apparently this is one of the hazards of studiously minding your own business in a public place. Happily, my efforts have resulted in at least one interview, so progress has been made.

In my additional capacity as housekeeper I’ve been mostly responsible for managing the move to a new apartment, soothing the Fathership as we’ve encountered teething troubles and liaising with the well-meaning but somewhat quirky maintenance team to get our troubles fixed.

On moving-in day the Mothership and I arrived in the new apartment to find it an inch deep in water. We beat a hasty retreat. With the aqueous issue resolved, it was the turn of the removals crew. They were glorious to watch: within two hours they had delivered, unpacked and installed all the furniture, swiftly removing all traces of packing material as they went. It was like a military operation – with smiles – and the only casualty of the whole affair was a light bulb, broken by me. One of them even nipped off for prayer half way through.

Dubai is rather different from life in the Indian Ocean but it has its own idiosyncrasies and the promise of plenty more material to fuel your correspondent’s amusement with local life. I anticipate a long and happy relationship.

So until next time dear readers,

TTFN xxx

Farewell Ihavandhoo... for this year at least

Following a serious packing error and a four-week period of separation, the Lamp-top and its power cable have been reunited, allowing your correspondent to liberate a final blog post. While I appreciate that most of you have seen me and are reasonably sick of hearing about how wonderful island life was, it feels wrong not to bring this year’s adventure to some sort of conclusion. So indulge me for a moment.

The beginning of the end was marked by the arrival of the ‘Mother-ship’. I’m still not sure quite what Bella was expecting of my mother, based on the tit-bits of information I’d supplied her with throughout the year, but the title ‘Char-pants’ mum’ clearly wasn’t going to cut it. For the successful entertainment of any visitor, Bella and I had learned that a programme of activities was necessary. First up was a resort mini-break to Manafaru where everything was deemed ‘wonderful!’ We then returned to Ihavandhoo for a few days to allow her to experience life as a cast away and to meet all our friends. My mother leapt rather than fell into island life and by 9am each morning she was already up and in full flow about her domestic achievements with the twin tub washing machine. Snorkelling on the reef induced further coos of delight and by the third day she had made firm friends with at least half the island’s population. It was like having a celebrity to stay.

When it was time to leave Bella and I escorted the Mother-ship to the airport, ostensibly to check she was alright but also to ensure that she did actually board the flight and return to reality. As we moored up at the jetty the new management of Cinnamon Island Resort pulled up alongside us. “Come for the weekend!” they cried, “It’ll be a cash-free holiday!” All protests about not having any of our belongings were ignored and we were borne away on the resort boat for a weekend of fun.

In the absence of appropriate swimwear, and feeling somewhat guilty about our second resort mini-break in a week, we decided to be productive with our time and visit Farm Boy on his farm just a stone’s throw from the resort. Farm Boy is head honcho of Maafahi farm island where 50 staff, of 4 different nationalities, strive daily to maintain a hydroponics plant, banana, papaya and coconut palm plantations, an odd assortment of tropical fruit trees, a fish canning plant and a herd of goats. The trip was both enjoyable and educational and the food was simply excellent.

We returned to our beloved island with just one week of school to go but with exams already over, the school year seemed to fizzle out, rather than coming to a definitive end. The only slightly startling event was the departure of the Indian and Sri Lankan expatriate teachers who disappeared during the night... Bella and I had to make our own arrangements for getting home and decided to linger a little longer in order to take in the delights of Big Eid.

To pass the time until celebrations got under way we resolved to go out for a trot to find what Maldivians do when school’s out for the summer. We hadn’t got very far before we encountered Khusham and Suhail, on their way to fetch us – well, mainly Bella actually – to complete an important assignment: the filming of a commercial to advertise Bella perfume, a fragrance of superior quality. And that is how we came to spend two hot but happy afternoons on the beach, striking extraordinary poses, while Khusham crouched in the sand with a camera, just centimetres from the perfume bottle.

Having wrapped things up on the film set, we made our way to an awards ceremony on the jetty. It was Ihavandhoo’s answer to the Variety Club Golden Heart awards, honouring the hard work and dedication of some more senior figures on the island. At least, I think it was. The whole shebang was in Dhivehi and no one was adequately able to explain what was going on.

The dress code for the event was Maldivian traditional dress. Cast your mind back and you might remember that my last run-in with Maldivian traditional dress had ended with me looking somewhat like a raspberry, so Bella and I settled on more modern Maldivian outfits for the evening. Our wardrobe choices had gone without remark until we ran into Captain Haddock, who deemed them wholly unfit for the occasion. We were hauled off to the Haddock residence where we were kitted out in the real thing. The captain was not leaving anything to chance and was he who styled our hair to complete the effect. The effort was worth it though, purely for the reaction from the crowd. People we’d never even met were queuing up to have their photo taken with us.

Big Eid was all we had hoped for and more. There was a holiday atmosphere, food, a stage programme and hundreds of small children and babies dressed to the nines in the most extraordinary array of party outfits.

Finally it was time to go. Leaving a place that has been your home for a year has the potential to be a highly emotional affair but we were spared any melodramatics for the simple reasons that Maldivians don’t do public displays of affection and they don’t say goodbye. Their approach to such awkward situations is more ‘ignore it and hope it goes away’. As such, our departure was swift and relatively painless, with little time for wallowing or sadness.

