Robertsons' Cruise Sea Views - Twiga Lodge - Finding Utopia In Kwale - The Kenyan East Coast

The familiar chime of a wake-up call cries shrilly down the passage where our friend will get up to go off on his Sunday morning walk. Ignoring the blind, light creeps shyly into our bedroom. It’s a thinly veiled chilly, grey light, cold against my cheek. It will rain soon I think. Inclement weather is nothing like the bold, Saffron light rising above Kenya’s distant waves.

It’s November, and I must still pull the duvet up and tuck it under my chin. If I could rewind the clock, I would be transported back to Twiga Lodge and campsite a few kilometres from Diani Beach.

Fishermen would be hauling heavy nets into small, brightly painted galawas, wooden fishing vessels, starting the engine with a ropey pull, smoke billowing black and leaving a diesel spill in its wake as they chugs off making their way put-puttering into the ocean to fetch their catch.

If there’s a breeze, white cotton lateen sails will unfurl on Dhows with their pointed bows rearing up into the waves, and hardy bare-chested skippers will steer the rudders while tacking into the tradewinds.

When the sun’s rays hit my hammock and laser me cocooned inside, I’ll roll out of my nest under the palm trees and head up to the Honey Badger, where I hear the ggrr-grind of coffee beans, where my berry brown, bare-chested beloved is wrapped in his blue cotton kikoi. We’d sip our coffees in the shade, feet up while rhythmically dipping our rusks into an aromatic, spicy, Kenyan brew.

---oOo---

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We still had a way to go before we could set up camp under the swaying palm trees of Twiga Beach.

With heavy hearts, we left Watamu, where we’d spent ten glorious days. In quiet reflection, we silently caught up with our thoughts, puzzling at the sometimes strange uniqueness of people’s circumstances, desires, and dreams and the strangers we meet who cross our paths.

A turquoise sky reflects in the Voi River that originates in the Taita Hills and flows past the upstream town of Voi and through the Tsavo East National Park before emptying into the sea at Kilifi.

Traffic becomes more congested, buildings reach new heights, and bright colours are used on turrets, pillars, and domes, which reminds me of a truth I heard long ago. “the more sophisticated a society, the drabber their colour palettes become, all in the hope of looking sophisticated and well healed.” Give me colour any day. I think while I record our trip on film.

Kilifi Bridge is the longest bridge in Kenya, with a total length of 420 metres. The superstructure is a restressed continuous box girder carrying two lanes. The bridge has three spans. The construction of Kilifi Bridge was completed in 1991.

It connects Kilifi and Mnarani. The road heads to Mombasa towards the south and Malindi, Lamu, and Garissa in the North.

On the outskirts of Mombasa, sunny yellow tuk-tuks buzz towards the river in an ever-increasing stream from all directions until they bottleneck a few kilometres before the Likoni ferry crossing.

Sidewalks are crammed with informal traders and market stalls selling the latest jeans, snacks for the journey or Crocs and New Balance running shoes. There’s a feeding frenzy of last-minute shopping, and then we hit the docks, where thousands of passengers wait ready to board for a crossing.

The Likoni Ferry is a  service across Kilindini Harbour, serving the Kenyan city of Mombasa between Mombasa Island and the mainland suburb of Likoni.

River Mtopanga is located in Mombasa County. It stretches 5km from the hilly section of Kisauni to Jomo Kenyatta public beach, famously known as ‘Pirates Beach.’

The Likoni Ferry began operating in 1937. Passenger services are free; vehicles (including tuk-tuks, motorcycles, and trucks) pay a toll. The crossing is approximately 500 metres (1,600 ft). We paid the equivalent of R25.

Due to the increase in vehicles of all shapes and sizes, pedestrians and market stalls, we misjudged our size and struck a short,  stocky pillar, ripping the side of the truck. My head shakes involuntarily, and a cold shiver runs up my spine whenever I think about the mishap, even now as I type this. The gut-wrenching sound is personal to our Honey Badger, and I relive her pain.

We patched up the wound with Duct tape and limp to a disappointed stop on the jetty where a constant river of passengers embark onto the ferry. At last, we can crawl forward and stop, ready to make a quick getaway on the other side.

Once we leave the city limits in our wake, we make good time through the countryside. When we see Baobabs, we know we’re close to our destination at Twiga Lodge, a clam shell’s throw from the famous Diani Beach.

Rene and Yvonne, our German friends, are back and have set up their campsite. I see Rene slither from his hammock. They’ve got their square table out and wrapped in a tea towel; cooling and waiting for them is one of Yvonne’s fresh walnut breads, ready to be sliced. I'm sure she will serve her fragrant Mango jam and mature cheddar cheese. I salivate at the thought.

