Finding Connection in the Maldives
How a Brief Friendship Shaped My Understanding of Identity
There are times in our life journeys where you meet the right people at the right time. However, no matter how much you try, some friendships are fleeting, and only last for a transient moment. This has always been the case with me as I am moving between countries all the time. These have been dear friendships I had connected with at an intimate level. I have made friends for short periods of time, all of us knowing we would probably never see each other again.
One of these instances was in Myanmar where I became friends with a Spanish guy living in Australia and a Filipino while touring ancient Buddhist temples in Bagan, and a group of Spaniards while hiking in Nyawngshwe. In Korea I visited a couple of museums with a Mexican I befriended. In Taiwan I met an Ecuadorian on a language program. I spent a cultural day in Malaysia with a Singaporean visitor who had travelled extensively in Asia. In Jakarta, Indonesia I met a Syrian who had moved in for work. In Turkey, I met a drummer for different bands. In Egypt I met a medical school student who helped me get my medication.
All these friendships were short-lived but they opened a window to their world. I wonder, what happens with these friendships after we leave?. We don’t just forget them, but it’s also probable that we won’t meet again. The impact they have in my life is still marked until today as my memory of each of these places revolve around the people I met. One of such friendships took place in the Maldives.
I looked out the window, and everything I saw was dark, without lights that could signal the presence of people living down there. The pilot announced that we should fasten our seatbelts and stow our tray tables as we prepared to land. I could see the moon’s reflection on the Indian Ocean, but there was still no indication of human presence.
As the plane made the usual noises of descent, I feared we might land in the water, knowing that the runway was short and situated on an artificial island built specifically for it. Finally, when we touched down, I spotted a few scattered lights, making the island appear almost uninhabited. They opened the plane door and attached a staircase. We descended onto the tarmac and walked inside to immigration.
At the immigration booth, I immediately noticed one line designated for foreign workers, filled with slender, young, bearded men who seemed to have come from India and Sri Lanka. When it was my turn, the officer looked puzzled by my Chilean passport and showed it to his colleagues. He questioned whether I needed a visa to enter the country. They escorted me to an office, where I was interviewed about the numerous stamps in my passport.
They officers seemed particularly curious about how I could afford to travel to so many places. I imagined that for them, an extravagant holiday might be a short trip to India, Sri Lanka, or Malaysia, returning after just a few days. Backpacking around the world likely seemed foreign to them. After the interview, I was allowed entry. I exchanged my money for Rufiyaa, and as I exited the airport, I noticed seaplanes parked at the harbor. Some people were loading their bags into the planes, while others boarded yachts.
I didn’t want to take a taxi, knowing there was a bus to one of the islands that was much cheaper. I loaded my suitcase onto the bus and sat in the front, watching the darkness of the coastline as we crossed the bridge into Hulhumale. I got off right outside my hotel and decided to take a walk along the empty beach. The warm wind and the peaceful sound of the ocean made for a soothing night.
The warmth of the Indian Ocean and the soft, salty breeze on the beach felt like a comforting embrace, contrasting with the oppressive heat of Malé’s streets. The next day, around lunchtime, I wanted to buy some water. I walked across the island to a grocery store, only to find it closed for prayer time. I kept walking and eventually found a corner store after the prayers had ended.
Stepping inside, I welcomed the cool air conditioning, a relief from the heat. I grabbed a drink and went to pay. The cashier said something to me in Maldivian, and for a moment, I was taken aback. I hesitated before replying in English, which left the cashier looking confused. She had mistaken me for a local. My black hair, long beard, and dark skin had given me the appearance of an islander.
I left the store feeling good about myself, pleased that I could blend in. It made me feel less like a tourist and more immersed in their culture. Blending in with the locals made me realize how fluid and adaptable identity can be. This showed me that identity isn’t fixed; it’s shaped by the contexts and people we engage with.
Nicki Minaj became the soundtrack of my island experience. Songs from her album Roman Reloaded played on repeat as I walked along the turquoise beach. Pound the Alarm, Starships, Automatic, and Whip It became the anthem of my time in the Maldives, my own version of a bible in music form.
The next day, I took a taxi to Malé, the other island and capital of the Maldives. From my previous travels in Muslim countries, I had learned to dress modestly in pants and a shirt, despite the unbearable hot weather. Most people were dressed similarly, many of them on motorcycles. The streets were narrow, and that morning, few people out walking.
I agreed to meet someone at a downtown café. Ali Shah told me about his parents’ passing, living with his brother, studying medical laboratory science in college. He was three years younger than me, but his six foot height and dense beard made him look older. As I listened, I paused to consider his life. He was muslim. Nobody in his family knew about his sexual orientation. It was a secret he could not reveal or act upon in his country, where it was strictly forbidden.
He was enjoying our time together — something he had never experience on the island. He dreamed of leaving, moving to another country where he could be free. I felt a deep sorrow for him. As a foreigner, I had the privilege of behaving as I pleased, and my actions were often excused because I was a tourist.
For him, things were different. He was bound by the social norms of his island, trapped in a world where he couldn’t be his true self. This realization made me rethink how I navigate my own life and the choices I make, understanding that my freedom is a luxury not afforded to everyone.
This made me feel a deep sense of guilt, rooted on the privilege I hold. I wish I could help him somehow, but the social structures by which he is bound make his reality be rigid and hard for change. This contrast made me want to spend more time with him, as I believed that our time together provided an oasis, a break from his reality, a short period of time and space where he could be himself.
