Maldives: Delightful Dhigurah
- Adam Rogers
- Jan 14
- 10 min read
Updated: Feb 21
As an avid scuba diver and occasional beach bum, I’d long dreamed of visiting the Maldives. What stopped me was twofold. First, its sheer isolation—this isn’t a place you casually pass through on the way to somewhere else. You go to the Maldives, or you don’t go at all. Second, and more importantly, I had zero interest in the classic Maldives experience: an all-inclusive resort on a private island with nothing else anywhere nearby.
Until fairly recently, that was essentially the only option. Tourism in the Maldives was almost entirely confined to isolated resort islands, physically and socially separated from local communities. Every story I’d seen followed the same script: overwater bungalows on stilts, impossibly white beaches, turquoise lagoons, and not much else. Yes, it all looked paradisiacal. But for someone who travels to meet people, wander streets, eat local food, and get a feel for a country rather than just "do" it, the idea held little appeal. Eating every meal in the same hotel restaurant, lying on the same strip of sand day after day, and only ever interacting with other guests and hotel staff felt—perhaps unfairly, but honestly—like a slow descent into Dante's Inferno.
Then came a transformative change. In 2009, the Maldives amended its tourism legislation, allowing guesthouses to operate on inhabited islands for the first time. Suddenly, it became possible to experience something closer to the real Maldives. That came with conditions, of course: no alcohol, modest dress, and respect for local customs in this deeply Islamic country. But to me, those weren’t drawbacks—they were part of the bargain, and part of the appeal.
Even so, it still took me 16 years to finally make it there.
In October 2025, I boarded one of my favorite airlines, FlyDubai, on a bleary-eyed 2 a.m. Dubai departure and landed in Malé just as the sun was rising. From the air, the islands looked like scattered brushstrokes of green dropped into an infinite blue canvas. By the time the wheels touched down, I had the distinct feeling that this long-postponed journey was about to prove very worth the wait.
Arrival and Boat Trip
I did a fair bit of research before going and eventually settled on Dhigurah as the island I would visit (out of 1,192 possibilities — 200 of its islands are inhabited and the rest areleft in their natural state). What drew me in was its unusual shape. Unlike many islands where villages spread across nearly the entire atoll, Dhigurah is long and tapering—almost teardrop-shaped—with the settlement confined to the broader northern end. The rest of the island remains largely untouched, a long stretch of sand, jungle, and beach slowly narrowing toward the sea. It felt like a good balance: local life without being swallowed by it, and plenty of space to wander.
I booked ahead and reserved a room at Nikabliss, a wonderful guesthouse enhanced by the warmth and efficiency of Mohammed and Simoo. Clean, Comfortable, and Convenient—the three Cs of a perfect stay. They also handled all the logistics of getting me from the airport to the island, which in the Maldives is no small detail.
The airport sits on its own island, while the capital, Malé, occupies another nearby one. Just outside the terminal is a busy harbor, where a constant stream of motorboats buzzes in and out—some whisking tourists off to luxury resorts, others ferrying locals and travelers to inhabited islands across the atolls. I was told to report to a small kiosk where my onward transport would be organized.
I learned that my boat wouldn’t be leaving for a few hours, so I decided to head into Malé for breakfast. There are two ways to get there: by bridge or by boat. The boat seemed to be the popular choice, so for about ten Maldivian rufiyaa—roughly 60 U.S. cents—I hopped aboard and cruised across the channel into town.
I wasn’t quite prepared for what I found. Malé is dense, dynamic, urban, and vertical, with tall buildings packed tightly together and built right up to the water’s edge. A small island with over 200,000 inhabitants. It felt more like a compact Asian metropolis than a postcard island paradise. I even found two Mexican restaurants! I made a mental note to explore it properly on my way out the following week.
After breakfast, I caught another boat back to the airport and soon met up with the group heading to Dhigurah. There were about 20 passengers in total—roughly half travelers like me, the other half locals heading home. Once we hit open water, it became easy to tell who was who.
As it was the tail end of the rainy season, the sea was rough. Really rough. Choppy water, high waves, and plenty of dramatic pitching and rolling. Several people got seasick almost immediately and began throwing up. I’ve always been lucky in that department, and so I fixed my eyes on the horizon and rode it out. What was supposed to be a one-hour trip stretched to nearly three hours as the boat slowed to weather the conditions.
