Indian Ocean
As a child I wandered Kenya’s north shore beaches. On coral reefs I hunted rare cowries. The Bajunis in their outrigger canoes taught me how to fish. I knew my nudibranchs from my trepangs. Inland it was still mostly wild forest, teeming with birds and elephants that amazingly came down to swim in the ocean. I remember windswept blue ocean and white sands scattered with nautilus shells, whale bones and ambergris.
I often say how, in 1977, my father took us to the island of Lamu up near Somalia. He wanted to make a home away from the development of the coast farther south. The flying doctor Anne Spoerry had a house at Shela. A couple of elderly British gays lived in Lamu town. And Dad shook his head and lamented, ‘We’re too late. There are already too many Europeans.’
Since then, what has been inflicted on our pristine coastline resembles a toxic version of the novelist Carl Hiaasen’s Florida. The story features a cast of corrupt politicians, perverts, tycoons, dumb blondes, exploited tribes and eco-activists. Hotels dump faecal waste in the sea; dreadlocked gigolos — known as ‘rasta-tutes’ or ‘rent-a-dreads’ — squire middle-aged white females on our beaches. Beyond the horizon, trawlers rip out the guts of the world’s last intact tuna fishery.
It is holiday season here. I greatly enjoy the influx from Nairobi’s suburb of Karen, known as Karen-ation Street, mainly because it features the arrival of the district’s glamorous females known as Footballers’ Wives. To a country boy like me they have such perfect nails and hair. I am just studying my Tusker beer, with its beaded bubbles winking at the brim, when a Karen WAG comes up and tells me she is buying a virgin plot on the beach.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in