Maafushi

Maafushi is an old fishing and boatbuilding village, one of the inhabited islands of Kaafu Atoll, and for most of its history it lived as such islands did: a few hundred people around a mosque, a harbour and a school, with income from tuna caught by pole and line and from seasonal work elsewhere. It also holds the country's largest prison, which for decades was the thing most Maldivians associated with the name.

The turning point was the Indian Ocean tsunami of 26 December 2004, which washed over the low island and destroyed much of it. Residents were displaced while the island was cleared and rebuilt, and new housing, a raised harbour area and coastal protection went in during the reconstruction that followed.

The second turning point was legal. Until 2009 tourists in the Maldives were confined almost entirely to resort islands under the country's one-island, one-resort model; a change of policy that year allowed guesthouses on inhabited islands, opening local-island tourism for the first time. Maafushi, close to the capital and the airport and with a rebuilt harbour, moved first and fastest. Guesthouses multiplied along its lanes, dive shops and excursion boats followed, and the island became the model that dozens of other communities copied. The growth brought money and jobs, and with them debates about crowding, waste and water that continue on the island today.

Maafushi shows the two halves of the Maldives on one small island. The village side is conservative and Muslim: the mosque calls five times a day, shops pause for prayer, women generally cover, and Friday midday is quiet before families gather in the afternoon. The visitor side is a screened beach where swimwear is allowed, loungers are set out and speedboats come and go. The arrangement is practical, publicly signposted, and taken seriously by islanders.

Village life follows the patterns common to Maldivian communities. Extended families live close together, children are raised collectively, and the football pitch and the harbour wall are where evenings are spent. Bodu beru, the big-drum music of the islands, is played at weddings and national holidays, and boat work — fishing, ferrying, diving — is the shared trade. Dhivehi is the language of the island, and English is spoken in almost every guesthouse.

For visitors, the customs that matter are simple and firmly held: cover shoulders and knees away from the bikini beach, do not bring alcohol onto the island, ask before taking photographs of people, and keep Ramadan in mind if visiting during the fasting month, when eating or drinking in public during daylight causes offence. Islanders are used to foreigners and generally relaxed about honest mistakes, but the rules are the community's, not the tourism industry's.

The 2022 census counted about 4,500 people on the island, some 3,200 of them Maldivians and the rest foreign residents who come from abroad, mostly Bangladesh, to work in guesthouses and construction, alongside a large floating population of guests. The island is small, a few hundred metres across at its widest, so the village, the harbour, the school, the health centre and the beach are all within a few minutes' walk of one another.

Tourism is now the main employer, directly and through the boats, shops, laundries and building work that support it. Fishing continues alongside it, and government jobs and the prison provide steady work. Almost everything consumed on the island arrives by boat from Male, which sets prices, and fresh water comes from desalination and rainwater tanks.

The rhythm of the day is set by boats and prayer. Excursion dhonis leave soon after breakfast and return in the afternoon; the ferry and the speedboats bring arrivals at set times; the beach fills late in the day when the heat drops, and the village comes out after sunset, when it is cooler and the tea houses are busy. Waste disposal, sand erosion along the shore and the pressure of building on a small island are the issues islanders raise most often.

Eating on Maafushi is guesthouse and café food, plainly done, and nobody should arrive expecting resort dining. Breakfast is usually mas huni — smoked tuna shredded with grated coconut, onion and chilli — eaten with the flatbread roshi, alongside eggs, toast and fruit for those who prefer it. Lunch and dinner tend to be curry and rice, grilled reef fish, pasta or fried noodles, cooked in the guesthouse kitchen and served at fixed times.

Maldivian home cooking runs through it all, built on tuna, coconut and rice. Garudhiya, the clear tuna broth taken over rice with lime, chilli and onion, is the everyday meal; rihaakuru, the thick brown tuna paste, is spooned alongside; and hedhika, the fried short eats, fill the village tea houses in the morning and late afternoon — bajiya pastries, gulha dumplings that burst with smoked tuna, and fish rolls, taken with very sweet milk tea.

No alcohol is sold anywhere on the island, and none may be brought in. In its place are fresh fruit juices, lime and soda, milk tea and coffee, and the beach cafés do a steady trade in all of them. Fish is the one thing that is genuinely local and genuinely good — tuna landed at the harbour, and reef fish grilled over coals in the evening — while the fruit, vegetables and almost everything else on the plate has come in by boat.