What I can’t tell you about Lamu

Lamu

Ever since we arrived on the syrupy, sweltering Swahili coast – where else would your Best Life columnist be in the dead of winter? – I’ve been writing this in my head, and this was going to be the running order.

This succulent island paradise has long been re-colonised by celebrities, princes and make-up moguls

First, colour. The cream scoops of the dhows racing the channel between Shela and Manda islands, teak masts tipped at a rakish slant; sundowners at Peponi after a long swim in the mangroves; the Lamu dawn chorus, an ear-splitting stereo of the 5 a.m. call to prayer and the frantic hee-hawing of donkeys; the crocodiles of little children in white or blue wrappers scampering barefoot to school…

I planned to make maybe a couple of serious points, based on the following.

One, before our January departure, Sir Hugo Lord Swire (I presume this is how we refer to the distinguished public servant who scored first a knighthood from one Tory PM and then a peerage from another) kindly WhatsApped me and my husband screenshots of the polite notices scattered like confetti in the narrow streets of the old town. ‘DEAR MUSLIM BROTERS AVOID CROWD PLACES,’ they said. ‘WE WILL ATTACK HOTELS AND FOREINERS EVENTS FREE PALASTINE.’

This didn’t deter the whole of Notting Hill arriving here for new year. In fact, the place is more Al Cohol and Al Yentob than Al Shabab, as this succulent island paradise, patrolled by Kenyan navy gunboats, has long been safely re-colonised by celebrities, princes and make-up moguls who work, rest and play here.

Two, multiculturalism. The village of Shela, like the rest of Lamu, is fervently observant, humble and modest and we tourists… aren’t. Even the cash machines at Sahl Bank on the corniche where I withdraw tens of thousands of shillings every day or so to maintain my ‘forein’ lifestyle advertises itself as ‘sharia compliant’.