It is time to relax. After pulling out cash and a quick fight about parmesan cheese (one of our two quarrels over the entirety the trip - totaling about 2 minutes and 15 seconds of tension… Emma wanted me to ask about parmesan cheese, I tell her that they probably don’t even have parmesan cheese in Africa, I was barely getting through to the cafe staff with my request for a fork, STILL try and fail, and then Emma tries and fails and tells me “They are just busy.” SHE WILL DENY THIS STORY AND SAY SHE WAS ALSO ASKING FOR A FORK. We find out a few days later there is a parmesan factory an hour away for the airport). We board our nearly 3 hour puddle jumper flight which we will pass out for after crushing some juice boxes and wake up to see beautiful marsh with blue water all around us. We touch down and are greeted in the airport by one of our househands, Charo (security is not terribly tight on the island), an angel of a man with the chubbiest feet you have ever seen and an enormous smile, past men playing checkers with bottle caps on the pier to board a wooden water taxi with a thatched roof and darling blue elephant upholstery, named “Lady Gaga.” It’s driver is a man named Nasir.
A quick background on Lamu. Lamu is a Muslim island with only one car on it (which belongs to the police who I’m not even sure exist) and one million donkeys. You get around by boat and donkey, and if you are walking somewhere, you have to take into account what time you are leaving and wether it's high tide and your path will be submerged. There is Lamu town, their downtown with a market and square and shops, and Shela, where more mzungu’s hang out and one of the only places on the island that serves liquor, Peponi’s (meaning “heaven”). For a real party, you go to Floating Bar, which floats in the middle of the ocean, follows maritime law? and doesn’t require rule following. In the summertime, the water is crystal clear and you can swim with wild dolphins. The purest of disappointment upon hearing this. There are mangroves and spearfishing and barbequeing and a very very very mellow vibe on the island. Mombasa raha.
When we reach land, we climb the bleached stone steps from the water past some Rastas, and are greeted by Johnson, our chef / house hand / security. Johnson is half my size and is shy but with wise undertones. He and Charo take our bags and lead us down narrow dirt alleyways, past open air Muslim schools with children singing, storefronts with people seated out front, smooth, cream houses with bright fuchsia bougainvillea cascading down the walls, and a piece of jungle with multicolored sarongs on clothes lines floating. To our right, is the Bembea house.
A lot of Lamu is wonderment. There is no excitement…. that isn’t what is designed for. It is designed for slowing down and soaking in the natural cadence of life. Rose tells us Lamu Swahili is spoken with a different rythm, almost like a song (she tells us a story later of her friend, blonde haired blue eyed, who learned the language on the island and years later nearly gave a man in a hotel lobby a heart attack with how beautifully she spoke Swahili. I WANT THAT). The island’s architecture is breathtaking, lots of open windows and nods to the North African influence.
We enter our house and are speechless. Its so big, its so peaceful, there is so much space, not filled with much, save over-sized pillows and beautiful little corners for quiet. We take it all in, especially the rooftop, where Emma and I will spend a majority of our time in the house. There are kids laughing and beautiful call-to-prayer hymns as Johnson describes what he will be cooking for us that night. We agree on $50 dollars at the market for food and beers, and will come back to an incredible seafood dinner in the dining room, and then full breakfast and more seafood and breakfast more seafood after that (”Look at those live lobsters!”) Charo takes us for a walk on the beach and we touch the Indian ocean, see a peach colored sunset, and little hoof marks along the beach. We see adorable woven baskets used as trash receptacles and some puppies and beautiful kids.
We have a drink at Peponi’s where we talk about how wonderful traveling with each other has been, and comment a menu item titled “Cockless Tales.” We head home for our prepared feast waiting for us, rice, beer, salad with avocado and tomatoes, and fresh shrimp, a trail of enormous ants we have to dance around. Afterwards, Mohammed comes over to the house to discuss an itinerary at the kitchen table. We hear bats and beetles (a battery beeping?) outside, Mohammed is another slow talker whose brother sails the Dhow we will be riding tomorrow and wants to discuss American politics. He is going to set us up with Hamsed, “Meta Meta,” for a tour around the town - a trusted source and lovable guy. Oh, is he lovable. We trust the great folks of Kenya. After lounging, we get into our mosquito net covered beds in our own wings of the house and get some deserved rest.