And so, a year in the Indian Ocean has drawn to a close. It has been a pleasure and I hope you’ve enjoyed hearing about it. I’m not sure what the next year will hold but once I find out I’ll let you know. Perhaps we can go on another adventure together.

Until then, dear readers,

TTFN xxx

Volley

Greetings dear readers. The publication of this blog post has been delayed by nearly a week, ironically, because your correspondent (who should have known better than to leave a piece of work nearly finished) trotted off to volley practice and sustained a nasty sprain to the wrist, rendering her unable to complete said post until today. Doing justice to the entertainment volley brings us is quite hard but here goes… 

We play volley every day. Seven days a week, for the last seven months, provided it’s not already raining, we play volley. It’s never referred to as volleyball, just ‘volley’, and it has become such a huge part of our lives that it deserves a blog post all of its own. It was The Boy who started it. We had always known that there were people who played volley on the sandy area next to the football pitch but it had not really occurred to us to get involved, nor would it have been right to charge in and invite ourselves along. Participation for foreigners is by invitation only. And so it was, in April, that we first donned our volley clothes and ventured along.

 The daily routine goes something like this: at around 4.20pm, 20-odd 20-somethings rock up at the volley court. Two teams play against one another. The winning team stays on and swaps sides, and the loosing team goes off to be replaced by a fresh team of competitive individuals who want to oust the current champions from the court and stay on for more than one game. While it brings out everyone’s competitive spirit on-court, volley is essentially a social affair, presenting a perfectly legitimate excuse for us all to ditch whatever we happened to be doing up until volley time and hang out for a glorious hour and a half.

When we’re not playing, Bella and I mostly sit on the wall and give a quiet but highly finessed fashion commentary on everyone else’s clothing, hair styles, and chosen facial hair of the day. We have it down to a fine art. We’re aided by our collection of nicknames, bestowed upon our volley-playing friends at a time when we had absolutely no idea what their real names were. And here they are, the Volley Crew: The Boy and Coach, Handbag Man, Ali Mansoor, The Tank, the Oomper Loomper, Red T-shirt guy, Goat Man, The Gooseberry, Daddy Longlegs, Cheeky boy, Dhonbe, Yummy Mummy and Yummy Daddy, Nappy pants, Junior Team Member, Afro Man, Yellow Shorts guy, The scrawny one, Vin Diesel, Twiggy, the Accountant and, occasionally, Captain Haddock. There are others but their names are perhaps best left unpublished!

Aside from our own private set of nicknames, volley has its own language:

• Outoo = out
• Bodu outoo = badly out
• Charlotte, ready?! = Charlotte, are you awake and ready to hit the ball?!
• Receive, receive! = Wake up team and make sure one of you returns the serve
• Back! (as uttered by the Tank) = person in the middle smash the ball back across the net
• Saadha-game ball = 14 points to the winning team and it’s game ball
• Ethere = in
• Egaara = eleven
• Ehvaru = equal/all e.g. eleven all

The final three words in the volley vocabulary are easily confused, and if you’re not careful you find yourself shouting “eleven!” when trying to tell your team that the ball was in. Volley was also the forum in which we learnt to count in Dhevehi. Most of the time we play to 15 points and so for a long time our Dhivehi counting went like this: eke (1), dheyh (2), thineh (3), hathareh (4), faheh (5), hayeh (6), hatheh (7), asheh (8), nuvaeh (9), dhihayeh (10), egaara (11), baara (12), theyra (13), saadha (14), game ball, much to the amusement of everyone else.

The events that take place on court during a game, the interactions between team mates, and the stances adopted by each of the players are a social science study all of their own. Most of the time play is extremely good-natured but from time to time a team member will be roundly chastised for screwing up a shot. Occasionally there are altercations and you can usually tell if someone’s upset The Boy because (much to the delight of Bella and I) he begins to puff up like a rhino about to charge.

Seven months of careful observation have led to at least one conclusion: humans the world over find other people’s misfortunes funny. On an almost daily basis we will be crippled with laughter as some highly improbably shot sends the ball flying in an extraordinary direction, bopping an unsuspecting person on the head as it lands. And when Maldivians find something really funny, they have to sit down. So you’ll be in the middle of a game and something ridiculous will happen and suddenly everyone is creased up and sitting cross-legged in the sand.

It is widely accepted I am crap at volley and generally not to be trusted with the ball. Despite my indignation their beliefs are not unfounded. I often find myself paraylsed, rooted to the spot, unable to move into the path of the oncoming ball nor out of it. In a moment of bravery I will stick my arms nervously in the air to receive the ball, only to second guess myself at the last minute, leaving my team mates to dive for the ball and avert another lost point.

I am also unfortunate. One of my baby fingers is now a completely different shape to the other as a result of two ill-judge catches, which mashes first one joint and then the other. And until recently there’s been something wrong with the angle of my scoop shot, causing me to send the ball flying straight into my own face, instead of back across the net. On more than one occasion I’ve ended up in a heap on the ground after tripping over the lines.

Then there are the injuries sustained as a result of poor positioning. The Boy has a killer spike. It’s his party piece. The setter sets the ball; the Boy takes a run and jump, and comes down on the ball, wham! Sending it flying across the other side of the court. It’s terrifying for anyone to be on the receiving end but it just so happens that my head is in the direct trajectory of the ball if I stand five paces back from the net.

