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It's night on Tuesday, 30th December 2003. The Lamu party departs Nairobi in a few hours for Lamu via Mombasa. Everyone -and I mean everyone, all the 49 odd guys, surprisingly keep time. Many of them are incredibly two hours early at Kimathi Street's Ibiza Pub, from where a special Akamba Bus hire will pick us up. Ibiza is abuzz with activity as minute after minute, invigorated Lamu signups file into the dimly lit pub and restaurant carrying their luggage. On several spots in the pub, Lamu-bound early birds chirp excitedly as they sip drinks, their voices bellowing hard against the pulsating stereo output across the crammed pub. Meanwhile, nimble waiters hop here and there serving drinks and taking orders. The rest of the pub patrons blink at us in wonderment, no doubt contemplating where this many holiday-set, heavy-laden chaps are destined. At 10.30pm, it is departure time. We all ooze out of the pub to the Akamba Bus waiting in the darkness opposite Nation Centre across Kimathi Street. For the first time in the history of Rotaract in Kenya, I say to myself, a Rotaract group will fill up an entire bus on an excursion. The remainder of the Lamu party including the DRR had earlier that morning driven to Mombasa. Journeying with him were Anastasia, Chelan, Fred Kong'ong'a and Henry. The latter would later emerge as the de facto tour paparazzi. Rukia would also join us later in Malindi the following day while Shaka and Mutiga were on standby in Mombasa. Shaka is my coastal pointman in the organisation of the tour. Travelling separately from Nairobi are Eddie Wachira and girlfriend Mumbi, who should have just departed in a separate 9 pm Akamba bus that also has Beatrice, Katarina and Victoria, Mukhtar's three female acquaintances, all visiting nurses from Germany. In the bus, I pull out my signups seat and ensure everyone is present. All signups take their seats and as would be expected, strangers sharing seats use the opportunity to make early acquaintances inside the well-lit 49 seater. We have a couple of couples, too. One PPP corners me along the bus's aisle and, looking offended, moans about a deficiency of ladies on the itinerary. “Kariz, b'ana...you should have made sure we have more than enough chics”, he rants exasperatedly. “Kwani you organised [this plot] for couples?” Not sure how I should respond, I feign seriousness and decide I have to gas the Akamba crew in earnest. I squeeze my lean frame past him and make for the front. Inwardly, I am thinking the chap is merely trying to conceal the fact that his sallies on some females came to nought and, in disenchantment, attempts to blame his misery on mathematics. Moments later, I notice that ladies accompanying their boyfies seem friendlier. But that is only when his back is on you and your words out of his earshot, I learn fast. In my innocent buoyancy, I go “sasa" at one point on one such accompanied sista as we settle down on our seats in the bus and her unfamiliar companion turns around and, looking somewhat threatened, gives me one of those cold, unenthusiastic glares that say everything but "welcome aboard". The bus begins to pull away. I begin to be persuaded by the point raised by the agonised PPP earlier. I am sober and as I move away from the chap, I am convinced that that was a real growl I heard. Anyway, not wanting to spoil the guy's having-a-ball on day one, I get the scarcely concealed hint and make a dash to my seat “hostess”, for lack of a better word. Seat mates are found in school. For several hours there's excited talk in the bus as the Scania bus plunges deep inside the darkness of rural Machakos en route Mtito Andei. Soon individual reading lights in the bus are gradually extinguished. Isolated soft conversations ebb. Hours later as we approach Mombasa on New Year's dusk, only gabby PPP Paul Munene has the energy to be up and about. Clutching an almost empty large bottle that earlier contained a generous filling of rum concoction, he makes "courtesy calls" on this and that seat before drowsiness gets the better of him. He ends up clumsily snuggled between the Milimani duo of Naomi and Jane. Apparently one of the two ladies values the other's companionship? Or is it Paul's companionship in demand here? His is the only seat that has the very rare spectacle of hosting a threesome. New Year's Eve. It is 7am. Akamba has just dropped us off at Mombasa's Bob's Pub/ Kenol area at the confluence of Nyali and Bamburi, from where we would be joined by the rest of the signups. As expected, Shaka, Eddie Wachira, Catherine Mumbi, Mutiga and DRR Leonard's crew join us in no time for the onward journey to Lamu. When the specially hired 62-seater TSS bus pulls away towards Lamu via Malindi just after 9.30am, the sun is already glaring its rays down amid intolerable early morning humidity. Inside are 61 travel-weary passengers who had patiently waited for two months for the much touted Experience Lamu tour to materialise. Shaka and the mostly afro-Arab TSS staff confirm however that we could stop over in Malindi for a bite. And so our bus speeds in that direction. Apart from the rumbling din of the