When we finally reached the leeward side of Dhigurah, the difference was immediate. The water calmed, the boat eased toward the dock, and the tension of the crossing evaporated almost instantly. Simoo was there waiting, ready to help with my luggage and walk me to the guesthouse. After the long, bumpy journey, it was a welcome sight—and the unmistakable feeling that I’d arrived somewhere worth the effort.
Daily Walks
It didn’t take long to fall into a rhythm on Dhigurah. On my very first afternoon, after dropping my bag and rinsing off the salt from the boat crossing, I set out on foot—no plan, no destination, just walking. The island immediately invited that kind of wandering.
The village itself is compact and easy to get to know. There are a few small shops, a single bank with an ATM, and—somewhat surprisingly—a growing number of hotels and guesthouses. It’s easy to see where the local economy is heading. Construction was underway in several places during my stay, including a striking new mosque rising quietly among the houses.
I also learned quickly where not to eat. Any restaurant posting its menu in U.S. dollars was a polite signal that it wasn’t really aimed at me. I don’t blame them—the dollar is more stable than the Maldivian rufiyaa, and tourists are their market—but it usually means higher prices and less local flavor. After a bit of trial and error, I settled into a favorite: the Gelato Inn. I ate there twice a day for a week, happily working my way through the menu. Every dish was excellent—and as a bonus, they even served gelato in several flavors.
Most days followed a similar pattern. I’d walk across the village from the calm, leeward side of the island to the windward side, where the beaches are better and the breeze constant. I’d order a fresh juice from a local vendor and sit on a simple chair made of blue plastic tubing, suspended from a tree over the sand. Waves rolled in steadily, the sky a deep blue punctuated by drifting clouds. It was an easy place to linger.
From the edge of the village, Dhigurah stretches out like a promise—cove after cove, palm trees leaning theatrically over the sand, waves crashing on the outer reef while smaller, gentler waves made their way ashore. I would walk for nearly three kilometers along what can only be described as an uninterrupted paradise. It was the off-season, so I often had the entire stretch to myself. Occasionally, a brief tropical rain would pass through, warm and refreshing, and I’d keep walking, soaked and smiling.
At the southern tip of the island, the land narrows to almost nothing—a slender sandbank where waves approach from both sides. As the tide rises, water creeps over the sand, and you walk out toward the sea with the sense that the island is dissolving beneath your feet. I’d spend hours out there, sitting, swimming, watching the light shift.
Eventually, I’d head back north along the opposite shore. This side is rougher and rockier, with mangroves and palms pressing right up against the water. At a certain point, the beach gives up altogether, and I’d turn inland onto a narrow, winding path through the trees. For nearly two kilometers, the trail cuts through what feels like a miniature rainforest—barely 20 meters wide, yet dense and alive. Birds called overhead, the wind whispered through the leaves, and the outside world fell away.
I walked barefoot, practicing the walking meditation I’d learned the year before at Wat Suan Mokkh in Thailand (read my article about that experience at Dreams Abroad) —slow steps, full attention, breath matching movement. I felt perfectly at home. On Dhigurah, walking wasn’t just how I got around; it was the point. Occasionally, a local would drive by on a motorcycle or in a pickup truck with a few tourists in the back. When they offered me a ride, my response was always the same: "no thank you, I'm right where I want to be."
A Growing Challenge
Like many small islands suddenly finding themselves on the global travel map, Dhigurah is grappling with a formidable challenge: the sheer volume of single-use plastic that arrives with growing tourism. Cartons of bottled drinking water and soft drinks come in daily on supply boats—and every one of those bottles eventually has to leave the island again. There is no disappearing “away” on a coral atoll.
Some guesthouses and cafés have begun installing reverse-osmosis filtration systems and encouraging guests to use refillable bottles, a welcome and necessary step. Still, despite these efforts, the piles of plastic continue to grow, a visible reminder of how fragile paradise really is.
I spoke with Ibrahim Abdul Raheem, Vice President of the Secretariat of the Dhigurah Island Council, about the issue. He was candid about the scale of the problem—and equally clear about the council's commitment. He and his colleagues, he told me, are working hard to find solutions that balance economic opportunity with environmental responsibility. It’s an uphill battle, but one they clearly understand they cannot afford to lose. I also interviewed Mr Raheem for the Faces of Change Campaign (Watch the 1-minute video).