The first time it happened the Boy and I were rather more than ‘good friends’ and there was outrage that he could have slammed the ball straight into his girlfriend’s forehead. For my part, I was stunned – literally! The second time it happened, there was nothing to do but laugh. The chances of the unfortunate incident occurring again were so remote that it was hilarious. And so, it was to The Boy’s horror and my incredulity that just that other day I got in the way of yet another killer smash and sustained the sprained wrist that delayed the posting of this very blog.

I could go on, but I have to stop. I can only hope that I have done some justice to this dearly beloved aspect of our island life.

TTFN xx

There’s a chicken on the loose, somewhere in our garden

As I lay in the hammock this morning, in an otherwise empty garden, a chicken toddled past... not a usual occurrence for a Friday morning. Neither was the search party of children from next door who swarmed the garden as I attempted to recover my wits and reach for Muslim-friendly attire. The chicken was not forth-coming.

The past couple of months have brought a new degree of acclimatisation: the daily events of life on a desert island are no less ridiculous but the ludicrous has become the normal and nothing surprises me anymore. We no longer miss alcohol or pork; the need to get things done has waned; and even Bella walks slower than she used to.

The beginning of August was marked by the arrival of Bella’s friends. When Bella first announced we were having guests to visit my reaction wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as she had hoped. Our prior experiences of visitors involved diabolical weather, apprehension from Maldivian and series of stressful rescue missions from awkward locations. And then there was the weighty presence of Ramazan looming.” It’s totally fine”, she said, “It’s only two of them – well, maybe four – but it’s totally fine.”

And she was right. It was totally fine. The days of Kirstles and Bex, K and DiGo were tremendous fun. In addition to a resort mini-break (unfortunately a wash out), we packed in a picnic to an uninhabited island, night fishing, snorkelling, volley and an 18-hour boat journey to Male. There were, of course, the inevitable clutch of incidents – a rescue mission after two days of being trapped at enormous expense on the resort in gale-force winds, a panic-stricken boat journey through the sizable waves of the channel, insect bites of giant proportions, and an assortment of lost flip flops, lens caps and the like – but these were easily forgotten as our Maldivian friends rose to the occasion and our house became the social hub of the island.

The presence of our visitors coincided with half term and just as Bella and I were readying ourselves for full relaxation, the deputy principal hauled us into the AV room to inform us of his plans to assault Grade 10 with a relentless battery of tests. Bella and I came away reeling and somewhat peeved that the end of our precious holiday would blighted by a large heap of marking.

Ramazan was a strange time. It started two days after Kirsty and Bex arrived and never before have I seen twenty-three-year-old boys looking as miserable as on the first day. We had been assured that very little would be different during the Holy month. School would be shorter but otherwise everything would carry on. It is true that most people made the effort to carry on as normal and did a valiant job, given that they had nothing to eat or drink between 4am and 6pm, but there was certain subdued air that settled over the island, induced by lack of sleep and empty tummies.

The upside of Ramazan is this: as soon as the sun sets the eating begins and they want you to eat too. We could barely leave the house without someone hauling us in to feed us. Every meal had curry, rice, noodles, roshi, mas-unhi, hedaka, two kinds of juice and something sweet to finish. It was great! We also found that people’s daily lifestyle changed. When your last opportunity to eat for 14 hours is at 3.30am it’s worth staying up for. So we stayed up too, in the garden, as a host of eligible (and less eligible) young men came by to check out the new English girls.

The end of Ramazan involved more food. At Eid, Every family had a big celebration lunch and every family wanted us to celebrate with them. We managed three lunches in two hours, then vowed never to eat again... until tea time.

Eid was quickly followed by my birthday and I saw fit to drop the fact into conversation several times before the event. Poor Bella was tasked with organising me a surprise party – tricky given that I’m with her 18 hours a day. She was actually doing a remarkably good job at keeping stum. It was the Maldivians who were letting down the side. News of the party spread like wildfire around the island and everyone wanted to be invited. People would hurry up to me, waving an invitation and saying, “Party! You’re having a party!”

“Yes!” I’d reply, “And it’s supposed to be a surprise!” It was an awesome party though. Bella excelled herself. There were candles and pink balloons strung up between the palm trees, a table laden with Maldivian-friendly English food and a spectacular cake from Mama Chief.

This morning’s escapades with the chicken were not conclusive. It chose to re-appear at sunset. Had you been in our garden at sunset you would have been witness to five of us, crouched round a large bush in the corner of the garden, attempting to capture the fugitive, which was emitting blood-curdling squawks. As the light faded she was finally detained and taken back into custody. And another day passed in the Indian Ocean.

TTFN dear readers xxx

Are you going commando?

Despite my occasional suspicions that I do in fact work in a zoo and not a school, Ihavandhoo Madharussa is a relatively prim and proper place where the students are well aware of what constitutes appropriate classroom chat. So you will understand my surprise when a usually well-behaved student caught me in a lesson and asked, “Teacher, are you going commando?”

There was a long pause as I cast about for a response. Then it dawned on me. “Ah. I think you mean ‘Am I going to Komandoo in Shaviany Atoll, on the Grade 12 school trip?’”
Said student has not yet lived down this linguistic faux pas and is unlikely to forgive me for recounting the story!

And so it was that Bella and I packed our bags once again and mustered at school at 3.30am on a Friday morning ready for a 24 hour trip to the tiny island of Komandhoo. Had it been any ordinary boat trip, Bella and I might have been a little resentful about getting up in the middle of the night to go to some unknown island, leaving behind our social circle for the weekend, especially as the weather forecast for the journey was not good. Beardy and the Big Man, who were not accompanying us on the trip, had informed us with a certain amount of glee that the sea would be very rough and we were almost certainly going to be very sick.

