Island-hopping in the Maldives offers unparalleled freedom to explore the archipelago at your own pace. As you journey from one picturesque island to another, you can immerse yourself in local culture, engaging with residents to learn about their traditions and way of life. Snorkel alongside colorful tropical fish in vibrant coral reefs, discovering the incredible biodiversity beneath the waves.
After a day of adventure, there’s nothing quite like unwinding with a bottle of rum on a secluded desert island, watching the sun set over the tranquil ocean. This unique experience allows you to connect with nature and truly appreciate the beauty of the Maldives.
The ship has seen better days. It’s leaning to one side, teetering on the brink of capsizing. The bridge, usually a hub of activity, now lies in eerie darkness, exuding a macabre magnetic energy that simultaneously fascinates and unnerves. There are gaping holes in the hull, corroded from years of exposure to the elements, and above them is a rusty bike chained to the structure with a large, black eel sprawled lazily in its basket. A shoal of bright orange anthias swirl around the stern, a vibrant whirl of technicolor in a world of muted blues.
The Keyodhoo shipwreck has lain half-submerged and coated in coral in the Felidhu Atoll for half a decade. Even its origin is mysterious—some say it’s an Indonesian vessel that drifted empty into the island constellation one day. My guide, 28-year-old Mohamed Hailam (or Hai to his friends), believes it to be a Maldivian supply boat that ran aground on the reef. He free dives several feet below me as I snorkel, taking a closer look at the bridge where the controls lie calcified in their final voyage positions, his long, black fins propelling him gracefully through the water. On each fin, the Maldives’ map is etched in brilliant white.
Hai was born in Laamu Atoll, many nautical miles to the south, and now lives like many locals, shifting from island to island with the sands but always inevitably drawn back to Malé, the capital.
We’re sailing aboard the Sea Farer, an 88-foot-long white-and-green timber ship with seven ensuite rooms, on a leisurely week-long voyage of the South Malé and Felidhu Atolls with G Adventures. The journey takes us amid a scattering of islands, each resembling an iridescent fish scale. It’s the perfect way to explore the Maldives for those who prefer active adventures to simply lying on a beach. Our days consist of island-hopping wherever the winds take us, stopping for forays in a rigid inflatable boat to snorkel the coral reefs and sip shared bottles of rum on diminutive white-sand spots, followed by platters of sweet, sticky dates and coconut. Before long, each day falls into the same soothing rhythm: swim, eat, nap, repeat.
On the surface, there’s not much to do in the Maldives, which is part of its allure for many. The Indian Ocean stretches endlessly to the horizon, a seemingly flat expanse ending in a hazy line where it meets the mirrored turquoise sky. The rocking of the boat lulls you into a relaxed state halfway between waking and dreaming; the humid air feels like a warm bath and smells of salt and sun cream. In the distance, you might see the dark crest of one of the 1,190 islands emerging from the water like a hawksbill turtle coming up for air. But mostly, it’s just sea, endless sea. You might spin around and see nothing but sea and sky.
To discover more, you must go beneath the surface. Hundreds of millions of fish—among them Clark’s anemonefish, stately Moorish idols, vivid oriental sweetlips, and Kashmir snappers—inhabit vast coral forests. Sea cucumbers, starfish, and nudibranchs thrive beneath coral formations resembling African acacia trees, while parrotfish, butterflyfish, and rays swim around them. Enormous, whiskered nurse sharks, their glassy eyes detached, cruise the deeper fringes, accompanied by skittish blacktip sharks and turtles.
One evening, I join Hai and some fellow guests—French-speaking Canadians, an Afrikaans pharmacist, and a British body double for a film starlet—on the aft deck to watch a trio of dolphins undulating in and out of the inky depths during a fishing expedition. One by one, they select wriggling needlefish, which are drawn to the surface by our ship’s floodlights, home in on them, and gulp them down whole. One dolphin, hiding behind our towed inflatable boat, waits for his quarry to pass before surging forward with a few powerful tail swishes, leaving behind only a shimmering puff of scales.
