Recommended reading:
The Male' City Swimming Track
Chapter 01 of my work in progress book "Sinking Streets".
Chapter 02 - Doorways to the Sea
Chapter 03 - The Laadheenee Among Us
I am floating on my back with my eyes closed. The sun is beating down on my face from above. The rumbling monster of the city is silenced and for a moment I forget about the stress that brought me here. The fresh morning air is tainted with the smell of diesel. I exhale and sink further down under the water’s surface.
Expired Disposable Underwater Tropicolor 35mm film camera
(2007)
Chapter 01 of my work in progress book "Sinking Streets".
Chapter 02 - Doorways to the Sea
Chapter 03 - The Laadheenee Among Us
I am floating on my back with my eyes closed. The sun is beating down on my face from above. The rumbling monster of the city is silenced and for a moment I forget about the stress that brought me here. The fresh morning air is tainted with the smell of diesel. I exhale and sink further down under the water’s surface.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
The smell disappears. The water feels cold on my face and I feel goosebumps rise along my arms. My heartbeat steadily quickens as my body craves oxygen. I rise from the illusion and the endless noise of the city once again swarms my consciousness.
“Pretty cold today huh,” I remark to my friend while feeling the bumps along my arm. She’s sitting in waist deep water on the shallow side towards the tripod rocks.
Pentax Optio M30
2008)
“I bet you’re gonna miss this once you’re gone,” she said laughing.
She was right. I haven’t been out for a proper swim ever since I’d moved to Tasmania. My heart aches for the ocean. It is so close, yet it is so cold and unforgiving that its existence might as well be a mirage. My brief forays have been anything but enjoyable. A shivering overtakes the body and you feel your core begin to tighten up. It becomes difficult to breath and an icy panic begins to set in. Things seem different for those that learnt how to swim here. I see them dive effortlessly off their private yachts from where they swim sometimes great distances to the shore. Perhaps one day I will get used to it as well.
When I tell people that I am Maldivian their first reaction is one of barely concealed envy. “Wow! What a beautiful place! You must be so lucky!”. I am quick to correct them that no, I am not from the Maldives as much as I am from Male’ City.
Male' City from above.
Image via Google Earth.
© 2016 Digital Globe
Male’ City is a very different place from the rest of the Maldives. It has no natural beaches, and when I was very young the Track was the only place that people went swimming regularly. I, like many other residents of Male’ city, learnt how to swim there. “Track ah’ hingaa dhaan! (let’s go to the Track!)”, is a phrase that is familiar to young and old alike.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
The Male' City Swimming Track.
Nikon D70s
(2009)
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
By the time that I was a teenager the government had created what they called the “Artificial Beach” on the East side of the island, but the fact that it was crowded, incredibly shallow and usually smelled even worse than the Track made it a less popular option. You could also of course try your luck in the Raalhugandu area, but the chaotic surf makes this unpleasant, and the shallower side is far too shallow with too many rocks to actually go swimming.
The Artificial Beach at low tide.
Henveiru ward
Nikon D70s
(2007)
Girl stares at her own reflection at the Artifical Beach.
Henveiru ward
Nikon D70s with 50mm f/1.8 AF-D
(2008)
Artificial Beach and Raalhugandu from the air.
Image via Google Earth.
© 2016 Digital Globe
Young woman meditates while sitting on a rock at the shallower side of Raalhugandu.
Raalhugandu
Henveiru ward
Pentax Optio M30
(2008)
The current Yameen administration has made a second artificial beach on the West side of the island that seems larger and a lot nicer, but I cannot speak about it as I have not been back to the Maldives since its creation a few years ago. All the photographs included in this essay are thus taken between 2006 and 2009. It was a time before GoPros and other action cams had become mainstream. Most of the photographs were therefore taken by using compact cameras in waterproof plastic cases and then later a hard case once I had purchased myself a Canon G10 in mid-2009. There are also a few photographs that were taken using an expired disposable underwater camera from Tropicolour.