We sat in the back of the catamaran, with only a few other passengers around. As we left Malé behind. I opened my Snapchat and took a selfie, capturing the warmth of his genuine smile in the midst of the Indian Ocean. Upon reaching Hulhumale, we put on socially appropriate masks — no public displays of affection, especially during the month of Ramadan.
I was staying at a modest bed-and-breakfast a block away from the beach. I invited Ali Shah to my room, but as he followed me upstairs, the receptionist stopped him, questioning his presence since he wasn’t a guest. I assured him that Ali was coming with me. I am convinced the receptionist became suspicious about his presence.
Ali Shah’s thick black hair and fully grown beard gave him a rugged, attractive look. There was a sincerity in his eyes that made his gaze look genuine and his words trustworthy. His soul was light. Unlike me, he hadn’t had the chance to experience the world or multiple relationships. I was spoiled. He wasn’t.
Ali Shah and I walked along the pristine, empty beach, with no one watching. The transient nature of our friendship inundated me with sadness. I knew that, despite the impact Ali Shah had on my visit, our bond would only last until I left. Yet, I was determined to enjoy the time I had with Ali Shah, to truly connect with him at a closer level before we took paths apart.
We were two strangers from distant worlds apart, yet somehow, our paths crossed in this remote corner of the world. The Maldives and Chile — places separated by vast oceans and continents, with cultures, languages, and experiences so different they might as well exist in separate universes. But there we were, brought together by chance, or perhaps by something more.
In each of my travels, I had encountered fleeting friendships, but none had left such a lasting impact as Ali Shah. His struggle for freedom and self-expression in a confined environment contrasted sharply with my own ability to move freely and reinvent myself. This juxtaposition made me realize the privilege I displayed in my travels and the responsibility to engage more deeply with the lives of those I meet.
My identity felt fractured, torn between the person I was at home and the one I had become in my travels. Back in Chile, I was a product of my culture, carrying the weight of my family’s expectations, the history of my country, and the familiar routines of everyday life. But in the Maldives, I was someone else — an explorer, an outsider with the freedom to define myself anew. Here, I could be whoever I wanted, untethered by the constraints of my past.
And then there was Ali Shah, a man whose identity was tightly engrained in his island life. For him, there was no escape, no possibility of reinvention. His identity was not just a personal matter; it was shaped and policed by the society around him, by the expectations of his family, and by the strict norms of his culture. While I could move freely between worlds, he was bound to this one, where he had to hide his true self to survive.
Our meeting was unlikely, almost surreal — a collision of two worlds that should never have met. But in that brief moment, we found something in each other that transcended our differences. Perhaps it was the shared understanding of what it means to feel out of place, to be misunderstood, or the silent recognition that, despite everything, we were both searching for a connection that felt real.
We reached a beachside café and went upstairs to enjoy the view. The café’s air conditioning was a relief from the oppressive humid heat outside. We ordered milkshakes and sat across from each other. Our eyes locked as we studied each other attentively, knowing how precious this short moments were.
As I sat there with him, I felt my fractured identity coming together in a new way. I wasn’t just the Chilean traveler or the outsider in a foreign land. I was someone who had found a kindred spirit in the unlikeliest of places. And in that connection, I discovered that my identity wasn’t something fixed or singular. It was not just about moving between places, but also about the connections I formed and the understanding I gained about myself and others
But even as we connected, I couldn’t ignore the reality that our worlds would soon pull us apart. I would return to my life of movement and possibility, while Ali Shah would remain on his island, his identity constrained by forces I could only begin to understand. The unfairness reminded me of the privileges I had simply because of where I was born.
The following day, I went on a boat trip to a sandbank in the middle of an atoll and snorkeled with manta rays, a trip that was included in my stay for free. For the next three days, Ali Shah came to my place, and we would walk along the beach each time. The sadness I felt knowing our time together was limited underscored the deep emotional connections that can form even in brief encounters. This realization has taught me to cherish and fully engage in these moments, recognizing their value in shaping my overall journey.
On my last day, I took a taxi to the airport. On the way, we crossed the artificial bridge that connects the islands, passing over the seaplane airport before reaching the main airport. Inside, it was chaotic. Without boarding bridges planes, all passengers had to walk across the tarmac and use staircases to board, leading to everyone being crowded into the same waiting area.
After buying a coffee with my last Maldivian Rufiyaa, I waited charging my phone. Outside, the massive Qatar Airways Dreamliner stood out, its name emblazoned in both English and Arabic. The thought of being in the Middle East in just a few hours made me extremely excited.
But as I boarded the plane, my thoughts turned to Ali Shah. He didn’t have the luxury of hopping on a plane and leaving. The Maldives is not a wealthy country; outside the resorts, prices and wages are low. Ali would have to work much harder than I ever did to leave and build a life of his own. The thought saddened me, knowing his identity was trapped on this small island, surrounded by thousands of kilometers of ocean.
The depth of connection I felt with Ali Shah has made me more intentional in how I engage with people during my travels. I now seek more meaningful interactions, aiming to understand not just the places I visit but also the personal stories that shape those experiences.
Ali Shah’s situation has challenged my previous notion of travel as merely a series of destinations. Instead, I’ve come to see it as a profound opportunity to connect with people on a deeper level, understanding their lives and struggles beyond the surface.
Meeting Ali Shah had allowed me to see into his local life, learn about his dreams and fears, and contextualize it all with my cultural knowledge of the island. Though we might never see each other again, this marked an important relationship I treasure until today.
Ali Shah’s story has left an imprint on how I approach relationships with people from diverse backgrounds. Having met him during a short but intense time inspired me to approach my interactions with greater empathy and understanding, recognizing the unique struggles and aspirations of others.
