STIRRED AND SHAKEN
Graeme Hosken channels James Bond on a private island in the Maldives
TRAPPED by warm azure seas, coral reefs and silky soft sand beaches, he fights off to-die-for cocktails and deadly mouthwatering meals to live another day. It’s breathtakingly quiet. I have lost cellphone reception and my senses tell me all is not what it seems. The sea swishes softly against the pearly beach, a breeze blows gently.
I pause, gather my bearings and hold my breath as my heart pounds in my chest. It’s paradise.
As far as I can see, there is barely a soul in sight.
My location: a microcosm of an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
Its name: Moofushi, the “jewel island”. Its slightly older cousin, Halaveli, according to my trusty map and brochure, is a quick speedboat trip away just over the horizon.
It’s an easy escape if the dreaded enemy — work — calls.
This is the place where James Bond demands his adventures begin and end.
As if on cue, a gorgeous damsel, which only 007 adventures could have in them, emerges from the waves, water dripping from her hair as she sashays past in her skimpy bikini, a knife strapped to her side, towards the bar.
Okay that didn’t happen, but it could have. This place lends itself to such imaginings.
I pinch myself for a second time, just for good measure. Is it real? It has to be.
M would never be so cruel as to have Bond tortured like this for his misbehaving ways with women, his failure to bring back receipts to Whitehall and the trail of destruction he so often leaves behind.
My dreams could never be so cruel as to transport me here briefly, only for me to be rudely jerked back into reality by my alarm.
I stand on a wooden jetty. The sign in front of me makes sure I understand the strict rules: “No news, no shoes beyond this point”. And it’s just that: no news and no shoes. Scenes from Dr No, which dominated my thoughts for weeks, continue.
My mission: report on your experience on a tropical island. Let your senses run wild and come back and tell us all about it.
I was game, except of course for the “You have to come back” bit. Nothing prepares one for this. How would Bond handle this, stuck on one island among hundreds, strung out through the ocean like a broken pearl necklace, each as mystical as the next, their beaches hypnotically beckoning him on?
It’s dangerous, I tell myself. People who’ve come here have never been seen or heard of again. Stay alert, I tell myself. I now understand the rumours that, once here, you will never return, or at least your heart never will.
My first destination — Moofushi — happens to be among the best, if not the best of the Maldives’ nearly 1 190 coral islands. The islands are situated around a chain of 26 atolls spread over 90 000km².
The staff of the global Constance Hotels and Resorts, which owns Moofushi and Halaveli, know just how to prove they are the best.
The meet-and-greet reveals one is in for a treat.
The rules are simple: Do whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want (except that “news and shoes” thing).
And if you don’t want to do anything, well, that’s exactly what this island is designed for.
It’s all about switching off, going from workaholic mode to holiday-holic mode within hours.
It can’t be helped. The moment the concierge meets you as you step off the seaplane and onto the beach, the relaxation starts.
The office quickly becomes a forgotten memory.
I feel like I have stepped into the shoes of Bond and am about to live his life, the playboy part, minus the high-speed powerboat chases with gun-toting international terrorists.
“Your dreams are what we are all about here,” says Mevin Ramasamy, Moofushi’s front office manager.
“We are about making your dreams come true. We are about making this your reality,” he says sweeping his arms out over the beach towards the ocean.
“You look like a Martini man. A man who knows his drink, a man who likes his Martini shaken not stirred,” says Rahama, the barman, as I walk over to peruse the bar’s stock.
That’s the moment I become Bond, James Bond.
He is quick to teach me the art of making a good martini along with the difference between wet, dry and dirty martinis and the point of the olive. No, it’s not just for garnish but rather an indicator to the barman for when he should pour you your next martini.
Incognito on the beaches are dozens of secluded, luxurious, palm-roofed chalets. Stretched out along two wooden jetties are more chalets, all up there in the uber-luxurious department.
My codename, according to a crisp, white welcome envelope at the foot of my bed in my chalet, which I eventually find after spending ages learning the fine art of how to shake a martini, is “Mrs H”. That’s H for Hosken.
The mission, once my bags are dropped, is on. Snorkel and flippers in hand, I walk down the steps from my private verandah straight into the ocean.
All the chalets, bar the beach villas, are like this.
The underwater world is breathtaking. Tropical fish in their dozens swim past, darting in and out of coral formations, blasé about my presence. Turtles, black-tipped sharks, clown fish. It’s heaven.
A chilled glass of champagne is waiting for me when I swim back.
Hours later, beneath a palm tree, I learn of what is to come. Spa treatments, seven-course meals in a wine cellar stocked with thousands of unique and individual bottles, and snorkelling off deep-sea coral atolls. It’s clear the mission is about being pampered. “Our cousins at Halaveli are the same. ‘Spoil’ is the point. It’s about you, the client. You will enjoy it there as much as you enjoyed it here,” says Ramasamy as he waves me goodbye two days later. We race off on our speedboat to our next adventure — the chic Halaveli.
Here, the name of the game is wining and dining. There’s a wine cellar with over 100 000 bottles, some so unique that only one has ever been made.
With cocktail and food menus galore, the challenge is on.
Rossana de Sanctis and Sindya Cecile, Halaveli’s front office manager and sales and marketing executive, have heard all about Mrs H.
They have one key question: am I up for the mission?
It’s a difficult challenge, almost deadly. It involves hours of lying around in the sun, perusing cocktail menus and dining at internationally exotic restaurants.
It’s easy to see how too much pampering like this would leave Bond weakened, unable to fight off his nemesis, but I’m tough. It won’t be easy. But Mrs H was born ready. Mrs H was a guest of Constance Hotels and Resorts
‘You look like a Martini man. A man who knows his drink, a man who likes his Martini shaken not stirred’