But this was not to be an ordinary boat trip. Ibrahim, affectionately known to us as Coach, and his boat Roadhi had been commandeered for the journey. If this wasn’t exciting enough, we arrived at the jetty to find our favourite volley team members - The Boy, Handbag Man, Ali Mansul and the Counsellor - had been called to active service as crew. Instead of leaving our friends behind for the weekend, we simply took them with us.

At this point I should tell you that messing about on boats is one of the occasions when it is awkward being an English girl. Bella and I didn’t feel in the least inclined to behave as expected of fair females, joining the Maldivian girls, huddled near the back, tending their sea sickness. Oh no. We wanted to join the fun up on the top deck with the boys. Initially our advances were met with suspicion but we soon demonstrated that we had our sea legs and were allowed to pass the six hour journey with the wind in our hair, singing songs with the grade 12 boys.

Sliding into Komandhoo harbour it looked as if the whole island had assembled on the jetty side to greet us. There ensued a considerable amount of handshaking as we disembarked the boat and made our way along the mile-long receiving line.

Given how long it had taken us to get to Komandhoo we were there for a remarkably short time and the programme was intense: lunch with our hosts, a tour of the school buildings (thrilling!), a boys’ volleyball match, tea, a girls’ netball match, dinner with our gracious hosts, late night coffee and an educational exchange meeting on Saturday morning. Amidst this hectic schedule, Bella and I found time to appreciate standard Maldivian madness. Our men’s volley team, who come in varying shapes and sizes, were issued with a one-size fits all kit for their match. The effect was comedy. While we were watching we also became aware of an army of women arriving at school to deliver hedhikaa (tea). The tea table visibly sagged under the weight of the food.
Having had a suitable amount of time to recover from tea, the girls re-grouped at school for the netball match. It was fast and furious. The was screaming, snatching and gnashing of teeth as the ball flew from one end of the court to the other and back again. Your corresponded, already in a certain amount of agony from a bad back, managed a quarter before hobbling off again, so it was Bella who tore up and down the court, mediating chaos and providing damage control. Our team prevailed and Bella was crowned queen of the match.

It was will a certain sense of relief that we headed back to the security of Roadhi and our beloved boat crew on Saturday morning. I am continually impressed by Maldivians’ ability to entertain themselves. The journey home took eight hours and was cold and wet, but the grade 12 boys sang and held court the whole way, while the girls slept, lined up at the back like a row of spoons. All in all it was a grand adventure. If only it had lasted a little bit longer.

TTFN dear readers xxx

Bella and Char-pants’ grand Maldivian tour

Having negotiated several intense weeks of school exams, marking, report writing, etc, Bella and I were looking forward to our term holiday and grand travel plans with rosy optimism. A week later, sitting at Hanhimadhoo airport, in the middle of a monsoon, unable to get home, we were feeling a little less rosy. It was at that point that I stopped to reflect on where we had been and what we had seen.

The holiday had been intricately planned to accommodate all our requirements: the need to get as far away from our lesson planners as possible; the desire to see other English people; access to alcohol; and the opportunity to purchase enormous quantities of cheese and other foodstuffs not available on our fair isle. As such the itinerary went something like this:

• Fly to Malé from Hanimaadhoo, deposit bags and passport, shop for half a day
• Fly from Male to Thinadhoo for a three-day visit with Shell and Luke, two of the other IVP volunteers
• Fly back to Male and shop for another half a day, before being whisked away to a resort for a couple of days of rest and relaxation
• Return to Male and shop for two thirds of a day, prior to boarding a plane home, with plenty of time to plan and do the washing before starting school again

The plan was perfect, with just the right balance of travel and relaxation to leave us feeling rested and refreshed at the end of the week. Foolishly however, we had overlooked a major obstacle: rainy season. There are a few things you have to understand about rainy season: it tends to arrive just as you’ve hung the washing out; a downpour can last for five minutes or five days; any event becomes subject to postponement or cancellation at a moment’s notice, and exactly the same is true of flights and boat rides. In short, rainy season renders virtually everything impossible. Blissfully ignorant Bella and I set off for Male.

The first sign of trouble was the change of flight time. Never once have I flown on a Maldivian aeroplane that took off at the advertised time. No matter, this change allowed for extra time to purchase goodies for Shell and Luke in Male, and a long lunch. It was only once we had boarded the hour-long flight to Thinadhoo that I realised I perhaps shouldn’t have eaten quite so much lunch. For the next hour Bella watched me squirm in my seat and on reaching Thinadhoo I could be seen dashing through arrivals and straight into the Ladies loos.

Our hostess was charming and Thinadhoo seemed quite the metropolis compared to our cosy island. Everything seemed just so, until I turned on the bathroom taps and the over-powering smell of bad eggs issued-forth with the water. It seems that Thinadhoo sits on a particularly sulphurous reserve of ground water and every shower has the capacity to turn your stomach. Poor Shell and Luke.

Having enjoyed an otherwise pleasant weekend Bella and I set off once more for Male and more shopping. Given it’s the smallest capital city in the world it takes a remarkably long time to get around Male. And buying clothes is akin to charity shop shopping. For, you see, there are no high street shops. There are only independent shops, stocked with knock-offs and H&M seconds shipped in from Thailand. You have to sift and there’s no guarantee that anything will fit you. After several hot, frustrated hours we headed back to the airport island, armed with buckets of conditioner, ready to pick up the boat to the resort.

