Photographing the president. In Dhivehi, conversation seems to work.


The conversation went something like this:
- “Do we need to bring passport photos?”
- “No.”
- “Oh, we don’t need passport photos??”
- “Yes.”
Puzzled look. The immigration clerk looked at us from the other side of the counter.
- “Oh, so we DO need passport photos.”
- “No.”
She shakes her head.
- “Hum… you’re saying we DON’T need passport photos?”
- “Yes, you don’t.”

Come as a journalist to the Maldives and you’ll soon learn that, despite all the good-naturedness of the people and their constant smiles, communication is really not their strongest virtue.

In the four weeks that we’ve been here, we’ve had our share of mind-numbing and hair-pulling conversations like the one above. In that particular case, I had already suspected that they answer “Yes” when they want to agree with you – regardless of whether what you’re saying is positive or negative.

But we’ve also noticed – and speaking with a few expats who shared their stories – that precise communication is something we had been taking for granted before coming here.

Such was the case of the omelette versus scrambled.

A typical restaurant breakfast will usually include a simple egg-only omelette. [Learning to navigate my way around spicy foods has been quite a challenge (and merits its own post) but suffice it to say that these non-spicy minimalist eggs have been a welcome staple of my diet.]

But one morning, I wanted scrambled eggs for a change. I explained my choice to the waiter, with whipping wrist motion and pointed to the “Scrambled eggs” item on the menu. “No omelette,” I said. “Scrambled.” Whip whip whip. “See?”

“Yes. Eggs. Yes. OK.”

“Do you understand? Scrambled.”

“Yes, yes. OK.”

Off he went.

Sure enough I ate yet another omelette that morning.

What should often be a “I didn’t get that, please repeat” is usually only a friendly smile, a nod and a “Yes.” So, you leave the conversation thinking all is clear when in fact, the only thing that’s clear is that – clearly – there will be a misunderstanding.

Mirva and I have done a lot thinking about why this is. At first, we had blamed it on the language barrier. But a good percentage of Maldivians speak a really decent amount of English. Even when we taught a seminar to 12-year-olds, they expressed themselves surprisingly well and seemed to understand everything we were saying.

Then we ran into this: a tapped phone conversation between two politicians. And we gasped. So, THIS is why communication here is so difficult. Sure, you might say, they were talking in code so as not to be obvious. But read this extract:

MP ‘Kutti’ Nasheed: I need some cash.

MP Gasim Ibrahim: Yeah, ok… How much?

MP ‘Kutti’ Nasheed: I need it very much.

MP Gasim Ibrahim: Have you got someone to come over here?

MP ‘Kutti’ Nasheed: Here, at this time, there’s no one.

MP Gasim Ibrahim: Yeah it is…

One hundred Maldivian Rufiyaas to anyone who can understand that conversation. AT ALL.

Sure enough, our Journalism students could. To them, it was a pretty normal way of talking. It made sense in Dhivehi, they said with a shrug.

“Wow,” we thought. “Yes, it didn’t.”

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