Fly A Kite Or Take a Hike In Little Italy - Watamu Beach - Kenya

There we go, I have found it: a descriptive word. It took a few minutes rifling through the files in my mind. Pasty is what I’m looking for. That’s precisely what we looked like on arrival at Watamu Beach.

The photographer captured my pale and pasty complexion perfectly. Behind me, a stretch of captivating blue. There’s no breath of wind, the sun already prickly on my skin. Deep breaths of warm, salty air fill my starved lungs. We have arrived.

Set behind a dune lies our small campsite; swaddled in a cloud of green foliage, we squeeze the Honey Badger into position next to a tent. Curtains rustle as inquisitive eyes check out the intruders who have shifted the equilibrium in these parts. A shower is turned off a few meters from us. In the open kitchen, a tanned, greying man with a top knot turns his head to peer at me as I slide staccato-like out of the cab, my sweaty thighs sticking to the seat covers. Curtains are dropped, and Topknot returns to his large saucepan on the cast iron gas hob. A woman who looks like a blue Delft plate, wrapped in a beachtowel, steps out of the palm fond shower cubicle. She smiles and shakes her bikini top, expelling fat droplets in an arc over her head.

Butch suggests an early dinner at the restaurant. But first, a swim. The subtropical heat has hit us like a Tsunami.

Peri-Peri chicken, the short, squat cook and muscular Chef tell us in unison, is on the menu. The sixty-minute wait indicates that our meal is prepared and cooked right there on the spot. The salad is crispy, the tomatoes divine, and the potato chips are heavenly. I have become rather fond of the Irish potatoes in East Africa. It’s not a good thing my hips and thighs warn me.

 

“How?” they (hips and thighs) ask, “Will you squeeze yourself into your 2019 bather?”

 

---oOo---

 

Watamu Beach

 

While we were gallivanting and exploring the northwestern parts of Kenya, our friends flew from Eldoret to Mombasa for a week’s stay at Watamu Beach.

All their reports painted an exotic picture of soft white beaches, swaying palm trees, fish to die for, laid-back days reading sprawled out on a sun lounger or playing volleyball in a crystal clear pool.

Cooks in the know will buy fresh fish off the boats from trusted fishermen, and the LM prawns were harvested right there. Fresher and plumper, we’d be hard-pressed to find. We only needed to put the word out on the street, Jannie reassured us.

 

We were sold, immediately changed course, and headed east to Kenya’s famous coastline and tropical beaches.

 

---oOo---

 

First things first. We needed to get our bikes off the racks and ready to roll. While Butch did the necessary, I did a dirty and massaged copious handfuls of self-tanning lotion onto my arms and legs. I was determined to cycle into town with a golden glow gleaming off my legs.

 

Little did I know that the humidity would be off the charts, and the Turmeric glow would run rivulets down my legs and pool in my sneakers, staining my secret socks.

 

Due to the heat, we agreed that our first cycle was an orientation ride, and we didn’t go too far off the beaten track but found the ATM, the grocery store, and, for a treat, we happened upon the fabulous Deli and Gelato shop. 

 

Butch insisted that we have “something less outrageous. It was only 9h30, after all, Maricha.” He said, tapping his Garmin wristwatch and glaring at me. I slumped in my chair until I heard the cacophony of languages, which inspired us to settle for something French. The chocolate and almond croissants were buttery, light, and delectable. With promises to return later, we set off to explore.

After settling the business side of our ride, we returned for a generous scoop of gelato. The choices were overwhelming, and the queue was already six deep at the counter. Holidays are made for these little treats, I remind my beloved, pushing that niggling 1970s Twiggy worry worm to the back of my mind.

At the gate to the campsite Butch “put the word out” regarding fresh fish and prawns.

I profess I wrestled into my bather, the fight taking me onto the bed where I rolled around like a beached whale, or, as my beloved declared, “You look like a tortoise on his back trying to get into pantyhose”, tugging and pulling the garment into position. At last, gasping and out of breath, I was victorious and gave the straps a final snap before wrapping myself into a colourful Kikkoi. My dress code for the duration of our stay.

No more gelato, I vowed, applying a smear of lip gloss to my dry lips.

