Lamu

A tropical getaway to a different time

Author: By Roger Lewin and Birute Regine, Globe Correspondents

Date: SUNDAY, January 11, 1998

Page: M1

Section: Travel

The smell was an indescribable mix of singed vegetation and scorched sands, a magical olfactory confection to match our mysterious destination -- Lamu Island, off the coast of Kenya.

Lamu is the last remaining remnant of a life whose roots go back more than a thousand years and seamlessly blends African and Arabian elements in the form of the unique Swahili culture.

``A visit to Lamu is like a visit to another century,'' we had been told. ``It's a tropical experience like no other.'' That's got to be better than Boston in winter, we thought. So we gritted our teeth for the six-hour hop across the Atlantic; the 16-hour layover in London (shoe shopping helped mitigate the burden); the nine-hour haul to Nairobi. And finally the two-hour flight to Lamu, through towering cloud banks giving tantalizing glimpses of red savannah below.

The airstrip is actually on Manda Island, part of the archipelago that shelters Lamu Island from the Indian Ocean, making its deep harbor yet more favorable for its ancient seagoing trade with Arabia. No tedious security here; just a swarm of wiry young men loading the luggage into wooden, hand-pulled carts. Two young men appeared at our side and told us they would take our bags to the waiting boat. It wasn't an offer; more an insistence. We, unencumbered, labored under the tropical heat, relishing the singe of the African sun on our pale skins; while they, no more than 90 pounds each, carrying our much-too-heavy bags (those London boots!), skipped along effortlessly.

Less than a mile separates Manda Island from Lamu, and we watched as the seafront facade of square, white, Arabic buildings loomed ever larger. On the waterfront little boys hurled themselves off the crude concrete jetty into the warm and murky waters. Finally we had arrived at Lamu, Kenya's oldest living town. That's right, there's Lamu archipelago, Lamu island, and Lamu town. We had rented a house that belonged to a Swedish baron, one of several foreigners who have bought houses here and are enthusiastically endeavoring to restore a fading past. Our helpers knew the baron's house, and we soon learned that in this tiny, intimate town, everyone knows everyone and everything. We followed them down the broad, bustling waterfront bathed in bright sunlight and then plunged into narrow lanes -- so narrow that outstretched arms easily touched the walls on either side. Built from local coral, the walls formed richly textured surfaces, some newly whitewashed, most in varying degrees of fading gray. Along the lanes, gray, soapy water ran down open drains. Shadows from the walls created a cool, intimate space characteristic of traditional Swahili towns.

The lanes streamed with men in full-length white robes, or khanzus, and sporting cream-colored and intricately embroidered caps (kofia); women in all-enveloping buibuis, the flowing Arabic black robes that reveal only the eyes. Donkeys wandered freely, some heavily laden; swarms of unattended children, some tantalizing the donkeys. We later learned that there are some 2,000 donkeys in Lamu, for which there is a sanctuary where sick animals can be treated.

There are no cars in the town, save for the district commissioner's Land Rover, which he occasionally drives up and down the waterfront, less than a mile each way. This is a different world, just as we'd been promised.

Our house had white walls decorated with Arabic geometric patterns; white ceilings crossed with dark-stained mangrove poles; mahogany furniture made on the island; terra-cotta floors and porcelain pots scattered here and there; mosquito nets draped high over the beds. The house was very open, to exploit the natural air conditioning of the seasonal monsoon winds. Terraces overlooked a small, square internal courtyard, lush with green vegetation clinging to the rough coral walls. Red, pink, and white flowers spilled everywhere. The courtyard is an important place in Swahili houses and Swahili life, a private place of quiet social interaction.

Our first night there, sitting in the dark on the highest terrace overlooking rooftops, we listened to two guitarists strumming in a doorway somewhere near us. We soon appreciated the paradox of Lamu: people living in close proximity but in privacy. Sounds of people are to be heard but no one to be seen. Someone coughs, somewhere. Bowls clank in a kitchen, somewhere. A shuffle of donkey hoofs on a cobbled lane, somewhere. Palm fronds thrashing against a house, sounding like rain.

