Once the excitement of being in a new country stopped being so overwhelming, the poverty of the place settled in like an oppressive blanket over my mind. It reminded me in a visceral way of the hutongs and dirt villages in the poor parts of China.
Off of the capital island, we didn't see any paved roads. The only bit of ground that wasn't sand that we encountered were the strips by the harbor. Everywhere else, even the "main" streets through the islands, were all variously packed sand. There was sand everywhere, and keeping the properties cleared of sand seemed to be a consuming task. Everywhere we went, there were people sweeping the sand, picking out debris like fallen leaves and fruits, clearing the sand off their doorsteps, smoothing out the road that had been churned up by passing feet and wheels. Some roads were so neglected that the sand had turned soft and piled in awkward moguls that were hard to navigate.
On the beaches, there was of course more sand. The beach sand was very rough, being comprised of chunky, broken up bits of shell and coral. Walking barefoot over it was surprisingly painful and challenging, as the large particles tended to be loosely packed and shifted underfoot. It certainly wasn't the fine-grained, smooth white sand beach I was expecting, but then again, there was no real reason why I expected such.
The islands had no apparent source of fresh water, which puzzled us, until our fishing guide enlightened us. In Nilandhoo, Latheef told us that they have wells which provide fresh water, but they were very susceptible to the ocean's currents. For example, a tsunami that came through churned up the ground water so badly that it turned brackish, and they couldn't drink from the wells for a long time. In the past, the wells stood open to the air, and the incredible amounts of sulfur in the water tended to evaporate, so that the water people consumed wasn't so .... well, stinky. Nowadays, the wells are enclosed, with modern plumbing to collect and distribute the water. The sulfur has no chance of escaping, and so the ground water smells like the devil's own farts.
To supplement their fresh water, there are Unicef and other donated rain collection barrels. Practically every property had one, enormous black round tubs with pipes snaking out in every direction. Latheef told us that if the sulfur was too much for us, they could flip a switch and only use the rain water, but we wanted the full experience, so we opted to try their native mix. Looking back, lacking that option on Mathiveri, I personally wish we had gone for the sulfur-free offer while we had the chance. To be fair, the smell wasn't deadly or noxious, it was just .... irritating. Ah well.
The saddest thing for me was watching the girls. On the rest days, all the children came out and played in their casual clothing, girls and boys together in their t-shirts and shorts. Come the school days, everyone would stuff themselves into uniform, but those uniforms gradually changed for the girls -- from classic schoolgirl shirt-and-skirt to the full Muslim regalia -- while the boys stayed with their classic schoolboy shirt-and-slacks no matter how old they got.
The boys were very boisterous and frequently greeted us with hollered "Hello!"s, while the girls tended to be more reserved. The older people were varied in their response to us as well -- I felt a couple of suspicious stares, and got a few smiles and nods -- but for the most part, they refrained from speaking to us. We didn't see many working-aged men while we were there, presumably because they were all out fishing or working in the capital.
Overall, it struck me how different the resort islands were from the local islands. It really felt like stepping into another world when we transferred to Casa Mia, or when we made a quick transfer at another resort on a different island to get onto the seaplane. I'm astonished that there's this clear-cut separation, but I guess that just shows my naivete. I hope the tourism industry manages to have positive impact on the lives of the locals.
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