Laid-Back Heaven In Malé

Ed Peters strolls around downtown Malé which, he says, is refreshingly devoid of must-sees.

Quite how or why Zero Cool got his nickname is lost in the annals of history, but a somewhat fluid mystique is part and parcel of Malé, so who better to show you round the capital of a country that’s 99.9 percent water? So laid-back it was a wonder he could stand upright, ZC meandered over shortly after I had disembarked at Jetty One, mildly culture-shocked at being teleported from the blissful sun, sand n’ solitude of the Anantara Resort to the biggest metropolis within 805km. Instead of the scary extrovert persona bubbling with facts and figures adopted by tour guides the world over, Zero Cool managed to convey, without saying in quite so many words, that he happened to be wandering about and if I wanted to tag along too, then he had no real objection. Endlessly informative when asked a question, for the rest of the time he retired behind his reflector shades, comfortingly ignoring the buzzing of his mobile phone, a Maldivian boulevardier to the manner born. Malé is less than two kilometres square, two metres above sea level, home to some 80,000 souls and refreshingly devoid of must-sees. Rather, the island needs to be viewed as a whole, floating like Lemuel Gulliver’s Leputa amid the Maldivian archipelago. As we strolled its byways and goalhis (short narrow lanes), nobody gawked, nobody hassled, nobody catcalled and city life simply unfurled much as it must have done when Marco Polo or Ibn Battutah passed by, give or take a few score motor scooters. Zero Cool did manage to rouse himself to indicate the strict injunction against taking photographs of the National Security Services Headquarters, which we passed hurriedly on the way to the Grand Friday Mosque, where we entered shoeless to gaze on its pacific marbled halls. Across the street, the Sultan’s Park is one of the very few green spaces in Malé, shrouded by centuries-old rain trees and containing the National Museum. Normally such institutions bristle with hi-tech interpretation, audio-visual what-nots and diversionary souvenir shops, but here the expo was contained in three musty storeys, the last remnant of the long-deposed sultan’s palace. Just as interesting as the one-time ruler’s cooking utensils and the collection of pre-Islamic carvings dug up by Thor Heyerdahl were the curators, who fairly skittered with glee at the prospect of having their photo taken and chattered merrily, if not entirely accurately, about the artefacts. A piece of living history stood just a few hundred metres away, in the shape of the fish market. The boats, glorious Technicolor affairs with sweeping prows, docked across the road and statuesque sailfish and tuna were humped by the hundred onto the market floor. No ice, no refrigeration, simply a huddle of buyers who scooped up the catch and bore it kitchenward, to be eaten that very day. A little to the west, the fruit and vegetable market trumpeted its presence with hands of bananas standing as high as their vendors, piles of tropical spices and a mound of coconuts topped by a snoozing trader who seemed as unperturbed by his lumpy bedding as the lack of custom. Idling along in search of lunch, we were stopped by two soldiers who explained it was their bounden duty to carry out a thorough inspection of my camera to see if I had taken any pictures of the ultra-secret National Security Services Headquarters. I promised I hadn’t. Looking visibly relieved, they made off. “Salaam aleikum,” I called to their retreating backs. “Aleikum salaam,” one replied, with a quick smile. Alcohol and Malé don’t mix, so I settled for a fresh mango juice in the verdant courtyard of the Royal Garden Café on Medhuziyaarai Mugu, and a plate of rice and dal before heading off in search of some souvenir shopping ­– an exercise in frustration as most of the stores clustered along Chandanee Magu stock pretty much the same tee-shirts, seashells and other Maldivian mementoes (perhaps to save themselves the trouble of appearing too competitive). Zero Cool had receded into the background some time after lunch, so I was left to wander Malé without his wraith-like presence, marvelling at its other-worldliness and the picaresque names folk chose for their houses like Starling, Banana Cabin and Aston Villa. Overcrowding is the greatest problem here, and the government is busily constructing a new city on the nearby atoll called Hulhumale. I’m sure it’s going to be a miracle of modern town planning; but will it embrace the charm that Malé has in spades? Darn progress!