Sounds are everywhere and nowhere. Lamu is a place of sounds. And at no time more than in the early morning, when we were awakened by the first call to Allah, at 4 o'clock. ``Hello, God is great. God is great. Come for prayers.'' There are 42 mosques in this community of 20,000 people, so that the calls, floating in from all directions, in different cadences and timbers, of different urgencies, eventually come to resemble a forest waking, like birds calling and responding. Soon we heard stirrings of activity on the waterfront -- barrels bouncing on the dirt road, mangrove poles clattering into heaps, a swelling chorus of voices cajoling the action.

We quickly made our way through the still-dark morning and empty lanes to the source of sounds. The sun was rising. Along the steel-gray waters, dark purple clouds, a crimson sky, streaked with salmon merged into blue. Above, Venus shone brightly near the smiling crescent moon.

And then we saw what is the quintessential sight in these parts -- a dhow sailing down the channel, visible only in silhouette. For centuries these simple craft have plied the waters along the East African coast, to and from Arabia and India, bearing exotic goods. Their trademark is a single, triangular sail suspended on a single, central mast. Although there are variants on the overall size and shape of the hull, the sail is a constant. And then suddenly, like a cartoon, the sun pops up and day arrives.

In the early 1970s, Lamu was known as the Katmandu of Africa -- remote, fascinating, and untouched by the 20th century, an ancient architecture and an ancient culture still intact. It's much the same today, although it has been discovered, and in the busy season some 300 tourists a day arrive by boat and air, greeted by Lamuans eager to make a living in a simple economy. As a saying goes in Africa, ``Life is like an acacia tree; you need little to survive.'' Tourists can survive on very little in Lamu -- a comfortable room at a guesthouse can be had for $15 a night. And budding tourism is providing a ``little'' for Lamuans to survive.

The easy pace of Lamu life is its greatest pleasure, but if you want to keep busy, there's plenty to see. The museum in Lamu is one of the most charming and manageable we've ever visited. Built as a private residence by the family of a sultan of Zanzibar, it stands on the waterfront. There is no better way to know the history of the town and of the Swahili culture, which has been tumultuous. It began with the absorption of Islam and included the strife with the Portuguese colonists, and the internecine warfare of local city states.

The museum's exhibits range from a glimpse of an 18th-century Swahili kitchen; to the grandeur of the wedding ceremony, which included putting henna on the soles of a bride's feet until they were completely black, and designing borders of different patterns up to the toenails; to the subtleties of the structure of different kinds of dhows. The museum has also restored a typical Swahili house, which tourists can visit with a knowledgeable guide. It is located amid the maze of 18th-century houses that is the main part of town, each facing north to Mecca, in harmonious irregularity. The philosophy of the Swahili house is a progression to ever more intimacy -- from the courtyard to the deepest, most sacred room, the birth and death room. A favorite spot to wait out the heat of the day is at Petley's Inn, one of two places that serve beer in this no-alcohol culture. Its entrance guarded by a pair of huge Portuguese cannons, the inn was built in the late 19th century by Percy Petley, an eccentric Englishman who was said to have been able to hunt leopard with his bare fists. The inn is a gathering place for locals and tourists alike.

Sipping lukewarm Tusker, the beer of choice, on the terrace, we had a grandstand view of the flow of life on the waterfront. We found ourselves approached by Lamuans hoping to sell us carved boxes, necklaces, old coins, and, of course, dhow captains proposing trips of many kinds. One of the offerings is a recent entrepreneurial venture -- Lamuans providing a typical Swahili meal in their homes. We did this one night, at the home of Menza, where we were joined by a New Zealander, an Australian, a Canadian, and a Dane. We ate at a simple wooden table on a covered roof terrace, the family's children playing in the courtyard below, as Menza and his wife ministered in the kitchen. Menza instructed us as to how to eat his fare in proper Swahili manner. The evening finished with coffee on the roof, with a display of shooting stars to entertain us.

