News Desk
Picture this: a sunburned tourist sprints across the sands of Dhigurah, flip-flops flapping, towel trailing behind like a cape. Chasing him, the island council president, red-faced and breathless, shouts about unpaid fees for basking in the Maldives’ holy trinity—sun, sea, and sand. It’s almost comical. Until it’s not.
This isn’t slapstick. It’s the latest sign of a paradise unraveling. The golden goose of tourism is getting a shake-down, but the trouble isn’t the weather or the waves—it’s people. And tempers are running high. It’s Ramadan.
Dhigurah, a speck in the Maldives, is where the current tourism minister once dipped his toes into the guesthouse game, a connection he prefers to downplay.
Viral videos show the island council president in action, his voice cutting through the salty air as he confronts day-trippers. They aren’t guests of the island’s guesthouses—they’re excursionists, ferried in from places like Maafushi to soak up the beach. The rule is simple, he insists: pay $3 per head, $5 if you’re on a safari boat grilling barbecue. Stray past the jetty—the only designated area for outsiders—and the fees pile up. To him, it’s order. To the tourists, it’s a hustle.
Tourism is Dhigurah’s lifeblood, pulsing through guesthouses and boat docks. But the mood is souring. “It’s unfortunate some officials don’t understand how our economy works,” an X user posted, “especially when they’re chasing tourists down the beach.”
The jab came with a suggestion: maybe the council should have a word with the tourism minister, fresh from the ITB Berlin fair. One wrong move, and the industry keeping this island afloat could falter.
An islander defends the council. “Tourism is our backbone,” he wrote. “But some miss the full picture.” Most guesthouses pay without issue, he said, grateful for the upkeep. The real problem? Outsiders—mainly Maafushi operators—who bring in tourists, dodge the fees, and leave a mess. “The council’s been patient,” he added. “They’re fed up.”
Maafushi operators see it differently. “Charging to step onto an inhabited island? That’s a reach,” a guesthouse owner texted, requesting anonymity. To him, it’s petty island politics. “Keep this up, and we’ll block Dhigurah folks from Maafushi,” he warned. “Tit for tat.”
The tension is thick. Usman, the island council chief, sees it daily. “Our guesthouses play by the rules,” he said.
Tourism’s the pulse here, pumping life into guesthouses and sea transportations. Across the Maldives, inhabited islands are booming too, drawing crowds to their shores. But even there, islanders patrol, eyeing guests to ensure their clothing matches the council’s strict etiquette—rules spelled out on signs nailed to palm trees, impossible to miss. Some visitors shrug them off, oblivious to the hospitality code they’re expected to follow.
Trouble brews fast. One tourist recently griped online: mid-dip in the sea, an islander waded in, washing kitchen utensils right where she swam. Another complaint stinks worse—garbage incinerated near tourist beaches, smoke wafting over the sand. Guesthouse operators grumble to the Tourism Ministry, only to hear the same refrain: local councils run their own show, autonomous under the law. The ministry’s hands, it seems, are tied.
But the cracks in guesthouse tourism stretch beyond Dhigurah. On Kalhaidhoo, Ziyad’s 11-room guesthouse sits idle, his savings sunk into a permit that never came. His land is legal, but outside the “zone.” He’s one of many, boxed out by rigid regulations. The government wants tourism revenue, but the minister and his bureaucratic machinery are mired in red tape. “The government needs to rethink this,” an X petition urged. “It’s strangling us.”
The Tourism Ministry is drowning in complaints, stuck in its own administrative web. “They’re lost,” an operator told me, frustration clear in his voice.
Dhigurah’s sandbank still gleams, a five-kilometer stretch of perfection. But the sun, sea, and sand no longer feel as welcoming. The council president patrols the shore, tourists dodge his gaze, and the Maldives—built on hospitality—wonders if it’s killing what keeps it alive.