Butch parked close by under a palm tree on the beach and hurriedly unpacked and set up our campsite. We are presented with a fresh coconut garnished with a frangipani blossom.

We crack the shell and sip Neptune’s sweet, watery nectar without delay. The white flesh is buttery, smooth and deliciously tasty. “Hmm” we mutter, our eyes closed, “we’ve arrived!”

According to Wikipedia, “A utopia typically describes an imaginary community or society with highly desirable or near-perfect qualities for its members. Sir Thomas More coined it for his 1516 book Utopia, which describes a fictional island society in the New World.”

I have news for you. We have found our utopia. It’s on a Kenyan beach south of Mombasa.

Our utopia is Twiga Lodge and Camping Site. We are a population of ten: three couples and four single travellers.

Rumour has it that the red 1970s Volkswagen Kombi has been parked there for a year. Its owner is as happy as Larry and does not plan to move anytime soon.

The aeroplane pilot, parked under the boughed branches of an ancient tree, has been there for at least six months and counting. The two men play board games in the afternoon and occasionally go fishing but rarely appear. Both men enjoy the solitude and would, quite frankly, contemplate their navels.

At night, a thin spiral of smoke twists lazily up between palm fronds. Later, a solitary light brightened the single chair at a table, and in the morning, a few items of clothing, a towel, and a cloth would be pegged on a line left to dry in the sun.

On my daily walks to the “scullery”, I make an inquisitive turn near the small pop-up dome tent on the second terrace to see what Pedro from Spain is up to. He grooms, clips his beard, occasionally he rests his hardcover book to hide his face from the sun, legs outstretched. At sunset, he enjoys a tequila with thick-skinned lemon slices and coarse salt. I spy.

He cooks fish in a traditional Kenyan way, I assume, noticing his saucepans and one pan. He sips Espressos from tiny porcelain cups brewed in a proper Moka pot. A small man, I’m sure his origins were in Yemen, which, for many centuries, has been a centre of coffee excellence. The name Moka refers to the city of Mocha.

In the red Landy is a single overlander who crisscrosses borders at the drop of a hat and at every opportunity she gets. Our respect for this intrepid traveller increases threefold when we spot the “Bushwakka” sticker on the side of her vehicle, and she says she met our own Jasper Hewitt in Worcester a year or so ago,  where she had maintenance work done. Of course, we did the “I’ll show you mine if you show us yours” and compared notes. How small the world is?

The sapphire blue skies, azure seas, puffy cotton wool clouds, bleached beaches, and swaying palm trees were intoxicating. On an emotional high, we explored our surroundings on our bikes, or walk, taking things into our own hands while going with the flow.

Butch and I set off after languid morning coffees inspired by our surroundings. At the same time, our neighbours cuddled in a hammock, drifted along the beach holding hands, or meditated legs folded in a lotus position on a sculpted log with the ocean lapping softly on the powdery sand.

In every direction, we directed our bikes. We went to the nearest villages to do shopping or banking, and we stopped for coffee or went to Diani Beach, where we watched windsurfers setting up their boards. At the same time, we sipped Kenyan tea and listened to Reggae music blasted from a ghetto blaster on a wall decorated with a portrait of Bob Marley.

One day, we joined an army of expats in their favourite coffee shop, and I succumbed to a decadent, Crepe Suzette topped with lashings of whipped cream for breakfast. I could’ve licked the plate like a satisfied Cheshire cat.

All along the main road leading down to the beach, stall owners put out on display exciting items to sell to their captured audience, the tourists who flocked down the  road when they tried, in vain, to escape the sun.

On display were, intricately carved and tooled furniture worked in indigenous fragrant wood. Masks and other antique memorabilia were  beaded using colourful glass beads.

The grass-plaited or woven mats and baskets were in natural colours or intertwined with different grasses. The piece-de-resistance for me was the inimitable, floppy, umbrella-like straw hats that caught my attention. These magnificent masterpieces are fit for the catwalk or on Vogues’ cover.

They are absolutely fabulous. Under different circumstances, at least one of these beauties would’ve accompanied me home. I  knew the Honey Badger and my beloved would have none of it.

I just needed one sign of encouragement but, I watched Butch pedal his bike. Legs were pumping his pedals up the hill, getting ahead of me and my dreams of a hat. The memory of the hat’s fragrant perfume of freshly cut grass enveloping me would have to suffice, along with a picture or two.

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The highlight of our day was a visit from Mustapha, the old chap who made daily rounds selling fresh vegetables and fruit. This kind, gentle man would swing by on his old-fashioned black and white squeaky bike at mid-morning after he’d been to the fresh produce market where he bought the best produce for us.

