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a meeting with the Blood bodun by Dhon Keyothi Part 6  It was late, about one oclock in the morning, when some of my important friends from the Fort call by in their jeep and invite me on a short journey over the border into Resortrajje. These islands were originally part of Maldives but somehow, over the last twenty years, it has become a separate atoll nation. And wow! is it popular! People pay a fortune just to live there for a few days. In Resortrajje, women don't work as cooks or cleaners unless they get paid, and everything stays open during prayer times. I have travelled there doing cultural research into their curious customs and traditions. Surprisingly, a lot of Maldivians manage to assimilate and live in Resortrajje quite happily. Relations between Maldives and its new neighbour are good, which is lucky because a wild border island known as the Gabulhi resort is only a short trip north of the island of Blood. That's where we are heading now. The jeep cruises towards the harbour through the empty streets, and I notice my friends are in full ceremonial uniform — medals, yellow cordage, etc. — just what you'd expect for a Keyothi escort. 'Not many people around this time of night, are there?' I comment. 'We try and get the people to bed early, Keyothi,' my friends tell me. 'It's safer for them. You never know what condition our patrol drivers are in.' Further evidence of their dedicated professionalism occurs when we become aware of moaning from a nearby house. My friends screech to a halt, and charge through the door into a dark bedroom. They drag out two people and one of the officers marches the couple off to the Fort while the others return to the jeep. 'Thank God we got there in time,' they say. ' There was no marriage certificate! If we hadn't acted, anything could have happened.' A few moments later we are driving past another house. The lights are on and we can hear a woman screaming and crying, and a husband yelling and banging. My friends slow down, but this time they don't stop. 'Sounds like a domestic family matter,' they mutter. 'Not right for us to interfere.' We arrive at the harbour and park near our beloved nation's new turbo-charged racing launch. The government leaves it tied up at the arumaazu jetty for citizens who want to make an impression when they go visiting (fair enough, our sweat and taxes paid for it) so no one complains when we march aboard and start the engines. A few minutes later, phosphorescence glitters around the hull as we navigate through the dark thickness of the rolling sea. 'Sure beats the kan'dufathi they use in the atolls,' I comment, watching the lights dance across the water. Inspired, I break into political poetry and tell them about my grand plan for education, health services, and unleashing the intellectual energy of the Dhivehi people to flood our islands with progress and pleasure. My gaily medalled friends are similarly inspired by the magic of the night, and their thoughts also turn to crucial matters. 'Yeah yeah yeah, Keyothi, this is what they all say. Let's stop beating around the heylhi. What's in it for us?' 'You'll see the happiness and fruitful development of your beloved country, and experience the love and affection of the heroic Keyothi. What more do you want?' I ask. 'Fat Swiss bank accounts and retirement houses for our wives in London and Singapore,' they sing together in perfect harmony. I am more than a little surprised. These boys are sophisticated global thinkers! Thank kalaan'ge, they are on my side. However it is also clear that tangible evidence of my sincerity is required. They will not have to wait long. Soon we hear the pulsating throb of loud music mixed with the shouts and laughter of intoxicated men and women, and our launch slides into a brightly lit jetty. Are these people licensed? Or is it one of those domestic things? Then I realise we are over the border. No problemo! There are a few seconds of culture shock as we get used to the sight of carefree people having fun, and then my uniformed friends lead me to where the Blood bodun always gather and feel most at home — the Gabulhi bar. 'Yo Keyothi!' they cry, as your humble hero and well-ironed entourage walk in. 'How's the presidential bid going, you mad banana-bender?' The bodun are into their seventh round of dhoaraa and coke, so naturally the tone of their conversation is distinctly spiritual. 'Make mine a Mysore rose water — neat, respectable and on the rocks,' I say with a coolness that belies the warmth around me. I swallow it with a single gulp and in the awed silence that follows, I make the first great tactical move of my campaign. 'Gentlemen, it is time for the official announcement of the creation of a huge Maldivian export corporation — Fanditha Inc..' The silence lengthens, so I shorten it. 'Back in our great country there are countless coconuts hanging in the palm trees doing nothing but feeding rats and dropping on people's heads. The rooms around here are full of serious seekers after love, fulfilment and satisfaction.
The fanditha is working already, and the Blood bodun are spellbound as I explain my vision of fleets of dhoani heading into Resortrajje loaded with cargoes pulsating with the full erotic energy of Maldivian coconut magic, and returning stuffed with US dollars and assorted foreign currencies. My listeners rise as one, and clap and cheer their applause in honour of my business acumen. They discuss rewarding me with my own island. I hear Guraadhoo mentioned, but it is too soon to accept any honours. My thoughts are elsewhere, and I sense the news is spreading among the hundreds of rough coral brick homes that hold the secrets of sorcery discovered by endless generations of Dhivehin. The country's fanditha men are waking to urgent questions from their favourite wives, and it isn't hard to guess what these fine women are asking: 'Hey, Mr Magic, the Gabulhi bar is jumping and Fanditha Inc. shares are going ballistic. Is your licence up to date?' To be continued Notes: Bodun elite leaders and powerbrokers. Rajje kingdom. Arumaazu royal journey. Kan'dufathi tiny rafts made of buoyant kan'du timber, controlled using a long pole. Heylhi low tangled growth and bushes found at the edge of islands. Kalaan'ge the divine being, God Dhoaraa (Addu atoll dialect) arak, potent liquor distilled from coconut toddy, is also known in Dhivehi as aragu and rukuraa. Dhivehin the Dhivehi-speaking Maldivian people. Guraadhoo the island where Maldivians are treated for severe psychiatric illnesses. |
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Maldives Culture is an independent internet magazine of Maldivian cultural issues.
Editors and translators: Michael O'Shea and Fareesha Abdulla, Australia
We invite contributions from Maldivians and others interested in Maldives.
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