Day 8
I wake up at 5am to a call to prayer and hang out upstairs while Emma sleeps in. I call my mom and show her our house, I check a few emails, and our breakfast is brought up to us at 8am - a full setting with coffee and our beloved scramby eggs and toast. We take a taxi with Nasir’s brother to Lamu town where Meta Meta is waiting, a small man who shuffles his feet and has the most INCREDIBLE laugh and wears a little white hat. He is like a human version of Zazu. He tells us history lessons, helps us carry our things, and guides us through the streets we would normally get lost in. He also and seems to know EVERYONE (”Are you the mayor?”). We are navigating through this labrynth, dipping in and out of beautiful houses with ancient architecture, indoor courtyards and pools, climbing up staircases to rooftops consumed with bougainvillea in and out and shops where Meta is talking to everybody like they are family. We explore open air product markets and museum courtyards, wood working shops and a donkey hospital. We see the butcher market and have to pass through quickly - there are heads in there. We eat street food for lunch on the second story over looking the water - roti, fried fish, and curry and rice, and take what we can home.
After some resting at home and sunning and a split Tusker on the roofdeck, it is time for our Dhow ride. We race down to the water to find the sweetest boat with two men, ready to take us to the mangroves. We motor to calm water before hoisting up the sail and relaxing on the water. There is a warm breeze and the sound of lapping water that puts you into a state of hypnosis. And then as we are turning the boat around to go back home, we realize the boat has stopped. Has stopped and also, is stuck. “Are we stuck?” Emma is first to realize it, and because these men are Kenyan, they refuse to give bad news, and just say nothing at all but do strip down to their underwear before jumping in to unplug us from the sandbank. We thankfully do get unstuck and see a pirate ship sailing with someone in the water being pulled from a rope, which I DIDN’T KNOW was an option, and begin to plan my next trip back here out of raging FOMO. This plus the dolphins I am missing is… unacceptable. We get asked by the pirate ship if we are going to Floating Bar, which we were obviously not down to answer, but think our driver narc’ed on us…. to “The Beach Boys.”
We pull up to Floating Bar to see what it is all about and ask for pick up a couple hours later. It is what it sounds like; a floating bar, playing reggae music, with a thatched roof, in the middle of the ocean. After moving chairs (physically….moving….chairs) to see the sunset, one of the bartenders, Johnathan, comes up to say hi. He speaks so softly you can barely hear him without having to lean in. We end up getting to know Jonathan over the course of the night - and learn he lives on the floating bar. LIVES ON IT. He bring us to the 6′ by 8′ kitchen to see how he makes french fries and keeps us safe from the Beach Boys, and we talk about his loneliness. We are sad to leave him when our ride arrives back to land.
We have a fresh lobster dinner on the rooftop and stay up too late reminiscing.
Day 9
We enjoy breakfast with monkeys, a dip in the ocean while talking about futures, and another jaunt into town before departing for our flight. We board the plane with 20 more pounds on us (our second, very very minor fight) and arrive back at home in Nairobi in one piece.
Tail End
The tail end of our trip was the beginning of our homecoming - 3 days of decompression at home in Nairobi. We did normal things like normal people, went to markets (produce and Maasai), celebrated Rose’s birthday over martinis and pass the question at Muthaiga Club, ate at home, rode buses, went swimming and made roti. We also did some not normal things like visited the largest slum in Africa with Leo and visited our baby orphaned elephants.
On our last evening with Rose, after coming back from the orphanage, we come home to gifts waiting for us on our beds and Rose offering us our last Tusker beers in Africa. We pack, I have a cry in the shower, and we have the most incredible meal, discussing the legacy and art of coming back. According to Rose, Africa is not for all, but once you have the bug - it is with you for life. The minutes I have not wanted to pass, do, and before we know it we are giving our last hugs while heaving through tearful goodbyes. The car we get into is with Joshua, the same man who brought us in, and he takes us back to the airport, which takes us back to the United States.
I don’t know what else to say about this trip. Again, now, I am crying just thinking about how lucky I am to have gone and met the people I did and learned from this journey. I won’t be able to ever completely thank, nor repay Emma for this experience. It is one of the greatest to date of my life.
Nakupende - sana, Emma.