He’d say every item was hand-picked to guarantee its freshness, lifting the object to his nose for a large intake of its fragrance. It was almost as if he was reluctant to sell his firm, chartreuse bananas, which would ripen to a bright yellow within a day. He assured me.

"Velvety on the outside and pulpy on the inside with little black seeds in the centre”. He said as if I needed convincing.

I could imagine Diego Rivera painting this scene: the vivid green watermelon, sunshine yellow mangoes, pawpaws, and ripe “to a gentle touch” of large, buttery avocados.

Mustapha beamed with pride in his offerings  which was reflected in his big smile and gentle eyes, and we couldn’t resist stocking up every day. His prices were competitive and, as Yvonne said, “a bargain,” as she trotted off with her basket brimming with fresh produce. Imagine shopping in your bather? We did.

---oOo---

Abdullah, the fishmonger,  drove a hard bargain. But to his credit, he supplied us with the freshest fish, plumpest crustaceans, squid and, the cherry on the cake, oysters, the way I liked them. Not too decadently large.

I promised a Paella for supper and was determined to do so.

With a list of fishy ingredients in his pocket, Abdullah promised to deliver the goods. He returned numerous times, to verify the list and reiterate his intentions that he’d have it all ready the next day upon our return from our cycle. I had no doubt.

Abdullah and Mustapha have been pedalling their wares to this campsite since 1957, they said when they were young boys. Through all Kenya’s troubles and political shifts, new management and one or two owners they've supplied guests with superior, top-quality produce and never missed a day. Weather permitting, of course. I think this tale endeared the two comrades to me.

As promised, Abdullah arrived the next day with a fisherman and the fish, prawns, squid and oysters. The fish’s eyes were clear, the prawns firm and the oysters smelled of fresh briney seawater washing over rocks. Every item cool to the touch. Perfect.

The price included cleaning the fish, eviscerating the squid and shucking the oysters, he proclaimed as I handed over my shillings.

I couldn’t be more chuffed with my catch of the day and got cracking with my paella.

On our open fire in a large flat-bottomed Dutch oven heated to sizzling, we prepared a scrumptious dish of saffron-flavoured Ugandan rice cooked with smoked chorizo, chicken, seafood, and vegetables. Chorizo is readily available along the  coast, due to the strong Mediterranean influence, I think.

“This, in my books, is living the perfect beach life. We are surrounded by magnificent sea views, precious friendships, long stretches of beach, privacy, we are camped under our magnificent ficus tree, our hammocks strung up, a fire and delicious seafood fresh from the sea.” Butch told our friends lyrically later that afternoon when he served the oysters on a bed of crushed ice, surrounded by old-fashioned thick-skinned lemon wedges and cracked black pepper.

Rene, a newbie at slurping oysters,  was brave enough to try them while his reaction was scrutinised by Yvonne, of Greek descent, who declined our offer emphatically. Putting on a brave face, he showed us he was underwhelmed. All the more for us was the look I gave Butch and happily helped myself to another briney morsel swimming in lemon and Tobasco sauce.

If you snooze, you lose was flitting through my mind, and Butch purred seductively (they are supposed to be an aphrodisiac, after all.)

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A few days later, Marcel suggested a morning of snorkelling, and it didn’t take much persuasion to convince us to go before they set off to Mombasa to book a container for their vehicle. No sooner had  they left when we took up their campsite under the giant ficus. From there I captured a sunset in gold.

There were two diving spots: the first and largest pot called Africa and a little brother called Australia. The guide told us.

We strolled with our gear in bags, setting off in the opposite direction to our daily walks along the beach. A beachcombers delight.  Dotted with the last high tide’s debris swirling at our feet: sea grasses, shells and coral. We agreed that the sea must’ve been rough on the horizon, where giant waves crashed onto the reefs washing all the flotsam and jetsam to shore.

Much to our relief, our party could have exclusive use of the pools where we wallowed and dived and enjoyed the clear, tepid crystal waters and colourful tropical fish swishing in small schools or taking refuge in cracks and crevices, their hiding places between the rocks.

We agreed "Africa" had more on offer than "Australia", which was exciting but not as lively, colourful, or as abundant in sea creatures.

One of the local divers promised to produce a sea snake for a small tip. I declined the offer, but he showed us his findings anyway, it turned out. I was happy not to have encountered a long, slippery sea creature in the water.

It was a leisurely morning well spent. On reflection, we all agreed that overfishing, climate change, the abuse of our environment, pollution, and human overpopulation along the coast have dire consequences that are already visible. 

