The Optimistic Traveller

I had asked Jill the travel agent to see if I could conceivably stop and enjoy some personal time on the way back from work travel to Chennai, India without incurring any additional flight costs. Do people use travel agents anymore, even for work? I suppose they do. I hope they do, because Jill, as always, came through for me, and people like her deserve long, happy careers. Someone I knew had a connection to a resort property in the Maldives. I could stay there in a private cabana for around $350 a night instead of over $1000. (Though this took place twenty years ago, a recent check of accommodations on various Maldivian islands is comparable. It does show some affordable options, but individual cabins are still over $1000 per night. I’m woefully uncertain what the comparable prices after 20 years and lack of COLA increase could possibly mean here, but I’ll leave that as a “talk amongst yourselves” conversation starter, if you will. In any event, at the time I couldn’t even afford the $350, but then again, I felt I couldn’t afford to not check out this amazing place. When next would I be in southern India, the path home littered with exotic tiny islands?

I landed in Columbo, Sri Lanka and ended up alone, aside from the silent captain/driver/helm guy, on a fun speedboat to the resort — a somewhat surreal interlude given my extreme exhaustion. When we docked, I was greeted by a kind man named Patrick and a lady holding a tray of fresh watermelon juice, which I happily gulped. It was the first time I’d ever had it, and it has become a special treat; on the rare times I can get it, I always think of my Maldivian adventure. 

My cabana was on stilts in the water and had a glass bottom in the main room. I found it heavenly to sleep with the fishes, as it were. To this day it remains the nicest place I’ve ever stayed. I had fresh fruit served to me in the mornings on the wrap around “porch” overlooking an ocean view unhindered by other buildings. I could swim right from there or walk back across the bridge to the main building and launch from the beach. My shower contained a fantastic-smelling egg-based shampoo I later found again once before it was reformulated cheaply and ineffectively, without the egg. Damned mass production.

Patrick, as it happens, was “assigned” to me for the three days I was there. More senior than a valet, he seemed to be a VIP concierge of sorts. His family lived in Sri Lanka, and he only saw them once every several months. This was the first time I learned firsthand of people like Patrick, doing honest and hard work and sending money back to loved ones from hundreds or even thousands of miles away, missing all the milestones that some of us might take for granted. 

On the first day, Patrick asked my interests and helped me plan the limited time I’d be at the resort. As botany/horticulture is always one of the first things I notice in a foreign place, he gave me a walking tour around the tiny island and named all the flora, native and (mostly) otherwise.

Patrick also booked me for my first (and second) ayurvedic massage, which took place on the beach in open air, where I lay naked in a little portico facing the ocean as a delicate man rubbed minuscule circles over my entire body with the mere tips of two fingers, using various oils. It was dainty, oddly non-invasive, and very relaxing. And since, I’ve never had a better massage, though I’ve had (only slightly) weirder ones.

As I think it was their summer season (and in the West, ours), I don’t recall seeing anyone other than staff those three days. Perhaps, though, and likely, other guests were equally VIPed and felt they owned the island while they were there, as I did.

Patrick insisted on accompanying me on my snorkel, suggesting it wouldn’t be safe for me to go alone. I thought that strange, give the extremely shallow and calm water surrounding the island. We had been bobbing around for thirty minutes or so, Patrick gesturing occasionally, when a cloud of sand burst up in front of me like a fuzzy shield, a ghostly apparition. I, who am not afraid of sea creatures, the ocean, or almost anything, for that matter, felt a prickly sensation at the top of my spinal cord. My vision was obscured to the point that I could imagine a face suddenly appearing before me close, like my own in a hotel mirror. I thought to myself, “Sharks are near,” and immediately poked my head up to find Patrick. Sure enough, he was gesturing me out of the water. On the beach, he explained that, indeed, sharks “like” that sudden surf-churn, and it wasn’t safe for us to stay in the water like sitting ducks (or snorkeling humans, as the case may be).

My lesson on this morning was twofold: 1) trust my gut, and 2) wear sunscreen on my butt (That rhymes!) and legs when I go snorkeling. Without much experience in the sun, I didn’t realize how strong it was, even through the glistening water. I ended up returning home swollen like an overripe plum, my skin stretched and raw from second-degree burns (which would later lead to two minor surgeries to remove fat and suspicious freckles), needing immediate medical care. 

Speaking of lobsters, Patrick, in continued VIP concierge mode, treated me to a special solo dinner on the sand my last night there. Though spiny lobsters are hardly as good (or as big) as the ones we’re used to, I was thrilled to “eat local,” as it were, and I treasured the quiet meal (grilled and so fresh) and the personalized service as I tried to soothe my backside in a thick coat of (shame and) aloe vera.

I’ve looked up Patrick a couple of times over the years, once emailing him and receiving no response, and more recently, finding on social media a fellow who must surely be his son, with the same name, similar countenance, and also from Columbo, Sri Lanka. I didn’t write to this younger man, because…what would I say? Your father saved me from an imaginary swarm of sharks back in the early 2000s? I’m not sure what, were I him, I’d do, or not, with that information. If he’s anything like my son, he’d probably say, “It’s fine,” and go about his day.

The discomfort and hideous appearance from the burn was only exacerbated by the many hours of poor circulation on the long plane ride home, whereupon my ankles had stretched to nearly quadruple their size – more frightening than any potential shark attack, at least to me. The good news is that, though my boyfriend was clearly disappointed in my swollen, shiny return, he stuck around, and now I have the aforementioned son. I also ended up with a new doctor (sought to urgently treat the burns) who became my primary care physician for years afterward and is a true lifesaver, still someone I occasionally see.

I’ve been fortunate to travel to a great many exotic places, and the Maldives remains one of the most interesting and memorable. Despite the debt and challenges I incurred from that visit, I highly recommend you start putting away a few dollars here and there and make the voyage. Find your Patrick, and tip him well.