After a quick breakfast, I take to the streets with my SLR and head for the local market, hoping to get a slice of local life. As I stroll along the narrow, two-lane waterfront street, it quickly becomes apparent that Malé is certainly not the Maldives one sees in the brochures.

No white sand beach. No azure sky. No emerald water. None of the gorgeous, picture-perfect scenery every one—I, including—associates the Maldives with. Malé is plain and gray, with nary a sightseeing attraction. Despite the curious gazes I get—it seems I am the only Chinese around on this morning—the locals are warm and friendly; on my walkabout, I have heard more Hellos and Good mornings in ten minutes than I had in a whole year doing the same back home. Genial, portly old men, clad in shirtsleeves and trousers, seem to smile as they regard me through their gold-rimmed glasses. A man behind the counter in a grocery store waves at me when I take a picture of his shop-front. Moments later, as I am standing by the road with map in hand, a man ambles up to me and volunteers directions without my asking. Motorcycles are everywhere; they line the sides of just about every street, and are the bulk of a chaotic, free-flow stream of traffic unhindered by traffic lights, of which, I must add, there seems to be only two along the entire stretch of the main street. Even so, I can cross the street without fear of getting run over.

Soon, there aren’t any more back alleys to explore and I settle down at a cafe for a cuppa. As I gaze at the line of ferries and Dhoani bobbing quietly along the waterfront, I wonder how much it will cost to take a seaplane out to any of the surrounding atolls on which all the famed resorts are at. My drink, a Masale Wali Chai, is served to me; it is milk tea with ginger and spices. Sipping the hot, fragrant beverage, I notice a curious-looking tray served to a young man at the next table. In the tray there is a handful of betel leaves and small slices of areca nut; there is a star-burst pattern of white on each brown slice, like someone had frozen a small vat of dark chocolate while stirring a stream of condensed milk into it. Next to these pieces are three cigarettes. I conclude that the contents of the tray must be some sort of after-meal serving. I amble over to the young man and ask for his permission to take a picture of the tray.

“Sure thing,” he says in fluent English. They all speak the language fluently, which makes getting around easy.

It is 12 noon. Time to check out. The dingy hotel room I have been put up at costs an exorbitant US$94, and I do not see a reason to fork out another US$49 for a half-day stay before my flight out at 11pm. I hop on a ferry for a ten-minute ride to Hulhulé Island, where Malé International Airport is, in search of a seaplane flight that will take me around the atolls. If this is all I’m getting out of the Maldives, I sure as hell am going to try and get some good photographs before I leave.

“All our flights are fully booked,” one of the pilots at the ticket counter says apologetically. “If you’d come to me earlier, I might have been able to take you around.”

He mentions a photo flight which will set me back US$575. Fifteen minutes around Malé and only Malé.

“Personally? It’s not worth it,” he adds. “You won’t see any of the things you’re looking to see.”

I appreciate his honesty and, as I shake his hand and thank him for his help, I make it a point to remember his name. Suddenly, I am staring at seven long hours I have no idea what to do with. The Maldivian sun is relentless and I am worn out by the sheer heat. The tiny, distant prospect of a cool hotel room and a nice long shower looms large in my mind.

I ask for a shuttle ride to the airport hotel…

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7:04pm.

I perch myself at the edge of the breakwater at the far end of the hotel courtyard and watch as the Maldivian light fades into the horizon. Watching this display of Nature’s beauty, if only momentarily and slight, it doesn’t seem such a big deal any more that the Maldives I have seen isn’t quite the Maldives in my mind.