Expired Disposable Underwater Tropicolor 35mm film camera
(2007)
The area you could swim in used to be much longer and when I was a child the boats were limited to the very edge. As a result the water used to be a lot clearer and less polluted. This also meant that the Track was a lot more accessible to the public and thus less crowded.
The area of the track you could swim in used to extend from the harbour on the lower left to a bit beyond where it ends on the far right.
Image via Google Earth.
© 2016 Digital Globe
Close up of current track area with swimming buoys visible in the middle.
Image via Google Earth.
© 2016 Digital Globe
The barrier which now separates the track from the rest of the harbour.
Nikon D70s
(2007)
The track side on the left of the barrier.
The harbour side on the right of the barrier.
One of my earliest memories is going swimming there with my Father and some cousins. I was a child and barely knew how to swim so I clung to his back as he swam across the divide. Two thirds of the way there he spotted an abandoned suitcase on the bottom. He tells me to wait as he dives down below. I nervously tread water and open my eyes underwater to watch his descent. He glides down and picks it up off the bottom. A cloud of dust surrounds him. He resurfaces and shakes his head. I grab onto his shoulders and we continue our journey across to the tripod rocks. It is my first memory of swimming by myself.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
Along the island facing side there used to be moored many barges, or “bandu” (literally: stomach or belly). Off these rusting Goliath's young people used to ride their bikes straight into the water. Sometimes they’d do a flourish in the air, sometimes they’d just tumble in, but they all remembered to kick the bikes away lest it hit them on the way down.
With great effort they would then pull up the sunken bikes so that they and their friends can have another go. Too young to have my own bike and too shy to talk to them, I used to just watch in awe. “One day I’m going to ride my bike off a bandu!” I’d think to myself, fantasising about all the cool aerial manoeuvres I’d pull off.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
Back then instead of the swimming practises being restricted to the floating constructions in the middle of the track, they used to be conducted perpendicular to the sea wall. Our laps would almost always consist of swimming from the road side to the tripod rocks and back. “Do 20 laps!”, our instructor would say, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a lack of proper markings meant that each consecutive lap would be shorter from the far side.
Despite it still being cleaner than what it is like now, it was still far from the pristine waters depicted in tourist propaganda. Everyone would always have some itch or rash that they were suffering from; probably in no small part due to a mysterious blue pipe that was constantly pumping out a warm toxic cloud of god knows what. Ironically that pipe was how most of us got out of the track. There were no ladders so it provided firm enough ground from which you could grab onto the edge and pull yourself up. You could try to grip and push off the side of the wall itself, but this usually resulted in cut feet from the barnacles or worse - breaking off the brittle spines of a sea urchin; which was almost impossible to remove from your feet.
Trying to edge it out with a needle, as you would do with a splinter, only makes the situation worse as the delicate spine begins to disintegrate. One local remedy, which I have been subjected to multiple times, is to lather the foot in rihaakuru (fish paste from tuna) and to then hover them over a burning fire. The rihaakru heats up, which in turn heats up the embedded spine which then allegedly begins to melt off. I am still suspicious about the efficacy of this treatment, and whether the intense pain was worth it, as it never seemed to remove all of the spines.
By far the best thing about those practices was the sense of community it fostered. Each parent would bring something different for the long weekend sessions; favourites being chilled Milo with sweetened condensed milk instead of sugar and oranges coated in pure glucose powder. Even though the energy drink craze was many decades away we were never lacking in a source of incredibly unhealthy energy.
A highlight for me was taking part in the 2-kilometre race which was swum parallel from one end of the harbour to the track and back again. I came in last, but at least I managed to finish it. I was also, if I recall correctly, about 12 years old at the time; and thus at a considerable size disadvantage compared to most of the other participants to say the least.
Young man screams into the water.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
For a lot of people, the Track was the closest you could get to escaping the claustrophobic heat of the inner city short of leaving the island itself. Many people would sit around the shallow side in waist high water, submerged up to their necks, chatting about current events. Others would sit on or cling to the outer side of the swimming platform - the inner usually being occupied by the swimming practices of various schools.
