An island in the sun, with sand, sea and sheikhs

By KATE SIMON

The Maldives are drowning.

In 30 years, 50 years or 150 years, depending on whom you believe, these little spits of sand could be totally submerged by the Indian Ocean.

From the window of our plane, they are an amazing sight: circles within circles of blue sea, green lagoon and white sand, crowned by a forest of palms. There are nearly 2,000 in a long string south-west of Sri Lanka, created by coral growing on the peaks of collapsed volcanoes. From up here, they look like a pox ravaging the surface of the sea. It's a visual lesson in geology for the scientifically challenged like me.


Our plane skids to a halt on a sliver of sand just a few kilometres long. This is the airport island – a whole island just for an airport. It's not unusual for islands to serve a single purpose in the Maldives. There's a whole island dedicated to a tuna-canning factory.

A whole island for the capital city, Male (Mah-lay). There's even a whole island for the country's rubbish dump, Trash Island. But most importantly for the country's economy, whole islands are also given over to tourist resorts and we are off to visit one of the most recent additions, the Taj Exotica Resort and Spa.


Outside the airport terminal, smart speedboats bob by the quay in excited anticipation of the lucrative cargo they are about to carry to one of the growing number of luxury resorts. Our group is among the latest booty to be decanted from a Qatar Airways flight. We are a shabby bunch of journalists, but our fellow fliers are sheikhs – this is the kind of place where you can reasonably expect to rub shoulders with a movie star.


Blame the hippies. In the Seventies, the Maldives were favoured by backpackers, but they scandalised local Sunni Muslim society with their nude bathing and drug-taking. So the government hired consultants to repackage the country as a luxury destination and now you won't get much change out of £2,000 for a week's holiday here (and that's at the cheaper resorts, too).


We wait in the shade of a tree as our hotel reps direct porters to gather up our luggage and dispense cooling, mint-scented face towels to mop our soon-perspiring brows, and thirst-quenching drinks to ward off dehydration in the midday heat. This is just a taste of the uninterrupted pampering we are about to experience. Over the next seven days, we learn to grin and bear this conveyor belt of comforts.


We board a speedboat and skim across the waves, leaving in our wake the dhonis, the traditional wooden boats with long, arching prows which take locals from island to island. The wind presses our mouths into wide smiles, or perhaps we are just elated by the fact that someone has suddenly switched on the colour, or the sight of the flying fish leaping out of the boat's surf, or the warmth of the breeze. It doesn't get much better than this.


Just 15 minutes later we arrive at the resort, greeted not only with more cool towels and iced drinks but also by the general manager, Rajesh Jhingon. Rajesh is a handsome man who can't be out of his 30s. He exudes confidence and commands the kind of respect that elicits whispers about "genius" and "inspiration", one of a new breed of general manager who don't just toe the company line but help to invent it.


In some ways, the Taj Exotica is like many other resorts in its class. It is built predominantly from wood, uses thatch on the roofs, marble in the bathrooms, exotic furnishings, exquisite fabrics and fragrances, and hi-tech gadgetry. Local sources have been engaged where possible and eco-friendly policies observed. All to lure prospective guests. But the Taj resort has an edge, which, it becomes obvious, is the Rajesh touch. "We have the only state-of-the-art dry-cleaning system in the Maldives," he announces during our tour of the bedroom suites. "And we bought it just for these cushions." He points at the silk-covered offenders carefully strewn across the bed and laughs at the folly. It's as though someone gave him a blank cheque and an open air ticket and sent him off on a worldwide shopping trip and he still can't quite believe the extravagant gifts he bought.


On the other hand, he didn't have much to play with. The Taj island is tiny. It takes just 10 minutes to walk from one end to the other and barely seconds to stride across it. Yet, it has everything the discerning holidaymaker will desire: as well as sun, sea and sand, there are two restaurants (one at either end of the island), a shop, a spa, an infinity pool, a dive centre, and a choice of beach, water or lagoon villas, the last being the most expensive option, arranged off the far end of the island in the fanciful shape of the veins of a leaf.


Rajesh's touch is tangible everywhere. He has created a games room and a library containing 1,000 books for guests to while away time should the skies cloud over (and they do sometimes). He told us of his idea to introduce jazz on the beach once a week. And, the biggest wheeze of all, his masterplan to create the ultimate package: personal jet, presidential suite, top masseurs flown in from Bali, that kind of thing – a snip for a Texan oil billionaire at around $90,000.


Such riches are the stuff of dreams for ordinary Maldivians. In the capital, Male, the tuna-fishing industry still dominates and the fast-advancing ambitions of international capital are apparent on the hoardings on the smart seafront buildings. From a distance, Male island looks like the developing world's Manhattan. Close up, the mass of high-rise buildings threaten to topple into the ocean and it becomes clear why a nearby island is being reclaimed to provide room for the capital to spread.


Unless you have time to take a taxi around the residential areas, you are likely to get little more than a glimpse of the city centre. It's a pretty, if ramshackle place, threaded with the narrowest of roads. There are carefully tended gardens across from the quay, a small and rather crude museum, ancient and modern mosques, an intriguing royal cemetery with different shaped headstones for male and female graves, and the president's imposing palace (a subject of much discontent).


But I was eager to visit the fish market. Morbidly fascinated by displays of dead fish, I fantasised about the tropical catch we would see. But even I was disappointed at the boring display of row upon row of fat-bellied silver tuna lying on the vast market hall floor. The only light relief was afforded by the skilled fishmongers stationed at one side of the hall, gutting and filleting the hefty creatures in 30 seconds flat, never taking their eyes off the activity around them.


It was more than the others could stomach. We headed back to the speedboat and home. After all, who needs reality on a holiday like this?

- INDEPENDENT


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