Four engines the size of refrigerators have been rocketing our speedboat over the ocean blue for hours. I squint at the casual Maldivians at the bow, wondering how they know where to go. There’s no radar and no landmarks, just a smooth stream of baby blues to cobalts, sky to water, sometimes a distant hint of an island, or a turquoise scar of reef.
Now, the boat banks into a little harbor at breakneck speed and cuts to an abrupt, ear-echoing stop.
“I’ve never seen boat captains drive like that,” Sam whispers, and then sits back, petting Anika’s sleeping white-blonde head.
I nod slowly, and look out at the island. White sand sprouting thick with coconut trees, a red and white cell phone tower rising from the middle.
“Is this it?”
We look to Sanoon, restless.
“Naw, this is Rhihaakuru Island. They’re kinda famous for their ‘ketchup.’”
“Ketchup?”
“Well, it’s made from fish guts, so it’s red.”
I shudder.
Clear water sloshes at the hull. Voices call out in Dhivehi, cardboard boxes exchange hands, and then we’re off again, jetting over water so delicious I want to lick it, float it, melt into it.
A few minutes later we careen into another harbor, and Sanoon nods to us, smiling. After three days traveling halfway around the world, this is Mulah! The mile-wide atoll where our friend grew up with fifteen siblings and god knows how many cousins. I crane my neck out the window and notice the area in front of the little harbor building is thick with people. My pulse ticks up a beat.
The boat’s buoys bump the breakwall, and the crew gets busy tying off with nylon rope as thick as a python. Sanoon steps off the boat into a crowd of hijabi-clad women, and the voices raise in pitch. We follow, and I can’t help braking into a huge smile to mirror every face I see.
“Maama!” Sanoon embraces a woman in a full black kaftan, her eyes glowing.
Plumeria lei are draped over our heads.
Anika looks up at me, wide eyed.
“Hello?” I venture, embracing a warm hand curling around my fingers.
There is much hugging and smiling, and somewhere close drums are booming, rhythmic, tribal. My heart quickens again. This is nothing like pulling up to ketchup island.
The homecoming purrs are punctuated by excited shouting. Someone nudges me forward, and the doors open from the arrivals building to some kind of vestibule. The drumming swells in volume.
The second set of doors open up and I gasp.
