The One&Only Reethi Rah resort, named after the island on which it is built, is unabashedly expensive. Like all resorts, it has a bundle of rates for different types of villas and different seasons, but the bottom line is that if a couple enjoys good food and a glass of wine with their meals, and the occasional outing in a power boat for diving, fishing or snorkelling, they cannot spend less than $1,000 a night. The question that nibbled at the edges of my mind was: What does a resort of this category offer for such a large sum of money? Is it a brand name that you display proudly with a sticker on your luggage? Is it a chance to hobnob with celebrities? Or are they offering you something you cannot get anywhere else, which is worth paying for?
An electric cart took me from the reception through a jungle of palm, ficus, oleander, bougainvillea and orchids to halt before a 10m-long, high wooden fence. Beyond it was a wide patio with a round table, four chairs and the villa itself. A key card took me into the largest hotel space I had ever lived in; two vast rooms covering some 70sqm, air-conditioned to a near-arctic temperature. The bedroom featured a 32-inch plasma TV, DVD player and surround sound (of course), but also a writing desk with three connections for your computer and other accessories, and an Internet cable. All you had to do, if you had a laptop less than four years old, was plug in the cable. If it was older—no problem, the resort simply lent you another laptop.
The ‘bathroom’ room was larger than the bedroom. Its main feature was a huge bath, set beside a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on the beach. There were enough walk-in closets to meet the needs of a family for a month! The entire villa was built in dark wood, but its ceiling was a work of art. I was to find later that this was true of all the woodwork at the resort.
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On waking the next morning I threw open the French windows to find another patio. What brought me up short was a freshwater pool lined in dark green granite lying between me and the beach, practically commanding me to use it. Its tranquil surface reflected an unforgettable view of a curved beach lined by swaying palms, with wooden villas at the two ends jutting out into an emerald, jade, turquoise and ultramarine sea. Around me palm leaves rustled in the monsoon breeze and, at a distance, the gentle susurrus from the surf breaking upon the reef that guarded the lagoon. Between the pool and the beach were two more groups of tables, sun umbrellas and chaise longues, one by the shack, and one a few metres from the water. One could choose between several degrees of seclusion here.
Seclusion does not mean isolation. It means freedom from having to put your public face back on every few minutes. What distinguishes Reethi are the things that don’t happen to you when you are there. The doorbell does not ring every half an hour as some employee comes in to change the flowers, check the mini-bar, put in some more fruit, change the linen, ask if I have laundry or shoes to shine—all the solicitous attention that drives one mad in a five-star hotel. I did not have to put up a ‘do not disturb’ sign because I was not disturbed. Staff intruded briefly only twice a day—to clean the room in the morning and turn down the beds in the evening. There was a tea- and coffee-maker in the room, not to save labour as in three-star hotels in Europe, but to allow you to remain undisturbed. Every villa has a host. One push of a button on the telephone and he will fix the missing button on your shirt or make you a cocktail. But you have to ring first.
Reethi proved to be a gourmet’s delight. The Tapasake—serving Japanese traditional and nouvelle cuisine—was presided over by a saxophone-playing sushi chef, Hiro Nakamura, whom Reethi pinched from the Grand Tai Ping Yang Sheraton in Shanghai. Reethi, the main restaurant, is run by Stefano Artosin, who does a pesto sauce that the Genoese would kill for. The pastry chef, Sylvain Nicolas, stolen from the Dorchester in London, is in a class of his own. One evening I ordered five desserts because I couldn’t decide which of his nouvelle cuisine concoctions I could afford to forego.
Seclusion has to be created, and that requires space and resources. Reethi spans 42 hectares, but has only 130 villas. Watching the news of the London bombings on TV late at night I rose to turn down the sound, then remembered that there were no adjoining rooms. Of course, this nearly doubled the cost per square metre of construction. The fresh water in the pool is tanked in from Male’, first drunk and bathed in, then recycled to drinkable standards before being fed into the pools. In the restaurants, however, you still drink only bottled water—free.
The ‘jungle’ was transplanted, palm tree by palm tree, from other islands where the government was setting up housing colonies for the Maldivians. Till five years ago Reethi was a long strip of sand with a single clump of vegetation.
But, above all, what endeared Reethi to me was the attitude of the staff. All were incredibly hospitable, but none were obsequious. Sjefke Jansen, the manager, has poached them from hotels and resorts all over the world. So they know their worth. Their rooms and suites are air-conditioned. Their food is excellent. They have a mini-theatre, a recreation room and a private beach. They ask you how you are with a hint of proprietary pride. And they convey an indefinable feeling of wellbeing which is infectious.
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Seclusion does not list high on most peoples’ priorities. So are there other reasons to go there? One would be to commemorate something wonderful with a once-in-a-lifetime experience: a wedding, a honeymoon, an anniversary, retirement, a golden jubilee, a thanksgiving for growing old together. Reethi caters to them all. You can even rent the entire island for a wedding for a week, everything included, for a million dollars.
Another would be to seek utter peace. Peace is the last thing I look for when I go on a holiday, but I am not a member of the emerging class of transnational managers, lawyers, money-market analysts, arbitrageurs, and globetrotting chief executives—who open their laptops the moment the seat belt sign is switched off, work 60 to 80 hours a week, fight jet lag, the flu, and every other disease with pills, but never miss a day in office. I envy the sums they earn, but know that they are given few opportunities to spend the money except on the purchase of things. For them the best vacation is a complete break from living life constantly behind a public façade, constantly on the edge. Reethi, and others in this emerging class of super resorts, is tailor-made for such people. It could prolong their lives.