 

---oOo---

 

We explored the beach on our daily walks, getting to know every hidden private beach, cove, guesthouse, or lodge along the water’s edge.

I collected shells and seaweeds, recorded our walks on film and soaked my feet in the warm Indian Ocean. Our skin turned a natural golden colour as the self-tan faded, the soles of my feet became soft and smooth, and my hair frizzed into a natural curl.

On one or two occasions, we’d pay the daily rate and book a deck chair to join other beachgoers and holidaymakers under umbrellas.

There were days we didn’t even make it down to the beach, the thought of running down the staircase and then across the hot sand on bare feet defeated me, but we'd spend the afternoon overlooking the ocean from the lawns blanketing the dune.

The mornings spent on the beach were alluring, and we enjoyed being part of the holiday crowd. When the tide was out, and small islands appeared in the shallows, we’d walk out to them and sit on the cool, drying sand, our feet in the lapping water, fascinated by the languages spoken around us.

Just before lunchtime, I’d order curried chicken Samoosas and prawn rissoles from our restaurant, where the staff never had a minute off duty.

The Chef and his wife, the cook, were the only kitchen staff I ever saw. Together, they’d prepare all the meals, peel, chop, dice, roll the dough, spice the fish or chicken, and prepare the tasty dishes on open fires or gas cookers in their open kitchen. Never impatient or hurried, they’d keep their tempo whether one, two or a dozen guests were waiting.

 

Their constant banter and chatter was intriguing; whatever did they talk about? And I was mesmerised that they could continue the conversation without missing a beat while serving a diner, scooping something out of the chest-deep freezer or collecting an ingredient in the walk-in larder. Never raising their voices, they laughed, giggled, and gossiped like magpies.

While we nibbled on our tapas, the other bathers and guests from nearby lodges and resorts would be served their picnic lunches. While the clean-up staff removed their discarded wrappers and lunch boxes, we’d all drift off into our books, magazines, or settle into a well-deserved catnap.

I would stare at the sea and think of descriptive names for the colours we were wrapped in. Cobalt, teal, aquamarine, turquoise, sapphire, azure, navy, baby blue, and Indigo blue are reflected by a blue-blue sky and wispy clouds. With so much ozone oozing from the sky, who could feel blue?

We’d not cornered anyone selling prawns but had seen a board advertising Prawn Lake and decided to go out on a date night.

Mida Creek is a tidal mud flat with fringing mangrove swamps dotted with residential buildings on the water’s edge. The restaurant comprises log buildings on stilts with wooden boardwalks adjoining them.

Sunsets are spectacular, and while the sky turned a flame red and blood-orange, we sipped our sundowners (a Stoney Tangawizi for me) and nibbled on the kitchen’s star dish prawn Samoosas.

The Prawn Lake Conservation Project aims to plant 1000 mangrove tree seeds to rehabilitate the declining stock of trees growing there.

Using our Uber app, we could order a cab at a very reasonable rate and safely return to our campsite before the other residents retired. We didn’t have to tiptoe.

 

---oOo---

Inclement weather, the cat would agree,  happens like a godsend when you’ve been a beachcomber for a few days. It means the pressure to sunbathe, swim and lol about is off for a day. Whoopie, we can cycle or explore new territory without guilt on those cloudy days.

After a leisurely morning, we’d hop on our bikes and find the perfect veranda for lunch. We have an uncanny knack for always finding something authentic and sublime. 

 

---oOo---

A few days later, our lives changed when we heard the thunderous rumble of a V8 engine making an entrance—a family of four. Our new neighbours had arrived.

 

After many months of a mostly solitary existence, it was glorious to hear the sound of children laughing and chattering or, at times, bickering. Still, the surprising thing was that the two tweens would sit and read books for many hours each afternoon. Real books. We had company. A bromance soon blossomed between Butch and our neighbour.

Cautiously, we became acquainted. The only way to cement a relationship is a shared meal, and so it was that the guys found a fresh fish which Butch did on the braai and his introduction to cooking on glowing red-hot charcoal. The evening was a huge success.

 

A few nights later, we repeated the communal dining and this time, our neighbour grilled beautiful butterflied prawns on hot coals. Scrumptious. I salivate at the memory.

By now, our cycles circled into unknown territories as we lengthened our distances out of Watamu, exploring the coastline and dirt roads.