Women hang onto the edge of the platform.
Another favourite activity was to dive into the water from the road side. Some people would even start from the opposite pavement. They would wait patiently for traffic to cease, after which they would dash across; spring boarding into the water from the concrete at the last possible moment.
Pentax Optio M30
(2007)
I loved the rush of that split second before contact when you are suspended in the air. People would really try to push their luck, sometimes coming within inches of scraping themselves on the rocks which were lined up against the wall of that area of the track. The most impressive jump I’ve ever seen was from this man who flew so far that he managed to land inside the floating swim area, his feet just barely making it past the buoys.
Pentax Optio M30
(2007)
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
The swimming platforms themselves had gone through various iterations before finally settling on the ones made from seemingly indestructible orange and blue plastic buoys that are there today. If I remember correctly they used empty barrels to keep the old wooden platforms afloat. Swimming lanes would be created by ropes that would extend between buoys. As a result these older versions were much less rigid and were prone to drift around in the current.
One of the old platforms.
Nikon D70s
(2007)
Boy sits at the edge of one of the older iterations of the swimming platforms.
Nikon D70s
(2007)
This photograph was taken around the time the new platform was constructed. The older platform lays discarded in the background.
Nikon D70s
(2007)
One of the greatest pleasures in life is to go for a swim when its raining on a hot day. Oh how I miss that feeling. The rain pounds down from above, an onslaught of tepid fat drops that instantly soaks you to the bone. When you make your way into the water, the relative cool of the air makes the water feel extra warm; almost as if it is heated.
Boy stands on plank of floating wood held up by his friends while a rainbow arcs overhead. Looking through my archives I didn't seem to have any photographs of when it was actually raining. I must have been enjoying it too much.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
The sound of the rain against the water drowns out the noise of the city. The sound is hypnotic. Meditative. The complete opposite of what one is used to hearing. No more rumbling machinery. No more buzzing drills and slamming hammers. The roads, normally packed with motorcycles, clear out. The rain also creates the illusion of privacy. One feels safe within the storm, and emboldened by this torrential veil, couples hold each other closer than they would have in the sun.
The STELCO towers from the water on a stormy day.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
Your Track experience really isn’t complete unless you’ve been smacked across the face with a used condom at least once. Conservative attitudes and cramped quarters means that people don’t have much room to breathe; and if you don’t have space to talk in private with a loved one, just imagine how little space there is to have sex. Couples embrace along the floating barriers and sometimes even inside the crevices formed by the tripod rocks.
Girl sits meditating on the tripod rocks staring out to sea.
Expired Disposable Underwater Tropicolor 35mm film camera
(2007)
The tripod rocks themselves could be the basis of its own essay. In a similar manner to how the Track forms a barrier against the bustle of the city, the tripod rocks form a refuge from the Track itself. When I was in primary school I’d listen wide eyed to the tall tales of my cool friend who’d tell me all about his older brother who would go there to smoke cigars in secret. When I was older my friends who smoked cigarettes would continue the tradition by carrying their packs and lighters wrapped up in plastic bags. They would climb to the top of the rocks, unpack their bounty, light up and breathe deeply while staring off into the expanse of the ocean beyond the horizon.
The view from the tripod rocks faces south, away from the atoll.
Image via Google Earth.
© 2016 Digital Globe
© 2016 CNES / Astrium
When you are looking away from the island in that direction for a few brief moments it is as if the city behind you doesn’t exist. The ocean breeze feels fresh and untainted and the sound of the waves constantly crashing down on the rocks drowns out all but the most obnoxious of motorists. Many lovers have sat there, holding hands and staring off into the distance, wondering what the future holds.
View from the rocks at dusk.
View from the rocks at dusk.
Nikon D70s
(2007)
Boy stands on top of the lower section of tripod rocks. These breaks relieve pressure on the rest of the rocks by allowing waves to enter.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
People making their way back off the rocks.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
Shoals of fish gathering near the rocks on the island facing side.
