Things have taken an interesting twist here in Lamu. I’d been set to leave a week ago, working my way back down the coast en route to Nairobi and, eventually, Uganda. But an opportunity’s come my way to update the Kenya guide for a slick, high-end travel website - leaving me in the not-too-unenviable position of having to dodder around Lamu for another week, popping in on the area’s swank resorts. Inspiration comes easily around the bar of the Peponi, where cute young Europeans pad around on bare feet, looking taut and tan and full of fiscal vigor. I eat crab [View Full Entry]

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As the days pass in a drowsy blur of donkeys and bui buis, Ramadan blows in like a whirlwind of spiritual whoop-ass. Islam’s holiest month arrives with the new moon, on a festive night where the sky is cluttered with stars and the locals are boisterously out in the streets. There’s an odd ceremony by the waterfront at dusk, where a group of men are standing at attention. They dip their heads and wring their hands and shuffle a bit from side to side - perhaps anticipating, with the pure, holy anguish of faith, the trials of the month ahead. I [View Full Entry]

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For the better part of two weeks I’ve used deft evasions and elusive side-steps to put off my inevitable dhow trip. Admittedly, it’s a bit odd that something most tourists look forward to - indeed, consider the highlight of their time in Lamu - should meet with so much teeth-gnashing. A pleasant morning of sailing and fishing, an afternoon dip on the beach: hardly the Bataan Death March, to be sure. But after more than a week of greeting captains along the waterfront, of exchanging small-talk and inquiring about the quality of their sleep (a subject of endless fascination for most [View Full Entry]

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Though it’s miles - literally, figuratively - from the clamor of Mombasa and the teeth-gnashing nuisances of Malindi, Lamu’s proving to be just as slippery when it comes to peace and quiet. Along the waterfront I’m accosted by young guys in Bob Marley t-shirts, colorful kikoys wrapped around their slender waists. They come up to me, arms outstretched, as if they’re just catching up with old friends. “Brother, what’s the plan?” they’ll ask, clasping my hand and clapping my back and flashing broad, dazzling shit-eaters. These are the [View Full Entry]

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We’ve stopped at a military checkpoint on the edge of some nameless coastal town when a young soldier gets onboard, brandishing an assault rifle and an attitude that suggests he knows how to use it. He squints by the door and gives the bus a long, careful once-over, his gaze lingering on a few faces that, to the untrained eye, look about as guilty as an Easter lamb. For years the road north of Malindi was plagued by banditry - much of the country further north, by the Somali border, is still a lawless no-man’s land - and the armed escort [View Full Entry]

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Considering I’ve got two weeks of down-time on tap for Lamu, it seems odd that I’d feel a need to take a break in Watamu. But here I am: lulled by the surf and the ocean breezes, shuffling around in board shorts, my linen shirt unbuttoned down to my navel. The routine I’ve slouched into is a cozy one. A light breakfast of Nescafe and chapati, the morning paper, a few smiles and “Buongiornos” for the pretty waitress at the Italian café. In the afternoon I sit on the beach and shoo away the guys selling hand-painted greeting cards and little [View Full Entry]

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Leaving Mombasa proves to be more hassle than the arrival, when my train made its slow, stately way into the station. The departure is pure chaos - equal parts Grand Central and Little Bighorn. I’ve hardly pulled my bags from the back of a tuk-tuk when I’m hustled to the curb; someone foists my pack into the belly of the bus, someone else scribbles on a pad and presses a ticket into my hand. This is the scene at Bondeni station, a chaotic, gas-choked strip of sidewalk where passengers, pick-pockets, and low-grade hustlers are tripping over each other to the throaty [View Full Entry]

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To arrive in Mombasa is to walk into a wall of heat, a sultry wind that smells less like the wafting coconut scent of the guidebooks than a roaring furnace fed by body odor and exhaust fumes. Loud tropical music blares on the street corners and colorful little tuk-tuks putter down the avenues. Young guys are pushing carts piled high with bananas and mangos and pineapples and coconuts, which they’re happy to part with for just a couple of cents. I spend a few mornings sitting on a bench and eating bowl after bowl of fresh fruit. Then I walk down [View Full Entry]

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Like the dry, lingering cough I’ve had for the past six weeks, I can’t seem to get Nairobi out of my system. A city I’d planned to avoid like a pack of missionaries has, instead, proven to be an odd sort of saving grace. After my forays into the bush and my crammed matatus into the highlands, the sanctuary of Backpackers - a hostel set into a leafy space on the outskirts of town - has come to offer much-needed respite. It’s here, sitting by the fireplace with a cold Tusker, that I can warm my toes and listen to the [View Full Entry]

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After the terrific heat of Maralal, I’m grateful for the cool, high-altitude relief of Nyahururu. My face is still smarting from a week in the sun, patches of skin flaking off like old wall paint. But as much as I’d like to enjoy this place - the bicycle taxis pedaling down the street are an especially cozy touch - Nyahururu is just a brief stop-over. In the morning I leave for Nakuru, anxious to get on with things and get back to Nairobi, where two weeks’ worth of neglected work is calling me back like a jilted lover. Kenya’s fourth-largest city [View Full Entry]

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