We wanted to learn about the crafts for which the island is most famous: carving and woodwork. Someone suggested we go to Lamu Craft, owned by Said Mafazy, who is reviving the vanishing tradition.

Examples of this ancient work are most easily seen in the town's lanes, where door surrounds and lintels are incised with geometric patterns and stylized leaves, often arrestingly beautiful. Said's workshop is toward the west side of town, through a poorer section with wood and wattle houses and thatch roofs. On the way to his workshop, down the labyrinthine lanes, we encountered what passes as a traffic jam in Lamu: a laden pushcart going in one direction and a laden donkey going the other.

Inevitably, much commotion was necessary to resolve the situation.

Said's workshop forms the first floor of a grand house that he had designed and built himself. Said was guiding three apprentices when we arrived. ``I'm busy now,'' he said apologetically, ``but why don't you come to dinner?'' Surprised at such easy hospitality, we agreed to go that evening.

When we arrived, we were even more surprised to find Zehna, Said's wife, dressed not in the usual black buibui but instead in a bright red gown set off with gold earrings and gold bracelets. Buibui is for public view, extravagance is for the home. We learned that women use Arabian incense to perfume their hair.

We were invited to wash our hands at the sink next to the table and were offered the typical range of Lamuan food: grilled fish, coconut rice, coconut spinach, along with some extras -- beans, potato balls, bread, and spicy sauces. This we ate with our hands, or rather, our right hand, Muslim style. Somehow we managed to clean our plates with our fingers, even the rice and beans.

Said, one of 14 children, learned carpentry from his father, and they worked together for about 10 years. Said then set up his own workshop, initially on repairing traditional furniture, and later making reproductions. The chairs are fashioned from mahogany and, less often, ebony, harvested from a nearby mainland forest to which Said has a license, a rare item. ``An ebony tree takes a hundred years to grow,'' said Said, ``so you have to have patience.'' All the work is done by hand, including felling the trees and hewing workable planks. It takes a week to make a chair. Patience indeed.

A variety of day trips is available by dhow, for visiting other islands, snorkeling, fishing, watching the sunset. We chose to go to the ruined city of Takwa, on Manda Island.

The town had flourished in the 16th and 17th centuries, but was then abandoned, when its inhabitants crossed the channel to Lamu Island and established the town of Shella. The reason remains a mystery.

Some believe that it was to escape the warlike intentions of the people of nearby Pate. Others suggest that it was because the wells of Takwa had become salty and no longer potable, as they are today.

We hired Hasan, a 23-year-old dhow captain dressed in faded surfer shorts, to take us there. The trip was an adventure of mishaps. First Hasan overslept, explaining that his little brother usually woke him but he was away at the family home in Pate. Starting off late, at 7 a.m., we missed the stronger, early morning winds and needed to paddle out, except that the boat's large oar had been ``borrowed'' by another dhow captain. Powered by a tiny oar, much poling (one of which was lost on the way), and little wind, a journey that should have taken an hour and a half, ended up taking three.

By the time we were slowly edging up a long inlet in Manda Island, thick with mangrove forests that looked like giant spiders standing high on the mud banks, it was 10 a.m. and the sun was scorching.

Eventually, the dhow went aground, and we had to wade a hundred yards through silty water up to our thighs, with black, silky mud squishing between our toes. We saw fiddler crabs scurrying into their mud homes, and listened apprehensively as Hasan chatted about the dangers of the venomous green mambas that lurked in the mangroves.

Fortunately, unlike the scene from ``African Queen'' that was filmed here, there were no leeches. Because the tide was retreating, we had only an hour to visit Takwa: The tides rule life here. With the relentless sun pummeling us, an hour seemed long enough. As we headed for the ruins, Hasan said, ``Hakuna matata.'' Ah, yes, the brilliance of Swahili philosophy: No worries.

The ancient town of Takwa is starkly beautiful, with partially restored coral walls standing amid giant baobab trees and acacias.