Turning the tides
Up the road, fruit bats swoop and loop-the-loop overhead between java apple and breadfruit trees. Beneath them, locals recline in plastic chairs amid hanging vines of fuchsia bougainvillea, sheltering in the shade away from the blistering midday heat. One man, the lenses of his thick-rimmed glasses fogging slightly from the humidity, rises from his seat and offers us mangoes from his tree. I ask him how much they are. “Free,” he says, shaking his head and extending his palms. It’s the domestic side of the Maldives that few tourists ever see. We take the man up on his offer, and the mangoes are the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.
As we continue, Hai tells us that many islands like this are already feeling the effects of climate change. He explains how more than 80% of the Maldives stands at less than a meter above sea level, making it the lowest country in the world. Global sea levels are rising between three and four millimeters every year, with some predicting greater rises in the coming decades; climate scientists have forecast that by the end of this century, the Maldives could be almost completely submerged, helped along by the bleaching of the reefs, which act as natural barriers.
To turn the tide, Hulhumalé island, a man-made ark laden with tower blocks, is under construction at a comparatively lofty two meters above sea level just northeast of Malé, and sand is being dredged from the center of the atolls to preserve locals’ existing homes—damaging the reefs they rely on for food and tourism even further in the process. It’s reminiscent of trying to bail out a sinking ship.
“I am worried,” Hai admits, frowning and crossing his arms over a T-shirt depicting two crossed surfboards. His trademark is a full-body laugh that makes him hunch over, but now he’s unusually serious. “None of our islands are safe, and if sea levels rise any more, there will be nothing we can do.” Behind him, the children of Felidhoo are still playing, blissfully oblivious to what is happening to their home. By the time they reach their parents’ ages, it could all be gone.
The way north
It’s nearing our final day, and we’re anchored beside a desert island, Bongo Veli, that’s little more than a drop of sand in the gargantuan expanse of the Felidhu Atoll. It’s nearing dusk and Hai has opened the bar—a battered blue cooler box. As I walk the five minutes around the island’s perimeter, carefully stepping over hermit crabs scuttling for the safety of the foamy surf, I spot a tiny mangrove seedling planted at the center, its rounded fronds barely tall enough to brush my ankle. A previous visitor has placed a ring of spiny, bleached white coral shards around it, as if to cast a protective enchantment. “When you plant a tree, its roots start to grow and it prevents the sand from being eroded,” says Hai, pulling on his straw hat. “People plant them to make the island stronger.”
A little farther ahead, at the head of a meandering trail of footprints in the sand, Annette Arbuckle, fellow guest and retired clerk from the Los Angeles Superior Court, comes to a stop. This is her 22nd trip with G Adventures, and on her travels, she’s abseiled into a Vietnamese cave system and hiked three hours to the Tiger’s Nest Monastery in Bhutan—the latter at the age of 73, three years previously. She’s wearing a loose pink dress that’s billowing gently in the warm breeze and a colorful bandana pulled tight over her blonde hair, a can of Tiger beer in her hand. She’s looking back towards the Sea Farer with a glazed expression, and as I draw nearer I can see her cheeks are damp in the amber light of the setting sun. “It’s not every day you get to walk around an entire island,” she says breezily as she sees me approaching, before adding almost to herself: “I’m just so happy to be here.”
The next morning, after a group breakfast of warm chapatis and Maldivian mas huni, a zingy mix of tuna, onion, coconut, and chili, we chart a course north back to Malé, the ship’s bow setting off flying fish like fireworks. As we cross back into the flat and seemingly nondescript expanse of the Rihiveli Lagoon, in the South Malé Atoll, we stop for one last snorkel. And find the best was saved for last.