On Dhigurah, the beauty is undeniable. Keeping it that way will require not just good intentions, but sustained effort—from from both locals and visitors.
Beaches and Local Customs
One of the great pleasures of Dhigurah—and the Maldives more broadly—is that you’re free to wander almost anywhere. Every beach on the island is accessible, and every one of them is spectacular in its own way, from long sandy stretches to quiet coves edged with palms and reef.
That said, a few local customs are worth understanding and respecting. On Dhigurah, as on most inhabited islands with guesthouses, there are designated “bikini beaches” or "local beaches" where women can comfortably wear swimsuits that wouldn’t be appropriate elsewhere on the island. These areas are clearly marked and easy to find, allowing visitors to enjoy the water much as they would at any tropical destination.
Outside those zones, modest dress is expected. For men, this is straightforward—T-shirts with shorts or swim shorts are perfectly acceptable. For women, a more conservative approach helps avoid causing offense: T-shirts with sleeves that cover the shoulders, loose shorts that reach the thigh, or sundresses paired with a sarong over the shoulders all fit comfortably within local norms.
It’s an easy adjustment, and one that feels less like a restriction than a simple courtesy in a deeply Islamic country. Respect the customs, and you’ll never be reminded of the rules. More importantly, you’ll feel like a guest who understands they’re sharing a place—not just consuming it.
Diving Below the Surface
Diving was, of course, part of the plan. I’d come at the tail end of the monsoon season, and everyone was upfront about what that meant: visibility wouldn’t be at its best. The water held a milky haze, and long-distance views were limited. Still, I signed up for a day of diving—and I’m glad I did.
What the water lacked in clarity, it more than made up for in life. The coral was vibrant and healthy, sprawling across the reef in complex shapes and colors, and the marine life seemed to emerge suddenly out of the blue-green gloom. Schools of fish moved like shifting clouds and smaller creatures revealed themselves only when I slowed down and really looked. It wasn’t cinematic diving, but it was immersive and quietly mesmerizing.
Like most people who come to this part of the Maldives, I was hoping to see a whale shark. That didn’t happen. I was told—more than once—that snorkeling trips offered the best chance, especially given the conditions. But somehow, I never made it out on one. My days had fallen into an easy rhythm of long beach walks, lingering swims, and unstructured time, and before I knew it, the week was over.
Oddly enough, I didn’t feel disappointed. Dhigurah had a way of rewarding presence rather than ambition. The diving reminded me that not every journey delivers its headline moment—but sometimes what you find instead is just as lasting.
Farewell to the Island
After a week of settling into this daily ritual, it was time to leave—back to Malé, and onward to Sri Lanka. I said my goodbyes to my excellent hosts, Mohammed and Simoo, and boarded the same speedboat I’d arrived on days earlier. This time, the sea was kind. The waves were smaller, the ride smoother, and the crossing took just 90 minutes—a far cry from my churning, three-hour arrival.
I spent a full day wandering Malé before leaving the country. After the stillness of Dhigurah, the city’s concrete canyons felt intense but fascinating—compressed, energetic, and very much alive. One of my first stops was the Malé Fish Market, where local fishermen bring in their daily catch. Tuna dominates, hauled in whole and butchered with impressive speed and precision, before being sold on to merchants, restaurants, and resorts across the islands. It’s a place that hums with purpose and tradition.
Later, I attended Friday prayers at the Old Friday Mosque, the oldest mosque in the country, dating back to 1656. Built from coral stone, it’s a remarkably beautiful structure, its walls intricately carved with decorative patterns and Qur’anic script. Sitting there quietly, I was struck by how much history and culture are layered into these tiny islands—far more than the glossy resort imagery ever suggests.
By the time I boarded my onward flight, I realized that Dhigurah had given me exactly what I’d been hoping the Maldives might offer one day: not just beaches and blue water, but a sense of place, rhythm, and culture. It took 16 years to get there—but it was well worth the wait.
If you'd like to see more photos from this visit, please check out my Flickr Album on the Maldives.
Text and photos (other than the one of the whale shark...) by me, Adam Rogers.
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