Life On the Edge

Today we were in Male, the capital of the Republic of the Maldives. If you’re scratching your head over that one, rest assured I’d never heard of it either. It’s a long chain of tiny islands and atolls just to the south-southwest of India. There are many weird things about the Maldives, but the first weird thing you notice is that it is the flattest country on the planet. Each of the islands (and there are about 1,200 or so) are right at sea level. The topographical highpoint for the entire nation is only 2.3 meters (see, I’m getting with the program on the metrics thing) or 7 ft. 7 in. above sea level. So, when you look out on this string of tiny islands, it looks like the trees and beaches and so on are simply floating like cornflakes in a bowl. Way weird. To say that these folks have “issues” with global warming (even a 6 in. rise in the sea level here would wipe out many of the islands) would be an understatement.
The capital city, Male, which we docked near (the sea is so shallow here we had to tender in) is a compact town of twisty streets and mid-rise buildings. It’s nothing spectacular. It’s hot as hell. The streets are filled with motor bikes and guys hustling tourists to go into their souvenir shops. We went into a couple of them, but the prices are ridiculous. Everything must be brought in here (there are absolutely no resources except gorgeous beaches and world-class diving and fishing) so the little Maldive knick-knacks and tee-shirts are all made in India or China and then sold here for ten times the price. We bought a few postcards and Tom bought a shirt that will probably shrink up to my size the first time we wash it (ha! I never get anything new; I just wait for his stuff to shrink).
Another weird thing about The Republic of the Maldives is that it’s a strictly Islamic nation, so I got some disparaging looks in town even though I wore khaki shorts that came to my knees and a very modest top that had a high neckline but was sleeveless. To see these women scurrying down the streets wrapped from head to toe in this stifling heat (about 100 F.) is enough to make me offer up yet another prayer of gratitude for being born on my side of the world. There was a word of warning from the ship’s cruise director that two-piece swim suits are strictly forbidden in this tightly-controlled Muslim nation. In a previous cruise I guess some young women chose to test the “bikini law” and they ended up in jail! Sheesh. Get me outta here.
Tom is becoming less and less tolerant of the goofy Muslim do’s and don’ts. We’ve heard travel is supposed to open your mind, but after seeing and experiencing the many bizarre, and sometimes downright inhumane, restrictions placed on people (read that as “women”—as the men seem to have it pretty jake) in these strict Islamic countries, we’ve decided we’re less tolerant of the idiocy than we were before. We heard from other passengers that those holding Israeli passports were denied entry to Brunei (one of the previous Islamic countries we visited) and had to stay on the ship. And we’re not talking about cocky, muscled-up young bucks who may be Mossad or Jewish settler-types—we’re talking about kindly old ladies with walkers and a guy who’s got osteoporosis so bad he looks like a question mark.
I brought along all the “accoutrements” to allow a lowly woman like me to visit a mosque—the long skirt, the blouse with sleeves and high neckline, the headscarf, the shut mouth and downcast eyes—the whole bit. But the more I see of these places, the less I care to demean myself by going along with the program. I’ll snap a few pics of the outside but I’ll pass on gawking at the interior. I guess it’s just my nature to not give them the satisfaction of looking me up and down (that’s what they do) to see if I meet their approval. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.