I have no doubt that when the sun is shining and the sea is calm Chaaya Island resort is perfectly lovely and offers a fabulous holiday. In the pouring rain it had rather less to offer. What it did have, in abundance, was buffet food and satellite TV. Bella and I set about making the best of a bad situation but after two soggy days we decided to call it quits and trade a final day of eating for another day of sifting in Male.

By this point Bella was being plagued by a vicious illness. Never before has Miss Willing been known to turn down a shopping trip. So when she asked to go home to bed I knew things were bad. Having duly deposited her in our hotel room I set out on my own to try to fulfil our extensive shopping list. By 11 pm I had bought half my body weight in cheese – mission more or less accomplished.

The phone call informing us that our flight home had been changed was not surprising. The phone call from Manafaru resort was. They wanted to know if their guests could have our seats on the plane! Certainly not. We had school the next day and anyway, it was the principle of the matter.

This was a mistake but it was only when we arrived at Hanimadhoo in gale-force winds and torrential rain that I realised it. Manafaru resort has the transport facilities to get its guests safely across the waters in even the fiercest monsoon. Ihavandhoo School does not.

So there we were. Stuck on Hanimadhoo, Bella crippled with pain and I with time for reflection.

We did get home eventually but we have learned a valuable lesson: never, ever try to go anywhere in rainy season.

Failure in transmission

Greetings dear readers. Just when I though it wasn’t possible for life to get any more busy, the school events calendar decided to show us what it was really capable of. A month later, looking somewhat worse for wear, and feeling a little weak, I have re-emerged from the hefty pile of extra-curricular events and activities under which I have been buried. This, and my recent failure to pay our internet bill, is the explanation for the lack of blogging activity over the last month. Sincerest apologies.

The blame for our ridiculously busy life does not lie solely with school. In a moment of foolish enthusiasm, spurred on by a heady weekend watching house volleyball, Bella and I decided to get involved with daily volleyball practice down the road. Naively, I thought we might be able to go along to volley sessions a couple of times a week, revive some long-forgotten volley skills and play as equals with our Maldivian friends. How wrong I was. It quickly became apparent that if I had ever had any volleyball skills they were now completely gone and I had no idea what to do.

Determined not to be defeated, the subsequent weeks have seen us bumped, bruised and broken as our team mates have done their best to transform us into reasonable players. After three weeks Bella made the team. I made it to the health centre where the doctor searched the poorly equipped building for something with which to splint my deformed fingers. As I type, two weeks later, I am still intrigued by the lump adorning the joint of my little finger.

The most recent event in the calendar took place just last night: the annual Ihavandhoo School prize giving ceremony. To mark the occasion, staff were asked to wear light blue and the matter of mine and Bella’s outfits was addressed directly. It was made clear that a half-hearted effort with a light blue T-shirt was not going to cut the mustard. New clothes were going to be required. After a week of creative discussions, negotiations, fabric shopping and pattern cutting, Mama Chief, our esteemed land lady, presented us with our new clothes. We were delighted and only slightly perturbed by the idea of wearing synthetic crushed velvet in 30 degree heat.

My gratitude lasted until about an hour into the four-hour ceremony when I became conscious of just how itchy I was. By the end I didn’t know what to do with myself and had to make a hasty exit to run home and get undressed. It seems I am allergic to my dress. I look like I’ve fallen into a nettle patch: I’m now covered in enormous red welts and I’m intensely itchy all over. Not a good look and definitely not fit for public consumption. As such, I have enjoyed the first quiet day at home for many weeks – a small blessing in a pink and lumpy disguise.

And so the sun sets on yet another extraordinary day. Until next time dear readers, TTFN xx.

Resolution report

Well, I’m not going to have any trouble keeping my new term resolution, to tell you more about school, this week. I’ve barely been allowed out of the place, and then only to eat and sleep. For, in addition to a fulfilling academic timetable, we have had to negotiate a packed schedule of school events and functions - every night.



School functions tend to follow a standard format involving a welcome, a Powerpoint presentation (guaranteed to contribute a technical hitch), several lengthy speeches, an entertainment item, an effusive vote of thanks and (if you’re lucky and still standing) refreshments at the end of the evening.


Before the working week had even started we were in school helping the Scouts to say thank you to anyone and everyone who had helped out on their Scout camp. Little did we know that this 2 hour celebration was merely the warm-up act for all that was to follow. On an island where very little ever happens it is perfectly acceptable to plan an event, announce it and issue invitations less than 24 hours before the event is due to commence.


Had I known what was coming I might have thought twice before spending the whole of Saturday planning, marking, and generally faffing about in school. For her part, Bella didn’t have much choice. As assistant co-ordinator of the Health and Environmental Club, her big moment, in the form of World Health Day, was imminent and banners had to be made. She spent a happy day lying on her tummy on the floor of a classroom making giant stencils with the ever-handy Scouts. There was just time to pop home for a fake-cheese sandwich before we were due back at school for a PTA meeting. It ran for THREE hours and was conducted exclusively in Dhevehi. I went prepared, armed with a good book. Poor Bella however, had nothing. We staggered home at midnight and crawled into bed, heavy with the knowledge that we’d be up again in just six hours.


