Khuredivaru and other island tales
The brief art of socialising
To celebrate the forthcoming holy month of Ramazan Grade 9 gave a dinner this evening, in their classroom, to which all the teachers were dispatched invitations by hand earlier in the day (the usual system for invitations to any party). It was for 6.45. I arrived on time and was welcomed by a few of the class who were sitting or standing around. The tables had been arranged in a long row down the middle of the room spread with food, the chairs ranged round the edge, the whiteboard adorned with a suitable nicely-drawn welcome, the displays spruced and tidied up. Some other teachers started to wander in and sat in a row on one side of the room, smiling pleasantly but not interacting with the hosts, Grade 9, who sat lined up on the other side. I was the lone rebel sitting with the students and asking them about the delights to come. Presently Shifra, the feisty President of the English Club and daughter of Shareef, the Islam teacher, stood up to welcome the teachers and invite them to eat; everyone stood and helped themselves. There was fish curry, and octopus curry (I had never before tasted octopus), and some sausage rolls from the cafe, and two kinds of rice - handumi, a kind of fried rice, and bondibaik, a very sweet rice dish which seems to be eaten indifferently as a pudding or with curry - and pirini, a sort of pudding somewhat like custard with lots of cinnamon. All the arrangements, and all the food (it was delicious) bar the sausage rolls, had been made by the students. The dinner was a great success, in short, and everyone had left within half an hour.
People left, not because it was just a few students who were their hosts, but because that is what socialising here consists of: they come, they eat, they go. It is the least satisfactory aspect of the social life. People don't seem to visit each other much (especially men), and if someone does visit, you are expected to supply something to eat or drink, and they will eat it or drink it and then go away. And the fact that most of the teachers barely spoke to the students (except on their way out) wasn't particularly odd either: I remember the new-baby party on KK with tables groaning with food where people were arriving, shovelling food in and leaving, and though they mostly presumably knew (unlike me) whose party it was, it certainly didn't seem to be a requirement that they seek out their hosts during their brief stay.
I spent most of my time chatting to the students and telling them how delicious the octopus was and asking them what went in the pirini, and I managed to stay for about 33 minutes, i.e. until I was the only member of staff left and the students were gratefully but anxiously thanking me for coming. But even though it was clear I then had to leave, I still felt a bit of a cad for not staying longer after they'd gone to all that effort.
I recently invited a handful of people to dinner to eat the confit de canard I had brought with me from England (and thither last year from France), thinking I would want a break from the local diet after a few months. It was very fine, of course, though the locals were a bit bemused by it. Besides my house-mate and myself there were two pleasant and modern young teachers and a friend of theirs, but still they came, ate and went in not much more than half an hour, making funny little nervous movements when I suggested they should stay a little longer or have a cup of tea.
The lost island of Khuredivaru
Much more acceptable, it seems, is to socialise by sitting in the cafe, though this leaves unanswered the question of what they did till a couple of months ago when there was no cafe. Anyway, a couple of weekends ago I was there with Sambo. 'Have you been to Khuredivaru?' he asked conversationally. I'd never heard of it so he tells me about it:
Khuredivaru is a nearby island which was abandoned about 60 years ago, due to coastal erosion. The legend goes that black magic was practised there. A foreigner arrived one day, and he said, when I die, don't bury me on the land. But they did, and the whole area that included the graveyard was eroded away, leading to their leaving. There really was erosion and it really did include the graveyard, into what is now a shallow lagoon where bones and gravestones can still be seen - Sambo says he has taken pictures there.
A son of the sultan was buried and his grave can still be seen - it was near the mosque, not in the area that was eroded. And there's some story about someone who wrote an early book about Maldives that I couldn't follow.
After they left Khuredivaru, the inhabitants settled on another nearby previously uninhabited island, Bomasdhoo, which they also had to leave because of erosion, and moved again to an island somewhere in the neighbouring Shaviani atoll. There are still some people there who lived on Khuredivaru. Not far from Kudafari there is a shallow area some way off the coast, and story has it that these unlucky islanders had to leave sinking islands not twice but three times - the offshore shallows being the site of their original pre-Khuredivaru home.
Sauce for the gosling
I was there more recently when Jadhulla and Nashida came in - I only found out not long ago that N, a funny and splendid young teacher, is J's wife - with their daughter, whose name I forget but who is 2 and charming, and who bawled on leaving until she like they had had a little piece of areca nut to chew pushed into her mouth.
Missing mass
I managed to get over to Kendhikulhudhoo a couple of weeks ago for a visit, and in a cheerful visit saw most of the usual suspects and was hailed in the streets by numerous persons of all ages most of whose names I couldn't begin to guess, though they knew mine. Slightly alarmingly three people independently told me I'd lost weight. I have lost weight of course, though most of it I thought while I was still there, but I didn't realise it was quite so obtrusive.
On not having plans
Everyone seems to assume that I will come back next year. The only question is whether I will come back to Kudafari, go to a school on another island or go and do some interesting-sounding job in the Province Office, which Sambo is keen for me to do. I hadn't thought about it much, but I am beginning to assume I will come back, too. (Anyone want to rent a flat in central Cambridge next year?) But no-one round here makes plans that far in advance.