Canon PowerShot A630
(2008)
Unlike a regular swimming pool, sterile and barren, the Track is full of marine life. In many ways it is its own ecosystem, with new arrivals constantly swimming in through the gaps of the tripod rocks. A dead dolphin even made an appearance at one of the practice sessions and caused quite the commotion.
Shoal of small fish underneath the swimming platform.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
The underside of the plastic buoys that make up the current platform is completely covered in moss and other organisms.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
Waves crashing in from where the tripod rocks are lower. This is where most new arrivals enter.
Canon PowerShot A630
(2008)
Various fish swim along the barrier which separates the track from the boats.
Canon PowerShot A630
(2008)
It is a common sight to see small specimens of different kinds of filolhu (a type of fish from the Lethrinidae family - commonly known as emperors) cruising along the sandy bottom. Sometimes this bottom is covered with a certain jellyfish that has the appearance of a cake covered in many little candles.
Close up of the "candles" on one of the "cake" jellyfish.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
A spiky pufferfish swims by.
Pentax Optio M30
(2008)
Some type of blenny or goby resting on the bottom.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
An anemone trying to survive.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
A lot of young people, myself included, would sometimes try to catch a type of pipefish (a relative of the seahorse) with our hands as it often rested along the rocky shallows. Chasing them around provided a fun challenge; although it does seem cruel and unnecessary in retrospect.
The bottom of the track. No pristine white sands here.
Canon PowerShot A630
(2008)
A resting pipefish.
Canon PowerShot A630
(2008)
The tripod rocks are always covered with several types of sea snails and a type of crab. The crabs would sit around in groups picking off bits of moss with their claws. When it was time for them to moult, they would climb up onto higher ground and discard their shells. People would often collect these perfectly preserved carapaces as souvenirs.
Crab sits on the exposed tip of a submerged rock.
Nikon Coolpix 3200
(2007)
A close up of one of the crabs. This photograph was taken at Raalhugandu. The same species is present all around the island.
Henveiru ward
Nikon D70s
(2007)
The state of life in the Track seems to be on the decline. When I was young I’d go with my mother and hunt for raakani, a kind of shellfish that is delicious when barbecued. We’d find them along the bottom and along the shallower parts of the ocean facing side. We kept it up for a few months until we stopped finding them. Perhaps others were doing the same and we were all actively hurting the ecosystem.
A sea urchin covered in a plastic bag. This type is not dangerous as the spikes are a lot short, blunt and much less prone to breaking off.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
Similarly, when I was a teenager I used to accompany some friends who would go hunting in the track for lion fish and other exotic species for their marine tank. These adventures followed a similar pattern. A time of abundance followed by a slow decline until eventually we were barely catching anything at all.
Canon PowerShot G10
(2009)
One thing that was never in short supply is trash. All kinds of trash. You name it, it’s there. Bottles, cooking utensils, chairs, entire beds, all manner of plastic and food wrappers, cigarette butts, pens, pencils, cans, clothing, national flags, motor parts; if it was something that someone in Male’ city had used it at some point, then it was almost a certainty that you'd find it at the track.
Other than various sporadic efforts to clean up the place by youths and various other organisations, there isn’t really a system in place to manage the trash.
Pentax Optio M30
(2007)
Maldivian’s have an extremely nonchalant attitude towards waste disposal. A clue is in our word for beach - “gondudhoh”; which literally translates to by the (dhoh) trash dump (gondu). In islands that still have beaches, the tradition is maintained by turning one side of the island into a complete ecological disaster. Many islands I’ve visited have had this side completely inaccessible as the bottom is covered with dangerous trash such as broken glass and hundreds of little cans of tomato paste. Another historical use of the beach was to defecate - the method being to dig a small hole in the sand which one would cover afterwards. This was even the case in Male’ for when my parents’ generation was young as back then the island still had some of its beaches intact. They would tell us stories to gross us out, about how bad the place smelled, and how they would occasionally step on someone else’s business accidentally.