As we ventured north, we soon realised there was a distinctly Italian flavour to Watamu and the next big town, Malindi.

The reason we were told is as follows: after the end of World War II, the Italians were given land in Watamu as a form of compensation. As a result of the locals’ kindness, the Italians settled in the town with their families.

 

This explained why I was presented with a tiny bunch of bougainvillaea blossoms by a flamboyant Italian Café owner who took pity on me after a gruelling uphill cycle. He placed the cerise pink blooms behind my ear to make me smile. They cheered me up, and it was a first for me.

 

---oOo---

A few days later, we would celebrate our neighbour’s 40th birthday in Malindi, a seaside town a few kilometres north of Watamu on the Indian Ocean founded in the 13th Century and has been known as “Little Italy” since the late 1960s.

The touristy town is brimming with Italian restaurants, pizzerias, delis, and gelato shops. Billboards advertise in Italian, and restaurant menus offer after-dinner liqueurs such as Limoncello and Amaretto.

Italian is frequently heard, and even the Kenyan housekeepers and wait staff, the tuk-tuk drivers who ferried us around and the local fishermen with their catch of the day speak a passable Italian we were told at the Italian ristorante we were invited to for a long luncheon.

Georgio explains that the first Italians to arrive in the town were engineers and scientists who loved what they found. Word soon spread about Malindi’s pristine beaches, abundance of seafood and friendly, welcoming local Kenyans.

Georgio, an estate agent and entrepreneur, added that by the 1970s, the community had grown, with many Italians settling in Malindi and pursuing opportunities in the tourism industry.

Andrea explained that these Italians opened hotels and restaurants, built beach villas, and became economically integral to the town. He fired up his black Vespa and said he was late for his Padel game, waving and shooting off at a breakneck speed.

If we needed to stock up before returning to Watamu, there was an Italian supermarket in the heart of Malindi. Butch could stock up on good Italian Vino. I could fill my basket with pasta, jars of olives and capers - and I was sure to find a fine selection of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, salami and prosciutto. Georgio’s partner told me, flapping her large table napkin and leaning over as we tucked into a scrumptious lunch at the long table on the veranda overlooking the ocean.
 

 
Courses of beautifully prepared dishes were placed on the table, there was no menu, and the Chef was instructed to serve his favourite dishes and to keep them coming. The afternoon whirred past us as the wine flowed; Mandi performed an original birthday song for her Dad while platters of delicious traditional Italian cuisine were placed before us—a feast fit for a king.

And, most exciting, the Grisbì buttery biscuits filled with heavenly lemon cream like the one I found in my saucer served with my coffee is also stocked in the shop.

 

---oOo---

The next day, we explored Watamu and a little side street where locals set up stalls and small shops. Here we found one could buy anything. We spent a few hours walking around the charming old Swahili streets, where we heard lyrical Swahili, Arabic, Italian and a sprinkling of German, English and Dutch. Amongst the shoppers were dozens of tanned Italians.

One day, I ventured off alone and walked to Hemingway’s, a resort a few kilometres from our campsite. There are times when we both need space, Butch relaxes and winds down without my constant FOMO, and I can dawdle, shop, or walk at my pace without any limits on my time or space.

Before visiting the clothing boutique, I enjoyed a pastry and a deliciously slushy iced coffee at the small Italian coffee shop.

“Why is it?” I lamented that some of the most beautiful items are displayed in exorbitantly costly shops on resorts where I know the threads are there to lure relaxed tourists. I fell instantly in love with an outrageously large-brimmed orange floppy hat. My very brittle, sunbleached tangerine straw hat will have to do for another few thousand kilometres.

I might not have shopped but the morning spent exploring was reward enough. A memory lasts a lifetime, not a hat.

---oOo---

Watching the sunset at the Lichthaus is mandatory, our clued-up neighbour told us while we sucked on our crispy, slightly charred prawn skins. He would make the reservation.

In a Tuk-tuk rigged for a crowd, we set off early the next afternoon, an hour before sunset. We were dressed to the nines in strappy sundresses and sandals and were assured we’d fit in.

I’d read reviews about the Lichthaus, and each one stated, “It’s not a destination. It’s an experience to watch the sun dip and get swallowed into Temple Point Creek.”