To celebrate the forthcoming holy month of Ramazan Grade 9 gave a dinner this evening, in their classroom, to which all the teachers were dispatched invitations by hand earlier in the day (the usual system for invitations to any party). It was for 6.45. I arrived on time and was welcomed by a few of the class who were sitting or standing around. The tables had been arranged in a long row down the middle of the room spread with food, the chairs ranged round the edge, the whiteboard adorned with a suitable nicely-drawn welcome, the displays spruced and tidied up. Some other teachers started to wander in and sat in a row on one side of the room, smiling pleasantly but not interacting with the hosts, Grade 9, who sat lined up on the other side. I was the lone rebel sitting with the students and asking them about the delights to come. Presently Shifra, the feisty President of the English Club and daughter of Shareef, the Islam teacher, stood up to welcome the teachers and invite them to eat; everyone stood and helped themselves. There was fish curry, and octopus curry (I had never before tasted octopus), and some sausage rolls from the cafe, and two kinds of rice - handumi, a kind of fried rice, and bondibaik, a very sweet rice dish which seems to be eaten indifferently as a pudding or with curry - and pirini, a sort of pudding somewhat like custard with lots of cinnamon. All the arrangements, and all the food (it was delicious) bar the sausage rolls, had been made by the students. The dinner was a great success, in short, and everyone had left within half an hour.
People left, not because it was just a few students who were their hosts, but because that is what socialising here consists of: they come, they eat, they go. It is the least satisfactory aspect of the social life. People don't seem to visit each other much (especially men), and if someone does visit, you are expected to supply something to eat or drink, and they will eat it or drink it and then go away. And the fact that most of the teachers barely spoke to the students (except on their way out) wasn't particularly odd either: I remember the new-baby party on KK with tables groaning with food where people were arriving, shovelling food in and leaving, and though they mostly presumably knew (unlike me) whose party it was, it certainly didn't seem to be a requirement that they seek out their hosts during their brief stay.
I spent most of my time chatting to the students and telling them how delicious the octopus was and asking them what went in the pirini, and I managed to stay for about 33 minutes, i.e. until I was the only member of staff left and the students were gratefully but anxiously thanking me for coming. But even though it was clear I then had to leave, I still felt a bit of a cad for not staying longer after they'd gone to all that effort.
I recently invited a handful of people to dinner to eat the confit de canard I had brought with me from England (and thither last year from France), thinking I would want a break from the local diet after a few months. It was very fine, of course, though the locals were a bit bemused by it. Besides my house-mate and myself there were two pleasant and modern young teachers and a friend of theirs, but still they came, ate and went in not much more than half an hour, making funny little nervous movements when I suggested they should stay a little longer or have a cup of tea.
The lost island of Khuredivaru
Much more acceptable, it seems, is to socialise by sitting in the cafe, though this leaves unanswered the question of what they did till a couple of months ago when there was no cafe. Anyway, a couple of weekends ago I was there with Sambo. 'Have you been to Khuredivaru?' he asked conversationally. I'd never heard of it so he tells me about it:
Khuredivaru is a nearby island which was abandoned about 60 years ago, due to coastal erosion. The legend goes that black magic was practised there. A foreigner arrived one day, and he said, when I die, don't bury me on the land. But they did, and the whole area that included the graveyard was eroded away, leading to their leaving. There really was erosion and it really did include the graveyard, into what is now a shallow lagoon where bones and gravestones can still be seen - Sambo says he has taken pictures there.
A son of the sultan was buried and his grave can still be seen - it was near the mosque, not in the area that was eroded. And there's some story about someone who wrote an early book about Maldives that I couldn't follow.
After they left Khuredivaru, the inhabitants settled on another nearby previously uninhabited island, Bomasdhoo, which they also had to leave because of erosion, and moved again to an island somewhere in the neighbouring Shaviani atoll. There are still some people there who lived on Khuredivaru. Not far from Kudafari there is a shallow area some way off the coast, and story has it that these unlucky islanders had to leave sinking islands not twice but three times - the offshore shallows being the site of their original pre-Khuredivaru home.
Sauce for the gosling
I was there more recently when Jadhulla and Nashida came in - I only found out not long ago that N, a funny and splendid young teacher, is J's wife - with their daughter, whose name I forget but who is 2 and charming, and who bawled on leaving until she like they had had a little piece of areca nut to chew pushed into her mouth.
Missing mass
I managed to get over to Kendhikulhudhoo a couple of weeks ago for a visit, and in a cheerful visit saw most of the usual suspects and was hailed in the streets by numerous persons of all ages most of whose names I couldn't begin to guess, though they knew mine. Slightly alarmingly three people independently told me I'd lost weight. I have lost weight of course, though most of it I thought while I was still there, but I didn't realise it was quite so obtrusive.
On not having plans
Everyone seems to assume that I will come back next year. The only question is whether I will come back to Kudafari, go to a school on another island or go and do some interesting-sounding job in the Province Office, which Sambo is keen for me to do. I hadn't thought about it much, but I am beginning to assume I will come back, too. (Anyone want to rent a flat in central Cambridge next year?) But no-one round here makes plans that far in advance.