I hear them coming immediately. Unlike nurse sharks, which so far have had a slightly unnerving way of drifting silently and uninvited into the peripherals, spinner dolphins announce their intended course. It starts with a distant clicking, like pebbles being dropped onto pebbles—only detectable with your head fully submerged—then shifts as the creatures grow nearer into an almost electronic squeaking, like an antique radio being tuned. The sound gets louder and louder as they power into range with their muscular tails, faster than the fastest Olympic swimmer.
All at once, my mind is flooded with their chatter. It’s so loud I can almost feel it. Maybe I can feel it, it’s hard to say. Spluttering, I pull my head above the water, and I can still make it out. I dip back under, and they emerge through the murk: what must be hundreds of dorsal-finned specters heaving themselves through the gloaming towards me. They turn this way and that as one in aquatic murmuration, slipstreamed, swift, and strong. Each one is lit in the tremulous shards of light penetrating the surface; soon they’re close enough for me to make out their stripes, fading from elephant grey to eggshell, and their beady black eyes.
All I can do is watch and float, paralyzed by the spectacle, rising and falling in rhythm with the deep, lingering breaths of the tide. How long were they there, I wonder, these dolphins? Were they there all along? They’re a reminder that, while the Maldives may on first glance seem flat and empty, a place far from the rigors of everyday life offering little more to do than doze in perfect Indian Ocean sunshine, there’s far more to be discovered if you look beneath the surface.
The Essentials
What should I bring?
Aside from the usual essentials, it’s worth bringing a waterproof camera such as a GoPro, a dry bag for safely transporting non-waterproof items to islands, and a quick-dry towel. Don’t bring your own snorkel gear and flippers if you’re traveling on an organized tour, as this is usually provided. That said, it’s worth investing in a prescription snorkel mask if you usually wear glasses. If traveling on a cruise, bring a small, soft-sided suitcase rather than a hard-shelled one, as you will have to be comfortable carrying it on and off boats and space is usually limited. Bring everything you think you’ll need, as shops can be few and far between away from the residential islands.
What should I wear?
With most activities focused around the ocean, you’ll generally spend the majority of your time in your swimming gear, so it’s worth bringing a spare to wear while the other is drying. The sun can be strong in this part of the world, so it’s also good to bring a decent hat, high-factor sun cream, and a long-sleeved shirt to wear while swimming. Bring modest clothing for visits to any residential islands (which are more conservative than the resorts), including loose, long-sleeved shirts and light trousers or a dress that falls below the knee. While the waters around the Maldives are generally safe, the usual hazards of open ocean swimming apply. Ensure you can swim without the help of a flotation device and follow the advice of a guide. Be sure you’re aware of your surroundings and stay with the group at all times. It’s worth also knowing how to escape a riptide: swim parallel to the shore, out of the path of the current.
Is there any danger from sharks or other wildlife?
While sharks in the Maldives, from nurse sharks and whale sharks to white tips and black tips, are generally harmless, tiger sharks, which can be more aggressive, visit the atolls at the far south of the country and their presence can never be ruled out. Avoid touching any reefs, both to protect them from damage and to avoid being stung or bitten by wildlife such as scorpionfish and stonefish. As a rule, keep your distance from wildlife at all times—even turtles can bite if provoked.
How much should I allow for spending money and tips?
There are no ATMs outside of Malé, so make sure you bring all of the cash you will need with you. US dollars are the best currency as the Maldivian Rufiyaa is non-convertible and cannot be purchased beforehand. It’s customary to tip service providers such as waiters around 10% of the final bill, and ship crew around US$10–15 (£8–12) per person per day. For religious reasons, alcohol isn’t available for purchase on residential islands though it is on resorts and on board ships—but it can be expensive: budget around US$40 (£31) for a mediocre bottle of wine.
How to do it
G Adventures offers the seven-day Maldives Dhoni Explorer cruise itinerary to the South Malé and Felidhu atolls starting from £1,579 per person. The price includes full board, transfers, activities, and snorkeling equipment, but does not include flights.