Sophie Coxon - Magoodhoo - an Indian Ocean Oasis
The island of Magoodhoo lies in the Faafu atoll, at the southern end of the Maldives archipelago. Shallow reefs fringe the periphery, shimmering indigo and turquoise under the sun, sloping upwards to sun bleached white beaches of coral sand and cowrie shells, speckled with coconut crabs. A village of candy coloured bungalows, with tin roofs and wooden doors, is dotted between dense coconut palms and dusty roads in the centre. There is a small clinic, a harbour, a couple of shops and a handful of political offices, but other than that, the island is mainly residential - and very peaceful.
The days are glistening, hot, the air sweet with the scent of frangipani flowers and punctuated by the call of mina birds. Children chase footballs across the beaches, geckos scamper across pale green walls, women in flowing fabrics sweep palm leaves from the roads where men ride by on colourful motorbikes - it is a tiny paradise, one I am fortunate to glimpse due to the ecological research which brought me here. Sometimes an afternoon bout of monsoon rain will drench the island, flooding the water butts and turning the clay roads to mush, or a lightning storm will flash purple and white across the horizon, bringing static to the air and the occasional power outage. But nobody bats an eyelid here - it’s normal, mundane. Dusk brings an ethereal pink and orange softness which pools in the footprints on the beaches like syrup, making white shells gleam in shades of rose and peach, bringing with it the coolness of night. A small pier juts out at the northern end of the island, stretching into the gleaming blue water, a lantern illuminating the end. At night, the pool of yellow light it casts across the water becomes a magnet for life; shoals of parrotfish, golden trumpetfish, baby batfish and the occasional stingray reveal themselves under starlight. Sometimes, the olive grey form of a nurse shark will glide past, silent and graceful, with a kind of confident prowess that sends the other fish scarpering. Many evenings have been spent here, dangling bare feet in the water and watching shy lionfish cling to the shadows, boys with fishing rods casting their lines into the darkness. The call to prayer hums from the local mosque, accompanied by the gentle swish of waves on the beach and the sound of fruit bats flitting through the canopy. Anything could emerge from the black ink of the sea, an endless source of excitement and anticipation.
It is a very pure place - life here feels simpler, closer to nature, more wild. Living barefoot, sun bronzed, covered in salt, and spending more of the day in the sea than on land brings you right back down to earth. And the food is immense, like eating rainbows - fresh local tuna, blood red papaya, coconut dhal and soft roshi breads cover the table at every meal, fragrant with curry leaves and turmeric. It is tropical in every sense. Everything breathes life and vitality, from the extravagant insect sounds to the teeming reefs. Being here, it is obvious why reef degradation and climate change are such pressing concerns to the Maldives; the local communities rely so heavily on the reefs for food, and the loss of fish means the loss of crucial income. Every family is linked in some way to the sea; fishermen, boat crew, tour operators - and the coral itself is used to build homes and roads in fine white cement. As the sea level inches higher and higher, the ocean is encroaching on Maldivian land, slowly engulfing the islands under the water once more. And as acidification continues to degrade and dissolve the local reefs, the islands are physically weakening, disintegrating, disappearing. Living so close to the communities which depend on the ocean so directly really brings forth the importance of studying, understanding, and preserving these vulnerable places as best we can, as humankind.
One of the most uplifting perks to reef research is the ability to visit locations like this - often for multiple months, enabling time to really get to know a place, its people, and the quirks of its wildlife. There are many less sparkly parts to life in the field (mosquitoes, power cuts, 6am starts, cockroaches, heat stroke and the musty smell of long-damp wetsuits, to name a few), but the magic of exploring and learning to live somewhere so new, so different, makes these details seem negligible and always, always worth it. It may not appeal to everyone, but those who like it, really love it, and picking up snippets of culture along the way adds a richness and depth that hard science can lack.