The current residents of Male’ City are no longer so lucky, so perhaps in a strange way, dumping endless amounts of trash into one of the few places they can still go for a swim is their way of having a gondudhoh of their own.
A small Maldivian flag lays discarded at the bottom of the track.
Pentax Optio M30
(2007)
11 images from my photographic portfolio as interpreted by Google's Deep Dream #dreamdeeply #deepdream
I haven't gotten around to setting it up on my system yet, so I uploaded some of my portfolio to dreamdeeply.com (one of the many third party virtual servers hosting the program) to see how my images would be interpreted by Google's Deep Dream. I've only run 11 through as not to spam them too much. Predictably it's seeing dogs everywhere. It's interesting how some of the scenes become almost unrecognizable. Except for the Tasmanian landscape, all of the photographs were taken in the Maldives. Science has never been so kitsch!
As per request, these are the original images:
25 photographs from 25 Maldivian artists who inspire me
These are all photographers who have taken photographs that have haunted my subconsciousness. Photographs that I'd recognize instantly as being from the mind of these creators, photographs that make your mind gasp and your heart think; and of these they have many. As such choosing a photograph for each artist that truly encapsulates the spirit of their work was a difficult task to say the least.
I went through each of their portfolios, searching for that one shot that truly speaks for itself, an image that would stand the test of time, the crystallization of a moment so imbued with their personal style that they could only have been taken by the unique consciousness of that photographer; an image that hundreds of years from now humans or other sentient beings will look back with wonder at the seeming impossibility of the such a synchronistic event even occurring. For some people it took almost an hour, for others it was as easy as finding a particular image that I remembered seeing earlier and seeing if it held up to the memory. Either way I'm glad I'm doing this now instead of a few years down the road when I'm sure these people will have so many great photographs that picking just one would be insanity inducing.
So in no particular order, here are 25 photographs from 25 Maldivian artists who inspire me.
Aznym Adam
Refty Ahmed
Nazaal Shiyam
Shaari
Ali Samaahy
Nash'ath Mohamed
Ashwa Faheem
Hassan Najmy
Funko
Munshid Mohammed
Mo Manal
Thal ath
Mahin Fayaz
Munish Athif
Maa Nasih
Shifaan Thoufeequ
Mohamed Seeneen
Hamza Hassan
Ibrahim Iujaz
Bugee
Asneem Adam
Ahmed Zahid
Bucky Hussain
Millzero
GI DRONE
Operating photographic equipment manually - Part 1 - The Photographic Triangle
The photographic triangle can be used to interpret the light meter reading in order to achieve your desired exposure.
The Sustainable Fishing Practices of Dhivehi Reef Fishermen (and how the resort industry is screwing them over).
During my time at the Marine Research Centre of the Maldives as a research trainee, I was fortunate enough to go along on one of their reef-fish tagging expeditions to Baa Atoll in February of 2009.
We would go out with the fishermen on their fishing trips during which we would record the daily catch, tag specimens and retrieve tags from specimens which had been released earlier.
We would almost always leave in the early twilight hours and would often not return until it was nearly midnight; dropping off hundreds of kilos of fish to one of the many resorts in the atoll.
For me the most interesting part about all this was not how they catch tons of fish with their hands, instead of nets or rods, or even how they get paid next to nothing by greedy resort operators (more on that later in this article), it was how they would almost always start off the cycle with nothing.
The sun sets as the fishermen make their last attempts at a catch. On that particular day they were after a shoal of yellow-fin tuna, a delicious and high valued fish, that they had the luck of finding.
During my time at the Marine Research Centre of the Maldives as a research trainee, I was fortunate enough to go along on one of their reef-fish tagging expeditions to Baa Atoll in February of 2009.
Marine Research Centre researchers tag a Blue Fin Trevally or Fani Handhi as it is known in Dhivehi.
We would go out with the fishermen on their fishing trips during which we would record the daily catch, tag specimens and retrieve tags from specimens which had been released earlier.
We would almost always leave in the early twilight hours and would often not return until it was nearly midnight; dropping off hundreds of kilos of fish to one of the many resorts in the atoll.
