Maldives: The Last Horizon

It’s the only five-star resort in the Maldives with its own international airport— and that’s saying something in an archipelago with arguably the world’s finest collection of super-luxury hotels per square kilometre (or island). Guests may land in private jets chartered to their convenience, customs and immigration formalities are completed onsite, their luggage whisked off as they recline in a private lounge before being escorted to the waiting boat and plush villa. Indeed, some seriously celeb per­sonalities, la haute Bourgeoisie wedding guests and political heavyweights are known to do precisely this but their privacy is guarded so diligently that I couldn’t unearth any names. Even departures by commoner passenger airliners have suitcases picked up an hour ahead—I was handed my boarding pass as I sipped tea, munched cookies and contemplat­ed the interesting ways of the world.

Our arrival was no less impressive: the stopover at Malé was a blur of impeccable courtesy preceded by a thrilling motor boat ride at 2am from the airport to hotel, the water glimmering tur­quoise wherever light fell on it, and it was a pitch-black night. It’s true, that impossible blue, truer than any brochure that beguiles you to the Maldives, believe me.

My destination on the following day was Villingili near Gan, the southernmost island in the Maldives’ southernmost atoll of Addu. Another Shangri-La, named for the famous and otherwise mythical paradise, is to be found here. Guests arrive to putt about the only golf course in the Maldives, sail in a luxury yacht to lunch over the Equator, and stroll by to a pampering spa from vast villas with jaw-dropping views, each featuring a pool and three bathrooms apiece. I did that and, through my stay, I did not see another soul unless I left my villa or asked for room service. Not from my sun deck, or from the dimly lit tropical jungle walkway, not from the thatched-roof yoga pavilion leaning peaceably into the ocean, nor the living or bed rooms, the open-to-sky shower, not even from my swimming pool. Indeed, the resort’s landscap­ing is inspired and every villa (except those on the water, which are arrayed one after the other) relies on artfully placed vegeta­tion and walls to become startlingly exclusive. I wasn’t going to get any closer to owning a private island.

Heart-shaped Addu’s strategic seclu­sion and calm anchorage made it a significant British military outpost during WWII. Gan, which was cryptically called Port T by the Brits, was their airbase and its current international airport, only the second for the Maldives after Malé, is a legacy of those eventful times. Fortunately for us, Addu’s idyllic destiny returned soon enough. Locals will tell you it’s different even from the northern, ‘busier’ parts of the Maldives, the language still Dhivehi but its rhythm and cadence more musical, the tempo matching the quieter pace of these faraway islands in Asia’s least populated nation. Dhivehi Rajje, the Maldivian name for the nation, is the Island Kingdom, and the Dhivehins are the island people. Addu, incidentally, also has the Maldives’ most extensive coral reef. Its almost vulnerable remoteness, as if on the edge of an imaginary land’s end, is a reason why the underwater life here is so vibrant. I was truly lucky to have my first experience of snorkel­ling in these pristine waters.

The 26 atolls of the Maldives, which make up its administrative clusters too, are strewn linearly in a double chain, north-to-south over 860km of ocean, making the Islamic republic one of the most dispersed countries in the world. The hop from Malé to Gan is re­ally quite incredible—aerially, Maldives is a deep, deep blue out of which rise a handful of jaunty, flat, green islands rimmed by faroes—submerged white sand reefs several times larger than the tiny bits of land they frame in languorous freestyle swathes. Some of these enchanting sweeps of tur­quoise flecked with coral reefs are entirely submerged, playful touches of colour in an indulgent and omnipresent ocean. Such a topography isn’t to be found anywhere else, writes Adrian Neville in his A Portrait of Maldives, an information-rich cof­fee table book I found thoughtfully placed in my bedroom. In fact, 96% of the country is under water and only 196 of its 1,192 islands are inhabited, most of them very sparsely. It’s important to have a grasp of this rare geology to fully appreciate Villingili’s particular serendipity: it was, in fact, uninhabited till Shangri-La came along. The yoga pavilion at its Chi spa is the highest point on the Maldives—all of three metres in a country with the average ground level of 1.5m, and the world’s lowest national high point. The breathtaking flight on my way here crossed the Equator, for which the airline surprises passengers with a cer­tificate signed by the pilot.

The finality of this horizon is more than an illusion. It’s almost a sensory perception that kept me company as I sipped my tea in the patio, the phone the resort had provided never beyond reach, my cheerful villa host on standby for any assistance round the clock. My heart beat a little faster when my door wouldn’t open one night and Vlad materialised “in two seconds” to nudge it into co­operation, and he made sure it was fixed when I went out next so that I “would not be disturbed”. But it is not isolation that definesShangri-La’s Villingili, it’s the sink-in silence of high-end luxury.

Here, custom-made furniture complimented earth-toned fab­rics with subtle Middle Eastern and Indian touches, the occasion­al flash of turquoise and silver jaali work catching the light from the windows all round, each one of them presented with a scenic view of either tropical jungle or blue water. An elegantly lathed oval bathtub sat by the dual vanity counters, upon the polished wood floor, right by the door leading to the outdoor shower, the indoor version vying for attention with jet faucets, and there was a useful clothesline for hanging wet swimwear.

 As always, the details triumphed. The wardrobes lit up from inside when they opened and I loved the non-intrusive night light, its single-switch access casting diffused visibility at the floor level of my high-ceilinged bedroom. There were lifejackets handy if I wanted to snorkel by myself, and a superb organic after-sun lotion, imported from Thailand and left on the vanity counter with an extra ceramic label, just in case I for­got I had been out in the tropics. The pillow menu offered me not only a hypo-allergenic option but also a buckwheat pillow to relax the shoulders and neck (it also prevents headaches, the note said), head-to-toe bolster versions and the self-explanatory contour variant. A mosquito kit, though, appeared ex­cessively precautionary—maintenance made sure there weren’t any about.