A mosque, placed strategically in the center of the town, denotes the central place of Islam in the community's social and religious life.

Outside the mosque is a beautiful mosaic cistern for washing feet. Only one house has been extensively excavated, showing cooking areas, a latrine, pots, and other artifacts used centuries ago. On a fragment of the town's wall can be seen the outline of a dhow etched into the soft coral. ``Graffiti from 300 years ago,'' our guide told us.

Standing at the edge of the ancient town, we could see the white dunes of Shella across the channel. The people of Shella still hold the Takwa mosque sacred, and twice a year some of them visit the site and pray for rain, sometimes efficaciously, as Thomas Wilson, the American archeologist who worked at the site, testified. He wrote that one day, while excavating, he noticed an enormous storm building that produced a sudden deluge.

Only then did he see a boatload of Shella people making their way back home, thoroughly wet but joyously singing.

We had the same destination in mind, because for our last day we planned to go to Shella, though under rather more comfortable circumstances -- to visit Peponi Hotel. Shella Town is less that 2 miles east of Lamu Town, the entryway to an eight-mile beach that locals consider crowded if more than 10 people can be seen. You can walk to Shella: a hot, 40-minute hike. You can go by donkey: faster, but distinctly hard on the rear. We chose to go by dhow. Flower, a diminutive young dhow captain, with blond, sun-bleached dreadlocks, agreed to take us. The journey took as long as the walk would have, because the southwest trade wind, the kuzi, was at the point of switching to the northeast wind, the kazkazi. During the switch, winds are unreliable and often weak.

We didn't mind, because it was very lyrical: water lapping against the wooden hull, the much-repaired cloth sail flapping in the uncertain breeze, Flower and his crew softly singing, drumming on a plastic bucket.

There are three reasons to go to Shella.

The beach, as mentioned, is truly magnificent -- white sands, warm crystal blue waters, exhilarating white-capped waves.

Then there is the town of Shella itself, which is a smaller, quieter version of Lamu, famous for its landmark Friday Mosque, standing high in the dunes. And there is the Peponi Hotel, a landmark of a different sort. Even though it is simple in many ways -- built as a private house in the 1930s and now a collection of small, white buildings -- the hotel was once a favored retreat for the rich and famous, such as the Aga Khan and Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. Today, it is still a place of luxury and tranquillity that lives up to its name, ``A Place in the Wind,'' which connotes heaven and paradise. Sitting on the terrace, shaded by flower-draped mangrove poles, a perpetual breeze moderating the tropical heat, we did feel that we had found heaven. And the food was exceptional, especially the lemon grass and ginger crab. Of course the ``drunken prawns'' sauted in garlic, or the curry fish chowder, were nothing to dismiss. And fresh red snapper, delivered from the Indian Ocean directly to the hotel steps that morning. New Englanders can appreciate this, we mused.

We asked the owners, Lars and Carol Korschen, what makes Peponi's so magical.

``The tranquillity and beauty,'' suggested Carol. ``People arrive frazzled and stressed; you can see it on their faces. And within a day or two it melts away.'' With no phones or faxes in the rooms, it is a place where you can really get away.

We were told that one of the best times to visit was Christmas and New Year's.

``The beach walk between Shella and Lamu is one big party,'' Lars said. ``Music and dancing until dawn for days on end.'' We said we'd love to be there then. ``If you're thinking of 1999, forget it,'' Lars said. ``We're already booked.'' Oh, well.

With much reluctance we headed back to our dhow. We found that Flower had bedecked his vessel with bougainvillea sprigs of many colors. ``That's why I'm called Flower,'' he said, chuckling. As we sailed back to Lamu town, someone on the bank called to us: ``Your honeymoon, yes?'' No, but what a romantic idea for newlyweds.

The following day the local ferry took us to the airstrip jetty, and all too soon the white beach of Shella and the Arabic jumble of Lamu were rapidly disappearing from our view, but not from our minds. Nairobi, London, and Boston lay ahead, without even an opportunity to buy more shoes to alleviate the trauma of the journey home.