The virtually car-free Maldives provides the perfect location for a spot of hack baiting and shark spotting, writes Killian Doyle.
IT HAS long been a tradition of mine to use this column to recount tales of motoring madness from my various foreign jaunts around our lovely planet.
But here I am, in the Maldives on a press junket, and I'm flummoxed. (I know, it's a tough gig?)
You'll be aware that the Maldives is a series of coral atolls that formed when volcanic islands sank into the Indian Ocean. Of the thousands of islands in the archipelago, about 250 are inhabited.
Eighty are idyllic tourist retreats, most of which take mere minutes to circumnavigate by foot. Some bigger resorts use golf buggies to ferry guests about, but overall, tourist joints are virtually car-free.
As for the islands populated by locals, other than on Male - the world's smallest capital city - and some larger inhabited isles in the south, there are no cars or roads to speak of.
I'm told the densely-populated Male - which I didn't waste valuable surfing and schmoozing time by visiting - is a traffic hellhole. There is, apparently, a speed limit. But it's immaterial as the bumper-to-bumper traffic is at a standstill from dawn to dusk. (Which begs the question: as it's only a kilometre long, why bother to drive at all?)
Speaking of laws, the Maldives is a Muslim nation, so booze is banned on non-resort islands. Consequently, there are no drink-driving regulations, for to impose them would be to tacitly acknowledge the elephant in the room, namely that most locals get bladdered behind closed doors, rules or no rules. It's like Ireland on Good Friday. The best way around the archipelago is by seaplanes which are breathtaking for two reasons. Firstly, the views are spectacular. Secondly, you have no idea if you're going to survive the flight or not.
From above, the scattered atolls make the ocean look like it has a nasty dose of azure ringworm. The water is so clear you can see the razor-sharp coral reef below as you come in to land, adding to the will-we- or-won't-we-make-it drama.
Far less harrowing are the water taxis which zip around the atolls day and night, whizzing tourists about.
These range from dhonis - traditional barges with gondola-esque figureheads - to the type of vulgar launches favoured by Russian oligarchs and P Diddy.
But even they are not all plain sailing. On arriving in Male airport, our press group was ushered to the pierside to board a tiny, lurching boat headed for a resort.
There was a storm raging. Two trawlers had been thrown onto the pier wall by the massive waves. Inside the harbour, it was so rough even the flying fish were wearing waterwings.
One hack, a bright young thing from one of the Sundays, was white as a sheet.
"We'll have lifejackets, right?" she beseeched the boat's captain.
"You don't want a lifejacket, trust me," I piped in, mischievously.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because you're better off being dead before the sharks arrive."
"There are sharks?" said she, her face bloodless. We're smack bang in the middle of the Indian Ocean. What did you think was down there? Mermaids?
She had to be manhandled, kicking and screaming, into the boat. Aren't I awful bold?
I cackled merrily to myself for a good 10 minutes after we got in, despite being hurled about like a ball in a lotto machine. Then, predictably, I projectile-puked all over myself.
"Serves you right," my sniggering colleagues sniped.
"I did that on purpose," I retorted defiantly.
"Human vomit is a powerful shark repellent. We'll see who's laughing when the big-toothed boys come a sniffin?"
The captain turned towards me. "You do know," said he, grinning, "that Maldivian sharks are about as dangerous to humans as haddock?"
That wiped the smile off my face. Pity it didn't wipe the barf off too. Me and my big mouth.