This certainly was an experience and one I’d never expected. It turned out to be a trendy joint, and soon, we were queuing for our cocktails.

Guests could sit or lie on the netted trampoline attached to the side of the large platform on stilts, which was the restaurant. The open plan was ideal, with only the central kitchen hidden behind walls in the middle surrounded by spacious wrap-around decks and verandas.

We joined the young crowd on large Persian-style cushions on the wooden decking while romantics doubled up in hammocks.

We were early which meant Mandy and I could go exploring.We found the displays irresistable and even found the perfect outfit for her mom. Later on we returned to the shop but the item had been sold. A beautiful silk top.

The sunset is spectacular. We all watched the sun dipping into the creek and could’ve cheered as we witnessed the light display. A natural one where the sky turned shades of mauve, pink, yellow, orange and red.

As the lights came on, we ordered a selection of Tapas and refilled our jugs. Conversations were lively and animated all around us, and we found ourselves caught up in the laid-back vibe.

When the children became sleepy, we ordered our Uber tuk-tuk and went home. I concur that this is a matchless spot that is not to be missed.

---oOo---

Things were going smoothly for us, I thought, but one is never to tempt fate, and so it was that I got a flat wheel on my bike while out riding the next day.

Fortunately, help is never far away, and we were soon directed to the nearest tyre repair shop where I could get my bike fixed.

We are sceptics and find many things hard to believe, yet when the chap told me that the repair shop was a kilometre away on the left-hand side of the road, I believed him. After a long push, I asked myself whether anyone had ever measured the distance and had to accept that no one had.

We pushed and pushed (Butch pushed his bike in sympathy with me) for a few kilometres before we spotted the broken bicycles under the big rubber tree.

The owner got to work immediately, and within an hour, I had my wheels back again, and we could continue our cycle. I was amazed, humbled and thankful. The shy repairman just nodded as he accepted our payment.

---oOo---

In Mandi, I found a kindred spirit; she missed her Granny, and I missed my Grandchildren. She became my surrogate granddaughter and her brother, our grandson, for a few days.

They’d spend hours with us, telling us tales of their adventures. These children have been fortunate to have been able to travel through much of East Africa and have even lived in countries we could only dream of.

Bright as buttons, they enthusiastically shared their experiences and told us how homeschooling works; Mandi’s brother, a keen rugby player, knew all the rules and supported the Springboks, which was a massive tick in Butch’s books.

I showed her how to bake my easy bread, and her nimble fingers soon got the hang of it. Her fabulous loaf highlighted their breakfast, she said the following day.

One night Butch and I had the privilege of babysitting the two children while their parents went out on a well-deserved date night. Something that rarely happens, we were told.

I still have a pretty crayon drawing of a double-storey house, a lovely garden and curtains in the windows, which Mandy drew for me. It is precisely where she put it up using duct tape. It is the last thing I see every evening before I drift off to sleep. I believe she is living in a house like this again in a faraway country across the sea.

---oOo---

One afternoon, we were invited to walk through a fabulous villa a stone’s throw from the coastline. The expansive rooms, wide staircases, high ceilings, open spaces, shutters, carved doors and thick stucco walls set in a large garden with ancient trees, creepers, succulents and colourful borders.

I vowed I’d make sure we have a day bed swinging from our rafters on our veranda one day. Colourful rugs, a kaleidoscope of patterned cushions and cloths draped over rattan chairs, and sofas were arranged in cosy seating areas in various places to catch the sun, avoid the sun, see the sunset and sunrise, avoid the rainy season and make the most of the sun’s heat when it was cold. This home made the best use of light and all the natural elements to survive in a tropical climate. There were no air cons. Who needs it if your house is well-designed?

My eye always catches vibrant colours, and art is one of the many features I notice. I can’t own any of it, but I can take a photograph of it.

I found so many catching my attention on this trip that I can’t resist sharing them. Like architecture, they represent a place, a culture and a time.

To be able to put brushstrokes on canvas and make a refection of what’s in your heart or mind or hand must be one of the noblest gifts. I do not profess to understand the deeper meanings of many works or the technicalities used; I know nothing of brush strokes or layering. Sometimes, I can see the difference between pastels, watercolours and oils. My appreciation stems purely from my gut. Like it, love it or not. Respect for the artist? Always. Putting yourself on the line takes strength of character, determination, and mettle.

