Bert's Travels: The elegant, romantic island of Lamu

The elegant, romantic Island of Lamu.

We spent a few days in Mombasa. It was, quite frankly, a bit too hot to go sight seeing.

Mostly we were lolling on the shore of the Indian Ocean, and swimming in the warm waves rolling up the beach.

Gently.

Everything in Mombasa was done “Gently.”

We were torn from our reverie, when next to us a woman let out a most piercing shriek, followed by a call for Help!

Two men rushed to her aid and brought her ashore.

We found out the next morning that she had been stung by a “Portuguese Man of War.”

This jelly fish like organism packs a wallop of a painful punch, which, under circumstances, can be deadly.

Why am I telling you this? Just so you know that misfortune can lurch everywhere, even in the gently rolling waves of the blue Ocean off Mombasa. So, don't count your chickens till they're hatched and don't praise Mombasa's beach, till you're safely on the sand and out of reach of a “Portuguese Man o' war.”

“I hear there is a romantic Island just a little north of here, called Lamu.” I said to Glad.

“That's just what we need now: A romantic Island.” she replied, with a wistful smile on her lips.

The very next morning we drove to Malindi, and from there by a chartered 4 seat Cessna we flew to Lamu. We did this stretch by plane because from “reliable sources” we obtained the information that the road from Malindi to just opposite Lamu was like “the road to hell” and only fools would try it without a strong, powerful “four wheel” vehicle.

Actually one does not fly to Lamu. One flies to a landing strip on the mainland, from where a “Water-Taxi” takes you to the Island. Two low-flying approaches were needed to shush the grazing Impalas and Waterbucks from the strip.

The “Taxi” is a sailboat, a Dhow, ferrying you just off-shore to Lamu.

There was no pier and the crew, consisting of Captain and First Mate, offered to carry us, good and dry, onto land.

The Captain of this Dhow was of Arabic descent,

and, as we found out later,

so were most of the people of Lamu.

The "First Mate" ( I never saw a Second Mate)

repeated his offer, to carry us ashore.

“Just carry my wife and my camera bag, and drop neither, and other little luggage” I said. “I'll get myself ashore.” With those words I jumped over board, thinking I'd be to my knees in water. In fact the water reached well above my belt line, half-way up my chest. At the obvious surprised shock on my face, everybody, including Glad, laughed tears.

Oh well! You live and learn.

The romantic nature of the hotel “Peponi”, situated right on the beach, with the village of Shellah behind was beyond “dream land.”

We stayed at Peponi's for three nights, and could have stayed there for the rest of our lives. Or so it seemed at the time.

Romance was everywhere. It was in the cottage, it was in the swaying palm trees, it was in the flowering bush. It was in the very air you breathed. Even the little white cloud hanging in a bluer than blue sky and the steady sound of the waves brushing against the sandy shore was “Romance” spelled with a capital R.

Had we not already been hopelessly in love, we would have fallen in love right there and then.