The island that time forgot

Getting to Lamu, off the coast of Kenya, is a mission. But as Nick Dall and his brother found out, tearing yourself away from this rhapsodical island of donkeys and dhows is even harder.

The bus ticket inspires confidence: “Pwani Tawakal Mini Coach – We run, others fly”. We pass through impressive pineapple fields before getting to Kilifi, a magnificent steep-sided lagoon, and, a couple of hours later, Malindi, a picturesque beach resort that is, for some reason, extremely popular among Italians. In the immediate vicinity of the bus station alone, there are several pizzerias and a gelateria. Our bus bumbles along the sandy road that dissects a lawless region notorious for attacks by Al-Shabaab bandits. Thankfully our only assailants are mozzies and boredom and we eventually reach Mokowe to board the ferry that will take us to Lamu itself. In a ramshackle, overloaded vessel, we cross the 400 m channel that separates Lamu from mainland Kenya. Being the only mzungus on the ferry, we are given a heroes’ welcome when we arrive. Lamu has been a trading port for nearly 700 years and it still has a mercantile bustle despite being all but wiped off the map of global commerce. As soon as we set foot on land, 10 guys who all seem to be called Mohammed try to sell us everything from fresh crabs to dhow trips, bulging tamarind pods and cheap nylon mosquito nets.

Lamu is similar to Zanzibar. Both islands share histories of spices, slavery and shipping – and both are predominantly Muslim. But Lamu is also very different to Zanzibar. For starters, there are only two cars on the island: the high commissioner’s Land Rover and an ambulance. Instead of vehicle traffic, there are thousands of donkeys. Lamu’s

inaccessibility, coupled with the real but fading threat of terrorism, means that apart from intrepid backpackers and the megawealthy, the island has largely been untouched by commercial tourism. The elegant buildings built of coral and mangrove timber remain, but they are no longer home to wealthy traders of ivory, silk, shells and porcelain. Instead, we come across a video cinema where, for five bucks, you can squeeze into a dingy dungeon filled with plastic chairs and watch a scratched copy of Titanic, Rambo or, if you’re lucky, Dirty Dancing. A little further along we find a fishmonger called Rooney 10, next to the Chelsea FC barbershop. As atmospheric as the old town is, we are persuaded by a guy called Mohammed to stay in his “countryside villa”. We lug our backpacks along the narrow coastal path, taking care not to step in ubiquitous donkey poo. We pass the “power station” – a giant generator that belches and spews black fumes 24 hours a day, coating the nearby rocks and shrubs with treacly diesel. For a place that is often windy and always sunny, there must be better ways to produce electricity… Besides Lamu Town, there are two other meaningful settlements on the island: Shela, a 20-minute walk from our villa, is unpleasantly quaint. “Is Europe,” explains Mohammed, and it really is. Every last traditional coral house has been bought by foreign investors and at best restored, at worst mutilated. The people who lived in Shela for centuries had to move to the dunes or to Lamu Town, to make way for toned Europeans who sip Bellinis and smear Piz Buin on one another’s backs for two weeks a year. Matondoni, a three-hour walk away along a sandy track, could not be more different. Famed for its dhow-making, it’s one of only two places in the world (Zanzibar is the other) where dhows of up to 40-feet long are still built by hand the same way they have been built for centuries: mangrove wood for the frame, mahogany for the body and shark oil to keep it all watertight.

Watching dhows being built is cool, we decide, but not half as cool as actually sailing on one. A young man called Mohammed helps us arrange a three-day trip to an idyllic-sounding island called Manda Toto. The preamble is a slow and baffling experience, but eventually, 72 hours after negotiations began, we set sail. Not on one of the two boats we’d been promised, mind you, and we’ve never set eyes on the skipper and his mate, despite having been introduced to at least seven people claiming to hold these positions. Even stranger, however, is that neither of them is called Mohammed. “When I smoke…” Chinaboy (pronounced “chinnerboy”) explains, “My eyes get really small and my friends say I look like Chinese.” Mbabe, Chinaboy’s second in command, has been working on the boat since he was 11. We spend the first night at Mtangawanda (literally “eyeshadow sand”) on Pate Island. It’s a popular overnight stop for fishermen on their way to or from the Somali border, where they have to weigh the promise of good fishing against the threat of pirates. Some of the men are cooking ugali (pap) over wood fires while others smoke bhang (dagga) on the beach or bathe in the shallows. We bring out our Frisbee and we’re soon joined by a few enthusiastic apprentices. That evening we walk to Pate Town, about an hour away. Situated at the apex of a mangrove channel that all but dries up at low tide, it’s famous for its crabs and lobsters. We soon have 40 or 50 kids following us. The streets are smaller and more dingy than those in Lamu, the buildings are more tumbledown. We stop at the general dealer to buy Cokes for our Frisbee friends, and a pack of Rooster cigarettes for Mbabe. The next morning, after discovering that my board shorts and mosquito net have been stolen in the night, we eat doorstop slices of white bread and drink sweet tea for breakfast. And we wait. By 9 am, all the fishermen have left in their boats but ours – probably deliberately – has been beached by the tide and we’ll have to wait until the afternoon to set sail for fabled Manda Toto.

The afternoon voyage is surreal. A dhow is a primitive vessel, but it’s still a highly efficient downwind craft. Upwind, however, is an entirely different story. Every time we tack, Chinaboy and Mbabe predict that it will be the last time. And every time, apart from the seventh time, they are wrong. But this is far from an irritation. We’re young, we have no deadlines, and it becomes a supremely enjoyable pantomime. At one point, Mbabe, shrieking, is thrown into the sea by the force of the sail. He doesn’t even mind us laughing at him as he clambers back onto the boat. We arrive at Manda Toto in the dark and eat Somali supaghetti – plain spaghetti prepared with half a bag of sugar in the water. Later, as we try to sleep, a thunderstorm cracks all around. When dawn breaks, we finally see why Mbabe was so excited about Manda Toto. Not even a kilometre long, the sand is white, the sea is blue and the palms sway evocatively in the wind. I decide that it’s the most idyllic place I’ve ever seen… Until I notice a tall figure, with a Maasai spear and a vicious dog, patrolling the beach in front of a colossal, pearlescent mansion. The house, Chinaboy explains, was built by a local businessman on government land. Without permission, of course. I know I should feel outraged by this flagrant disregard for the law, but there’s something about the water lapping at my shoulders and the scent of fresh fish on the braai that makes me not give a hoot. If you’ve been to Lamu, you’ll understand what I’m saying. And if you haven’t, maybe you should start making plans to visit the island that time forgot. It will remind you why you fell in love with travel in the first place.

When dawn breaks, we finally see why Mbabe was so excited about Manda Toto. Not even a kilometre long, the sand is white, the sea is blue and the palms sway evocatively in the wind. I decide that it’s the most idyllic place I’ve ever seen…