---oOo---

One morning, Buurman (neighbour) came over and asked whether they could take us off to one of the unique picnic spots along the coast. It is an extraordinary place where we would have the beach to ourselves he promised.

We agreed immediately. Picnic baskets and cool boxes were hastily packed with refreshments, saladings, corn on the cob, potatoes, and condiments. Chairs, a table and napery, went into their SUV  with our beach bags. We had towels, hats, suntan lotions, and something warm to wear later when the wind came off the sea.

Once we’d set up our chairs and tables, we were all into the warm Indian Ocean, where we ducked, dived, and played with the children in the shallows or body surfing in the waves

In our chairs, we dried off in the sun, and later, we moved to sit under the awning while the children built sand castles and played soccer on the beach. We were exhausted, and some opted for a G&T or beer shandy. It was the perfect day for it.

Our hostess prepared a delicious potato bake with loads of garlic and crushed chilli wrapped in foil and baked on the coals. Our host prepared fresh octopus. The tenderness of the meat bowled us over.

After lunch, we went for a long walk on the beach, where the children told me they had a friend and an aquaintance of their Dad’sThis guy owned a lodge. I agreed it would be rude not to go and say hi!

A clutch of exuberant children accompanied us back to our picnic spot and for an hour or two, “our” children played contentedly with their peers.

---oOo---

On our last evening, Butch and I walked down the beach as the sun set to have our dinner at one of the upmarket resorts we’d read about.

The theme was white, and every object from ceiling to floor was whitewashed. I loved it. Butch has often remarked that “if one stood still for five minutes, Maricha would paint you white!”

The evening was perfect. Calm, cool and relaxed, we were one of only two tables waiting to be served by the friendly staff who made excellent suggestions. I loved my ravioli, and Butch couldn’t stop raving about his Risotto. The breadsticks and olive tapenade was rich in flavour, and our dessert was creamy Pannacotta, bellisimo!

The guard on gate duty opened the gate onto the beach with a flourish when we left, and with a full moon off the glassy water, we walked home without a care in the world.

---oOo---

It was time to say goodbye to Watamu and, more importantly, to this beautiful family who had stolen our hearts; we felt like family, and for a few days, with them, Butch and I felt tethered again, and a fleeting feeling of belonging had encircled us.

Our goodbyes were a teary affair, and tearing ourselves away was heartbreaking. Mandi and I communicated emotional emojis for a few weeks, and messages flew backwards and forwards, keeping up with news, but with time and distance, they dwindled and stopped, having run their course. I’m sure Butch and I will remember this interlude long after they have forgotten us.

(names have been changed for anonymity)

---oOo---

A few days after our arrival, one of the guests staying in a bungalow at the far end of the campsite went storming off, dragging her suitcase on wheels across the sand in a huff, her backpack thumping a staccato on her back after complaining to the manager, who took no notice of her complaints and tantrums. Those who witnessed the scene said they stood gobsmacked at the commotion. Someone said, “We’re well shot of her!” and “Good riddance.”

I have vowed that the next time Butch orders octopus, I’ll remind him of all the disasters and disappointments he’s had in the past. His mission to find the perfect octopus is over until…. I met TopKnot in the kitchen, where he was preparing an octopus while I was washing my dishes.

He says his recipe is a tried and tested flop-proof Spanish recipe perfected by his grandmother and served in his restaurant. I shall see.

He was going to treat his girlfriend that evening, and they would confirm the success the following day, he promised.

The next morning, they came marching across the lawn and when I asked, he replied with an emphatic “fantastic”, holding up thumb and forefinger and smacking his lips in confirmation. His Kenyan girlfriend, traipsing listlessly behind him, said, “Awful,”  the look on her face confirmed it. Possibly because she’s not Spanish, I thought.

I do not eat octopus after watching the brilliant documentary "My Octopus Teacher" Butch sighs and rolls his eyes.

---oOo---

This Fat Lady has not sung yet....Our seascape continues. The Honey Badger crossed the river once again, this time in the opposite direction, she was heading south of Mombasa to a spot near Diani Beach.