For me the most interesting part about all this was not how they catch tons of fish with their hands, instead of nets or rods, or even how they get paid next to nothing by greedy resort operators (more on that later in this article), it was how they would almost always start off the cycle with nothing.
They did not leave bait for the next day and they did not buy it.
Every morning they would head out to find a good reef and on the way there they would use trolling lines to catch that all important first fish. It would usually be one of the many predatory fish which lurk along the edges of the reef like a latti.
They usually only needed to catch one as their plan was much more elegant than simply slicing the fish into bait chunks.
Instead, they would grind it into a fine chum, which would then be placed inside a jar or similar waterproof container.
A fisherman collects the chum he has createdinto a water-tight glass jar
The men make a team and spread out to search a wider area for bait fish
Once they were satisfied that they had enough, the search would begin for a reef which housed an adequate number of muguraan or fusiliers. They would usually do this by sight, slowly driving along the edges of different reefs, instead of relying on fish-finders or other devices.
One a shoal was spotted, the Dhoni would be left to drift near the top of it and a man would sneak into the water; making sure not to make too many splashes incase it scared the fish away.
One of the men spots a shoal
He makes sure to swim silently, disturbing the water as little as possible.
He would wear a mask, snorkel and fins and in his hands he would hold the jar full of chum.
He would slowly sink down until he hovered in the liquid space above the shoal. He would then open up the jar and release into the crystal water a few pinches of the ground up flesh
A slow and steady descent; almost to the bottom of reef.
At first the muguraan would act disinterested, but a few would suddenly break formation to swim up and nip at the fresh fish.
It would perk the interest of more and more of the palm sized fish and the man would slowly lead them upwards, away from the relative safety of the ocean floor.
After a while the whole shoal would be in frenzy, with even a few other species of fish joining in to try and get at the chum.
The net descends. The fishermen make sure to catch only the bait they are targeting.
While this is happening, the dhoni would pull alongside the shoal and a team of men would descend into the water, after dropping a weighted net that usually spanned the length of the entire vessel.
They would dive deep below the elevated shoal and surface on the opposite side; neatly encircling it.
The net would then be hauled back in and the fish would be placed into one of the many sea-water filled tanks in the hull of the dhoni where they would be kept alive for the rest of the day.
If they hadn’t caught enough by this point they would simply use one of the muguraan for chum and repeat the process.
Despite the few courageous stragglers, the catch would almost always be entirely made up of different species of muguraan; exactly the kind of live bait that reef-fish find irresistible.
Close-up of Muguraan shoal
Bait hull full, they would set out to find a channel or reef where they can finally begin to catch the large reef-fish species from which they make their daily bread. They do this with handlines, using the muguraan as both live bait and an attractant; with one of the men throwing fistfuls of the live fish out over the reef.
Because of the targeted nature, and also because the net never touches the bottom of the reef, I found this method of bait procurement and fishing to be incredibly efficient while having a marvellously low impact on the environment.
The catch is stored in the hull until they reach the resort. Here you can see a variety of fish from snappers and groupers to jobfish and trevally. Juveniles and unwanted fish are usually released back.
These men work long and hard beneath the scorching tropical sun in order to support their families.
Many have sun damage in their eyes because they do not own sunglasses to protect themselves from the harsh reflections of the sun against the ocean.
Their lifestyle is worlds apart from the techno-centric denizens of the capital and the comfortable air-conditioned rooms of the resort owners that treat them so poorly. They work tirelessly to catch enough fish to earn a living while the overwhelming majority of the resorts treat them like slaves. They bought the fish at a per kilo rate that was abysmally low for the effort and work they put into catching it.
As I recall back then (in 2009) they were being paid less than a dollar per kilo of fish that would later be sold to tourists at exorbitantly inflated rates per fillet. Indeed most of the justification for the prices they sell these premium dishes tourists for comes from the freshness of the fish. No doubt they are subconsciously misled to believe that the fishermen are being paid well.