Sunday morning brought with it tiredness, my normal Sunday classes and the news that my head of department had succumbed to a disgusting cold and was too poorly to teach. Cue a cover lesson for his Grade 10 class. In the evening Bella headed to school and so did I. The trouble with giving your students work to do is that you have to mark it afterwards. Legal addictive stimulants required to get me through day one: two coffees and a diet coke.


On the surface of it, Monday had the makings of a normal day but it was not to be. Having signed the substitution book at 6.50am, committing myself to teaching another of poorly Isaac’s classes, I made a dash to the power house on the other side of the island to pay the electricity bill. By break time I was exhausted and by lunch I was practically on the floor. Having received the news that Grade 11 were having a parents’ evening on Tuesday, Monday evening saw me back in school writing comments. Legal addictive stimulants required to get me through day two: two coffees, a diet coke and a nap.


By Tuesday we were seriously flagging. After a relatively successful parents’ evening on my part, and hours of World health Day planning on Bella’s, Sobah took us out for fried noodles, since we had no food in the house, nor the will to cook it. Legal addictive stimulants required to get me through day three: two coffees, a diet coke, two paracetamol and a nap.


On Wednesday morning we were up at five. Not content with a full evening of activities to mark World Health Day, the principal had decided to add an early assembly to the proceedings. By six we were assembled, by seven we were in the classroom and by eight most of us were ready for bed again. In the evening we rallied and came out in support for Bella and Sobah and their grand World Health Day celebrations. It was quite an evening. The event took another THREE hours but Bella’s Dhevehi speech went down a storm. Legal addictive stimulants required to get me through day four: two coffees, a diet coke, four paracetamol and a nap.


Thursday dawn and extreme exhaustion was mingled with relief. Just 5 lessons, a session meeting and two teacher English classes to get through before the weekend brought sleep. We were granted a reprieve from teacher English classes by the house volleyball tournament. All week Hamid and ‘Domenich’ had been seen racing up and down the island trying to coax gaggles of girls into some semblance of a volleyball team. House sports tournaments are taken very seriously and every house wants to win. Coaching had been employed with varying degrees of success and at one stage I’m pretty sure I saw Hamid with his head in his hands.


Opening night of the tournament was, of course, an event but one at which the shattered Bella and I could merely sit back and enjoy watching our school community hurl itself into action yet again. Legal addictive stimulants required to get me through day five: three coffees, more paracetamol and three hours of Gossip Girl.


So, you see? It’s been an epic week. The tireless energy of our friends and colleagues has been impressive and at times I think we’ve questioned their sanity. But we have survived and have never felt more a part of the school.


If I am still alive to tell the tale next week, I will impart more of the madness of Ihavandhoo School life. But for now, dear readers, it’s midnight and I’m going night fishing.


TTFN xx

Rats, rosaries and resolutions

The time has rolled around once more for another blog post and I have been pondering what to write about. I started to compose my thoughts in bed last night, which is always a bad idea. As the sentences took shape, so sleep escaped me and my brain kicked back into action. Not good with only seven hours to go until the alarm went off.

The journey back from Dubai was relatively uneventful, although my friend Fuad nearly gave himself a hernia carrying my two tonne suitcase up three flights of stairs in Male. Arriving back in Ihavandhoo at 1 am, I was just in time to bump into the Big Man and Beardy on the jetty and was roundly scolded by Beardy for not having phoned ahead to arrange a small army to cart my copious belongings back to the house.

For some time now I have suspected that the previous occupants of my bedroom were a family of rats. There have been small amounts of tell-tale evidence and a rather strong smell of rat wee. Two weeks without airing and the smell was overpowering, so upon my return I decided that the time had come to take action. I called for reinforcements and together Bella and I moved my extraordinarily heavy mattress. Suspicions were confirmed, for the floor underneath was littered with rat droppings – and a squashed cockroach to boot. Curiously, we also found a rosary down there – strange in an entirely Muslim country. Once we’d recovered our composure we cleaned up, replaced the mattress and Bella threw the rosary back for good measure. I’m pleased to report that the smell in my bedroom is now vastly improved.

Since then it has been all go getting ready for school and jumping back into a full timetable. A friend commented the other day that I never write about school. This certainly isn’t due to lack of interesting material or because I’m not enjoying it. So this half term I have resolved to tell you a little bit more about the madness that takes place in my classroom daily.

We’ve got off to a relatively good start this week. I decided to plan a mini topic on clothing and fashion but both fashion and western clothing are somewhat scarce here. Not to be defeated, I scoured our old magazines for Muslim-friendly pictures of models to use as props. Having run the pictures past the relevant authorities I took them into the classroom where they were greeted by a mixture of horror and delight; horror mainly from the girls and delight mainly from the boys. They have, however, served their purpose as today 10C, ordinarily a rather lively bunch, worked in absolute silence on their fashion articles for a grand total of 35 minutes, setting themselves a new hard-work record.

More tales anon but for now I must stop. The crows are making an almighty racket in the palm tree, so I’m off to find my air gun. Just kidding.

TTFN xx

Pause... for consideration

This blog post is brought to you from a sun lounger by the pool of the Shangri- La resort, Muscat, Oman. That’s right dear readers; I have escaped my desert island for a week, set off on my travels to the Arabian Gulf and my Maldivian friends are all terribly worried that I’m not coming back! They needn’t fear. Dubai is shiny, Oman stunning and the Bank of Mum and Dad affords a very nice lifestyle but Ihavandhoo holds a fond place in my heart and I’m not ready to give it up just yet.

