a local island, the first night

We were met at the boat by a large crowd of people. I had been told that there would be many people there to see the ferry come. It only comes twice a week and the people of the island have very kind hearts and like to welcome everyone. Not that there are many strangers, mind you.

Hassan ushered me over to his mother. There were kids everywhere. It was dark and the excitement of the boat arriving didn't need translation. His mother is a small woman the later side of middle age, plump round the middle and wearing traditional Muslim dress including veiled hair. She took my hand, smiling and chuckling as she led me and a small crowd of children towards their house. The way was dark and winding. The island was small. There were no roads, but sandy footpaths between the houses packed in too tightly for such a small island.

The house was simple and unlike what I think of a house. A sitting room open on two sides to the footpath, was the center off of which there were three rooms used as bedrooms. I was given one. Nothing on the walls, a mattress, a television and a flashy boombox made me think that perhaps this was the room that Hassan normally stays in. (As a barman on my resort, he makes quite a lot of money in comparison to those who live on the island.) I put my small bag and guitar down. The mother brought in a chair and signaled that I could sit in it. I thanked her in Dhivehi (the local language).

I was quite nervous the first night. Everyone stared at me like I was the most fantastic alien! The sitting room had a plastic porch swing, and several plastic chairs as well as a TV mounted high on the wall. There was no other furniture. People came from all over the island to peer in the windows and look at me. The children were fascinated by me but too afraid of me to allow much interaction at first. It gradually became clear the children between 8 and 12 spoke a little English but were shy to use it. Very few people spoke any at all. For many, I was the first white person they had ever met. After mosque, so many women came to look at me that there wasn't enough room for everyone to see in the windows and doors. I was asked/signaled by the bravest child to please come outside so everyone could see.

There was a semi-circle of women all shy and giggling. For a moment we stood there blinking at each other- me in the light, their dark faces obscured from my vision further by the surrounding darkness. I shot my hand out to the nearest one, "Halu kihenney?" (Polite "hello, how are you?" in Dhivehi) The first one giggled and froze before taking my hand. Everyone tittered. Someone elbowed the first girl and pointed out that I had asked a question. She looked shaken again, my hand still in hers she choked out, "Bara badu." (good). I laughed and moved on, shaking everyone's hands and asking how they were, then asking their names. When I was nearly finished, someone yelled out, "Zahura!" and grabbed a tall lanky shadow that was hiding her face behind the others. I couldn't get close enough to shake her hand, but I craned my neck around until I could see her and said a shy hello with a big smile. She quickly hid. Everyone laughed.

I decided to move outside, so I got my guitar and lots of figures gathered around in the darkness. I played a few songs, then got the kids to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, followed by teaching them how to play/sing London Bridges Falling Down. It was great fun, although I was still feeling very shy (whilst pretending I wasn't). Luckily I was saved by Hassan's call to dinner.

The dining area was small, and off of the side of the house, separated by the footpath. It had room for three people at a time, and so eating was done in shifts. Hassan and I sat down with his father, and as his mother and sister along with several children all gathered round the door and in the corners to watch. Hassan took a very small portion of curry and one piece of chapatti (flat bread like a Mexican tortilla) on his plate, ate and got up. I on the other hand was served rice by his sister. I said, "Madu cure, sukriyah" (stop, thank you) after two spoonfuls but received a funny look and she kept scooping. I had a small mountain of rice in front of me and I knew I wouldn't be able to finish it. I was devastated.

Food for women is a means of communication. To give food is to offer something that you have put yourself into. A gift of life, with a piece of your being in it. This is especially true in Asia and moreso if you can't actually communicate with language. To not finish the first meal offered is insulting. I stared at that rice and added a little of each other dish and ate slowly, very slowly...hoping that somehow I could finish it. As I neared the end, I knew it wasn't going to happen. Although there was only half a cup of rice left, if I ate anymore I was going to be sick and to be sick would be far worse an insult! I had to think of a way out.

"I'm sorry...uh...Konah bara bara rangalu..."
("food is very very good," and this was accompanied by very dramatic gestures of eating and happiness).
"But...uh.." Hassan's sister looked like I was just about to take a knife to her heart.
I repeated, "Konah bara bara rangalu...bara badu!" with lots of yummy and positive gestures.
"But...Hassan.."...here I drew a great bit shadow picture of Hassan-the-giant, pointed to his spot and made a small circle with my hand and then gestured that I was Hassan eating a tiny bit of food.
"Ahareng..." (me) I made a show of how small I was and my stomach was, and how big the plate of food was, then how big my stomach was now and how I couldn't eat more.
"Konah bara bara rangalu...Hassan...ahareng..." and I repeated the gestures faster and a little more dramatic on the "food good" and "Hassan big, but eats small...me small, eats big...cannot more...." gestures. Hassan's dad began to chuckle. Then his mother began to laugh, then his sister began to laugh and I knew I was safe. No insults made. Later I overheard Hassan's Dad relating the story with laughter to those that weren't lucky enough to witness it.

After dinner Hassan showed me around the island. The houses were nearly identical, built in traditional Maldivian style- they're made of greyish white rocks, that on closer inspection reveal themselves to be pieces of coral held together by cement. The strangest thing was walking down the silky white sand road and every sitting room on either side of the road had the same TV program at the same volume. There is only one station in Dhivehi, so that's what most everyone watches. Still, it felt a bit like the twilight zone to walk several minutes with identical scenery and sounds!

We stopped in several houses and had tea or talked to people. I could follow the basic questions about me and confirm the answers ("Ahh" means yes in Dhivehi). Then we met his best friend, Habeeb. Habeeb is a lovely young man with about 25-20 English words to his name. He was very kind though, and very interested in me and my guitar. We had coffee. I said Habeeb's necklace was nice, so he insisted on giving it to me. Afterwards, Habeeb asked if I could play guitar for them (Hassan translated). I played for a bit and finally switched to my favorite Spanish songs. As long as they weren't going to understand anyway, I thought I might as well play in Spanish. This got an immediate response. They loved Spanish pronunciation and kept having me repeat songs. Hassan went to bed a few songs before I said goodnight to Habeeb.
"I come tomorrow." he said.
"Ok. Dani, see you tomorrow." (Dani= ciao, or see you later)

Alone at last at nearly 2.30am, I lay in the hot room and was asleep almost before I closed my eyes. At 5.00am I remembered that they lived next door to a mosque as the sound of the "Call to prayers" began over the loudspeaker...