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Even here, there's never a dull moment, and one day, on our walk we came across a caravan of camels with Maasai herdsmen leaning on their  eng'udi, (sticks) while looking out for the animals. Who could've guessed? I later realised the whole scene was for the benefit of tourists staying at the nearby lodge. The Maasai are a drawcard even when selling beaded sandals.

While we were sipping our frozen smoothies which I made using frozen blocks of our fresh fruit supply, we read our books and answered our messages from family who must've been a tad envious.

I would freeze ripe fruit in large Ziploc bags, peeled, cored and diced. Add Greek yoghurt, a thumb-sized chunk of fresh ginger, a liberal dollop of local honey, and a generous helping of mixed fruit, blend, and sip. If the mixture is too thick, thin down with milk or fresh fruit juice or water. This tantalising tropical drink was like the nectar of the gods. Cool, luxuriously flavoured and spicy, as we like it.

Rene was so impressed by Butch’s braaiing skills that he cornered Abdullah, who had a perfectly sized fresh fish fit for the barbeque. Yvonne's baked potatoes and salad were the ultimate accompaniment.

On another day, we succumbed to his haul of prawns which Butch butterflied and grilled, and I served a gloriously fresh green salad with a citrus dressing.

I prepared a small octopus according to my Italian neighbours recipe and I'm happy to report it was delicious.

One becomes very wise and philosophical when the sun sets golden and the chilled white wine's dregs only covers the bottom of the bottle. But it's true, our philosophy to eat seafood at the sea and meat where it’s produced in the interior paid off, and we made the most of every opportunity to dine out on seafood.

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We are never too old to learn something new, and on one of our cycles, we came across a quarry where granite was mined. It was fascinating to run our hands over the intricately hewn, perfectly square layers of granite where stone had been removed leaving a step formation in an area known as Matuga.

 

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Twiga Lodge will always be remembered as our private piece of heaven. We did live a utopic, simple life there. For ten days, we didn’t have a care in the world. Our days revolved around the ocean, our friends, our walks, hikes and cycles, good food and camaraderie of the highest order. Everyone we met was kind, hospitable and accepting of our quirks. Local fishermen and colourful ladies gracefully accepted us while they harvested along the coast. One day a herd of cattle grazed lazily on the lawn, they didn't give us a sideways glance. Just kept on chewing their cud.

And then on a perfect, sunny day Butch received a ping from Nairobi, the parts we were waiting for had arrived, and we were summoned back to have them fitted.

We packed up our snorkelling equipment for another day. Our bathers and Kikois were rolled into  sausages and stowed, the Dutch oven was washed, and a layer of Vaseline was applied to combat rust. Our green and red hammocks were shoved back into their pouches, our bikes strapped up and lastly the inevitible and most challenging part had to be dealt with. We were saying goodbye.

The red Kombi, the tents and the guy near the ablutions would swig another and yet another Tequila. They were staying put. The rest of us would depart in a trickle, some back to Geneva, Berlin and Layla to Greece (but, who knows, the world is her oyster). The previous day I noticed the Baobab's flowers littered the lawn. Could the seasons be changing?

 ---oOo---

There was no way I could leave this place without a few group photos. Everyone worked with the camera.

Relying on local intelligence, we took a shortcut back to Nairobi to avoid another ferry crossing in Mombasa and set off early one morning. Of course, it was a perfect day; the palm trees hardly swayed, the waves lapped onto the beach, and the sun shone hotly. There might be no windsurfing, we told Yvonne as we set off.  "That's ok she shouted back, we'll just chill out."

"We will miss you Joelle" I mouthed mopping up the tears.

 

“See you in Mombasa next week!” Butch promised petit Julie, (who inspired me sleep in my hammock under the trees at night).  Before we crested the hill I could see our team drifting off in different directions. The shower was turned on  to full blast by Marcelle and Julie hooked their towels up on the tree.

 

---oOo---

Our confidence was short-lived when we got a sidewall puncture on a seemingly soft, red, sandy road just 50km from Twiga. Deflated, we got out of the truck to check the damage. There was no way we could plug the hole, Butch said. We would have to change the wheel.

 

In Africa, one is never left to shoulder these dilemmas alone, and soon, we had a team of muscled helpers who put shoulder to the wheel. Relieved, I sat on the spare wheel and  sipped my second cup of morning coffee, the men got on with the job at hand. I was the “handlanger” (gofer) and would jump up and follow orders immediately, I told Butch when he looked at me disapprovingly.

Sixty minutes later, we were back on the road again. Butch and I were both at our wits’ end with the number of cracked rims, flat tyres and wheels that were kaput. Afterwards, while we all quenched our thirst, Butch showered, and then the guys went off on their motorbikes with warnings to take it slow. Pole pole Mzungu.