Since mid-term break is upon us I feel the moment has come to pause and take stock of events so far. So this week’s offering is to be a round-up of our antics, in which we shall discover that there is so much more to baked beans than we realised, that the journey to Kulhudhuffushi takes a jolly long time, and exactly how the principal split his trousers...

Looking back, I’d say our Maldivian antics truly began the night of the inaugural meeting of the Ihavandhoo School Staff Recreation Club, about two weeks after our arrival. To her horror, and my gleeful delight, Bella was nominated and voted in as co-ordinator of the club and promptly became embroiled in the organisation of the staff picnic to an uninhabited island, which was scheduled for the weekend of 30th January.

The eve of the picnic dawned with much excitement and anticipation, until an ill-timed circular (everybody loves a good circular until it brings bad tidings) went round ordering all local teachers to attend an island meeting the next day. Picnic postponed, excitement evaporated and we were left twiddling our thumbs, feeling oddly bereft. The disappointment only lasted until one of the boys suggested we go fishing with them instead. Excitement re-ignited.

Bella and I love boats. The pair of us is rarely happier or more relaxed than when we are bobbing about in a wooden tub, warm water and clear skies around us, so we thoroughly enjoyed our first fishing and snorkelling expedition. Even as I lay stranded on the edge of the boat, without the strength to pull myself up, and looking not unlike a beached whale, I think I enjoyed myself.

Having endured the disappointment of one false start, we anticipated the re-scheduled staff picnic with more guarded enthusiasm. But the day arrived and Areeb appeared on our doorstep at ten to six, a sure sign that all was go. You might have been forgiven for thinking the whole island was attending the staff picnic, for the provisions were abundant. It therefore took some time to load everyone and everything on to assorted sea-going vessels but eventually we got away.

The uninhabited island was exquisite. Unspoilt, with white sand, trees for shade, and a shallow lagoon stretching right out to the edge of the reef. The perfect spot to pass a day.

Maldivians don’t take picnicking lightly. Forget sand-filled sandwiches and crisps. We started the day with coffee and prawn-based breakfast snacks aboard the boat before congregating for roshi and ‘bake-ed beans’ around 9.30. Bake-ed beans are so much more than the humble baked bean. Add chilli, vegetables and dried fish and you’ll be somewhere near this culinary delight. A snorkelling sortie worked up an appetite for a hearty lunch, which, in turn, provided us with enough energy for a rather boistress game of water-piggy-in-the-middle. The principal it seems was playing so enthusiastically that his shorts, already under considerable strain, finally gave up the fight and split up the seam. Bella’s sarong had to be drafted in to preserve his modesty.

We made our way home as the sun was setting, tired but happy having had a thoroughly enjoyable day.

Our next excursion from our beloved island was a trip to Kulhudhuffushi to visit Ali, fellow volunteer and friend. It take three hours to get to Kulhudhuffushi by ferry, leaving at sunrise, but the joys of vegetables, cheese and bread were sufficient to get Bella and I out of bed at half past five and to the jetty ready to board the ferry. Kulhudhuffushi has the nearest hospital, so the ferry was somewhere between maternity ward and geriatric unit. Fellow inmates included 3 newborn babies, a spectacularly seasick toddler and a poor old lady who looked as if she needed both knees and hips replacing. Dolphins provided a welcome distraction on a couple of occasions and we arrived at Kulhudhuffushi feeling that the journey had been worthwhile.

Compared to Ihavandhoo, Kulhudhuffushi seemed huge and slightly daunting. It actually takes time to get places and there’s a wide main road running from one side of the island to the other. There are even taxis. Once over the initial shock of being on an island larger than a postage stamp, we got moving. Ali whisked us round the shops and treated us to an episode of Sex and the City. The ferry home was due to depart almost before we’d arrived, so there was just time for a lunch of cheese toasties before we had to head back to the jetty and assume our positions for the journey back, clutching our loaves of bread victoriously.

As ever, I could go on. There are entertaining events on a daily basis but I think I must stop. Happy hour is about to commence in the cocktail bar and with 10 dry weeks stretching ahead of me I intend to make the most of it.

Until next time dear readers, farewell. x

Ihavandhoo: a tourist’s guide

Guide books about the Maldives are relatively hard to come by and it’s virtually impossible to learn anything useful about the upper-northern province. So, your local correspondent feels it is time to put Ihavandhoo on the map with a comprehensive guide to our delightful island.

Getting started
Located on the west side of Haa Alif, the northern-most atoll of the Maldives, Ihavandhoo is home to a thriving community of around 3000 inhabitants. After being somewhat neglected for several decades, Ihavandhoo only got electricity and street lighting three years ago.
Fishing is a lucrative business here, with fisherman from Ihavandhoo supplying a substantial proportion of the Maldives tuna exports. As a result, life is comfortable for most islanders and drugs, which have cast a shadow over many Maldivian islands, have not become a problem here.
Visitors to the island are few and far between and foreigners (save for a single Nepalese shop worker) are almost unheard of. Your correspondent’s arrival on the island provoked many astounded looks and a general sense of bewilderment. However, don’t let that put you off. This is an island just waiting to be explored.