The irony of it is that it’s not hard to imagine more forward thinking people paying them extra because of the sustainability of their methods. Just imagine how difficult it has been to convince some fishermen in other countries to give up practices such as dynamite fishing and trawling for example.
We asked some of the men if they had ever requested a raise and they replied saying that many of the resorts responded by threatening to import the fish instead. The livelihood of the fishermen, to the resort owners, was expendable and inconsequential; in other words, the fishermen weren’t selling the fish to the resorts, the resorts were allowing them to sell it to them as if they were doing them some favour.
“They said that if we protest and ask for more money, they can easily import the fish we provide at even cheaper rates, what are we supposed to even do? We wouldn’t even have this money then!” said one man.
The resort owners and managers were thus insidiously aware of the power they wielded over the fishermen as they were the ones who controlled their income.
In some ways the hardest work only begins for these men at the end of the day.
A few resorts would even make the men de-gut and prepare the fish for free, which would leave them at the resort for many hours into the night of what had already been a long and exhausting day. All of the resorts made them thoroughly clean up after they were done but from memory there was only one resort which provided adequate space and hygiene facilities for this task. The happiness the men felt whenever they sold to that particular resort was obvious on their faces and the manner with which they handled themselves during the task. By comparison, when gutting fish at other resorts, where the “facilities” would consist of a tiled floor with a few taps, there would always be an unease hanging in the air; a sickly feeling of unacknowledged oppression, broken only by the cheerful wisecracks that the men would pull on each other to lift spirits and break out of their tired daze.
The rays gathered near the Dhoni in anticipation before the men had even stepped off from it.
To add insult to injury, one of the resorts even forbade them to bring in the fish via the service docks. Instead they were forced to dock their dhoni at the edge and then wade through the lagoon until they reached the beach. To get there, they had to pass through a shoal of enormous stingrays (it is common practice for resorts to regularly feed and “tame” them), which attacked the sacks full of fish with much vigour.
Disgusted, several other Research Centre employees and I went to try and speak with the manager to see if he was aware of the situation. It turned out that he, even though he was a Maldivian himself, was more than aware and was instead rather pleased with himself for coming up with the arrangement. His justification was that it kept the service docks clean of blood and insisted that it would be terrible for a tourist to have to see such mess. The sting rays, he insisted, “were not that big a deal”.
He said this with a straight face and an expression which seemed as if we should be thanking him for this great service. It didn’t help his case that the service docks, being what they were, were barely even seen by guests at all during the daytime; let alone at the late hours (often after 10PM, sometimes as late as midnight) that the fishermen came through.
With their methods they show a natural love for the environment that was not born of books and research but from the sheer experience of having to rely on nature for their sustenance. They never admitted it or acknowledged it, but I could tell that they knew that their methods were just. They could easily use much more damaging methods of fisheries and increase their haul, exploiting the reef in the manner that the resort owners are exploiting them, but for some inexplicable reason they don’t.
They care too much for these waters. They know every fish by name, they know every reef, they know every little uninhabited island that would eventually be turned into a resort and they knew what would come with that resort; the chains of oppression, disguised in the promise of opportunity and riches. More than anything else, most of the men seemed to know who they were. They were men of the sea and they did not struggle with themselves to accept that identity. Their ancestors had sailed these oceans since time immemorial. Long before the Mayflower, long before Mohammed, Jesus, or even Buddha had been born, Dhivehin had already started their love affair with the ocean. With handlines, determination and skill they would catch amounts that would make a trawler captain blush in shame. They knew how to fish and they were superb at it. They loved the ocean and the ocean loved them back.
They were also among the nicest and most humble people I have ever met.
This blatant exploitation and disrespect towards the artisans of our nation’s oldest profession by greedy businessmen is unacceptable and is one of the greatest unspoken tragedies of our island nation.
All photographs © Hani Amir.
Chapter 03 of my work in progress book "Sinking Streets".
Chapter 01 - The Male’ City Swimming Track
Chapter 02 - Doorways to the Sea