Places of interest

• The Mosques: there are five mosques for the men and a similar number of smaller mosques for the women. They are beautiful and essential to our conservative Muslim community. Call to prayer takes place 5 times a day, starting at 5.15 am.
• The Jetty: nice for a stroll, some people watching, bumping into friends and watching a spectacular sunset.
• The Beach: white sand, turquoise seas and palm trees for shade. Actual paradise, as long as you disregard the assortment of fish heads, rusty tin cans, broken flip flops and nappies that litter the shore. We recommend the east side of the island because it smells better and there aren’t quite so many flies.
• The Island Office: the centre of government for our small community. The mobile bank rocks up here every so often and it doubles as a post office from which the sporadic post is delivered.
• Ihavandhoo School: if the island office isn’t the centre of the community, then the school certainly is. Opening hours are 6.30am to 9.00pm every day except Fridays. At all times you’ll find a gentle thrum of activity.
• The Court House: fortunately your correspondent has little knowledge of the workings of this building.
• The Power House and the Ice Plant: now we’re really scraping the barrel...  

Sports and entertainment

Maldivians are mad for football, volleyball and badminton. On any given weekend it’s highly likely that will be a school house sports tournament taking place. These make for good viewing if you’re prepared to get up at six in the morning. Otherwise, Grade 11 boys play football on the dirt pitch at 5pm every afternoon until sunset, although they're not that keen on spectators.



Sitting is an entirely legitimate form of entertainment here. Every household owns a joli, net seats slung on rectangular frames of four or five. They play the same role as park benches but are considerably easier to move and a very sociable way to sit. As an occupant of a joli it is possible to sit and do next to nothing for an incredible length of time.
As a guest on the island you will probably be invited to go fishing. Be sure to take up this offer, even if the trip is due to commence in just ten minutes and you have a whole list of other things you are supposed to be doing, because the invitation might not be repeated. Take sun cream because the sun is fierce and Maldivians have no shame in laughing at you if you come back looking like a lobster.  

Shopping
The other places that hold enormous interest for your correspondent are the shops. Fashion doesn’t hold high importance here, so we’re not talking clothes shops but that’s ok because food is much more exciting. The Big Shop (a nick name given by us) is, as the name suggests, the biggest shop on the island and a hub for the community. Shop here for rice, bottled water, juice and biscuits. When it has them, Big Shop’s fruit and vegetables are good but you’ll have to be quick as a vegetable delivery usually generates something of a stampede.
If the Big Shop fails you, other options include the Treasure Trove, for all those things you never imagined you could buy here; the Diet Coke shop, handy for its mysterious stash of Diet Coke, which is otherwise impossible to get in the Maldives; and the Corner Shop, so called because it’s on the corner of our street and it never has exactly what you want, although it can usually supply the next best thing.
Should you need to buy clothes, or any household items, there are a number of small shops where you can purchase a random assortment of clothes, fabric, kitchen utensils and building supplies. A local friend has told us that these shops run a sort of mail order service for clothing. You go into the shop and choose what you want from a catalogue and the shop owner will send to Male for the item on your behalf. This, we suspect, is how Hamid came to be wearing Dockers pants (trousers) and the rest of the guys came to own Lacoste polo shirts. 

Eating out
Ihavandhoo boasts five different cafes, known to Maldivians as hotels. We’d give you names and addresses but you’re probably better off just asking an islander to point you in the direction of the cafe most suited to your demographic. Our recommendations are Mini Tea and the one with the outdoor tables and pretty umbrellas round the back.
On the menu: fried rice, fried noodles and hedhikaa (short eats). We’d like to assure you that all the cafes use the finest, fresh ingredients but it simply isn’t true, so we won’t. What is true is that a plate of fried noodles is an experience you are never likely to forget if you have a low tolerance for chilli.
To drink order coke, juice, tea (with a heap of sugar), milk coffee or a Lavazza coffee, of which the owner is very proud. Alcohol is strictly forbidden on inhabited islands, so none of that thank you. 

Getting around 

Given that the island is only 800 metres across, visitors are best advised to walk round Ihavandhoo. Flip flops are the most appropriate footwear as the roads are all made of sand and closed shoes tend to fill up with grit rather rapidly.  
Should you find yourself unable to walk, or in too much of a hurry, ask an obliging friend to lend you a bicycle or give you a ride on the back of his motorbike. The bike may well be child-sized but nobody here will care how ridiculous you look cycling about with your legs wrapped round your ears. A wheel barrow can be commandeered should you wish to transport anything heavier than a shopping bag.

Only got 24 hours? Here’s how to spend it:

• Awake with the call to prayer at 5.15am. If you’re not Muslim go back to sleep.
• Reawaken at around 8am, have a cold shower (there’s no hot water) and some curry and roshi (like a chapatti) then head out of the house.  
• Make for the jetty to see what’s going on before embarking on a walk all the way round the edge of the island on the beach before the heat gets too intense. Insider tip: start at the opposite end of the jetty to the power house for the most pleasant experience.
• Meander round until you’ve passed all the boat sheds then turn back onto the island, past the football pitch.
• Pop into school and hang out in the staff room for a chat and to cool down under the fans then go to Mini Tea for fried noodles and juice before making your way slowly home for a siesta.
• Mid-afternoon return to the beach for fantastic swimming and snorkelling then watch the teenage boys throwing up dust on the football pitch as you wander slowly home.
• At 5.50 head back up to the jetty and take your seat for a splendid sunset.
• Once the sun has gone down it’s dark and there’s nothing much to do, so you might as well head home for supper and bed.

This itinerary is given with the proviso that you move at Maldivian speed. If you move at London speed you’ll be done by lunchtime.