diesel-driven Isuzu engine, there is hardly any other noise in the bus. Most of us have succumbed to sleep. There are occasional grunts of “where are we” around me. Unlike the Akamba Bus arrangement in which each person had a seat assigned to him/her, there is no sitting formula on the TSS bus. Seats have been taken up indiscriminately. Later, just before 2pm, and after most of us have had something to eat and drink during a stopover at Malindi, we resume our journey to Lamu. The Malindi -Lamu highway is much smoother than we had found it to be during Lamu I in 2002. As is customary, we are accorded armed paramilitary escort to Lamu from somewhere after Malindi. The final two hours' drive is more comfortable as far as the weather is concerned. The sizzling hot climate in the bus is tempered by a massing of moisture-laden clouds that later lets out a brief downpour. Almost There Mokowe jetty on Lamu mainland, where the smooth dirt road comes to a sudden terminating jut towards the sea, is a beehive of activity when our bus taxis to a halt alongside other smaller minibuses. The jetty is teeming with many people waiting to board motorised boats to the island. As Shaka and I oversee the emptying of our bus's cargo by a platoon of volunteer tour signups and local porters, the rest of our Lamu party, especially Lamu first-timers, stream out of the bus and bask excitedly around the jetty. A pleasant sea breeze that renders the late afternoon heat ineffectual fans the jetty area. In animated gaiety, we pose for the cameras in twos, threes and more. The island forms the backdrop in the distance, the soggy mangrove forests of its Western periphery obscuring views to the island town itself. Of course, the boat ride to Dodo’s beach is without the kind of stuntman heroics like that portrayed in the Trust condom TV ad. Day 1: Arrival at Dodo's Beach On Dodo's beach on Lamu Island is a humble beach man called Satan [actual name]. As our boat approaches the beach, he squints expectantly towards us from outside his on-shore wooden shack. His dreadlocked hair, like sheep's wool, droops down the sides of his face. The boat docks a few metres offshore and Satan, whose other name is Njoroge, obliges in his typical kind-hearted fashion to help offload the party's belongings from the boat. Behold, it is the last day of the 2003rd year of our Lord. Satan is a Godsend; and contrary to the impression created by his name, he would, during our Lamu stay, turn out to be a saviour in more ways than one. The only exception, perhaps, would be that he turned no water into wine. Instead, he literally did the exact opposite, inasmuch as frothy drinks were an agonisingly scarce commodity at his artistically designed seaside canteen. Curiously, a Cocacola company cooler would form part of the adornment of this tree house-like kiosk built of reeds and mangrove wood. For lack of adequate beer stocks, a commercial windfall opportunity created by the 62-strong Nairobians is obviously lost by the dreadlocked chap. Nevertheless, relaxing surroundings beneath the tree shadows and lounge area that form part of his seaside shack would make up for the disappointments. In the next few days, during odd hours, amorous couples would form the habit of huddling close to one another among the maskan's shadows, presumably whispering all manner of Mexican soap opera-like balderdash to one another. After all stuff has been offloaded from the boat, we trudge from the beach with our luggage and make for Dodo's kitchen veranda as directed by Shaka. Gazing down at the Lamu party members filing away from the boat on Dodo's beach, I am glad we made the trip without any alarm or harm to anyone. After everyone has settled down at the somewhat spacious Swahili veranda, Loketo assumes his incidental MC services. He sets the ball rolling to quick introductions and the usual pleasantries. From among the Nairobi group, I am last in the introductions before turning to a burly guy behind me who I introduce as the hitherto mysterious Shaka, our tour facilitator. Shaka then welcomes everyone to Lamu before briefly explaining the modalities of accommodation. Barely ten minutes after the gathering has been dismissed so each signup can claim his/her sleeping dwellings, the only happy faces around Dodo’s can shortly thereafter be counted with the fingers of one hand. It emerges that there had been sloppy preparations for accommodation and Shaka and I are hard-pressed to explain the goings-on. As Shaka is my point man in Lamu, I turn to him for answers each time I am confronted. It takes his quick intervention and that of Ghai, Dodo’s manager, to facilitate the urgent procurement of additional mattresses and sheets. A good number of guys, for lack of beds, spread their mattresses on the floor of the makuti-canopied rooftop verandas which, with time, become the envy of some of those guys who took up rooms beneath. The accommodation problem is made worse by the fact that there is a group of Britons on holiday, occupying one of four multi-roomed Dodo’s villas for an irresistible 250 Euros daily. It’s tourism peak season, remember? The accommodation woes gradually ease up and everyone is prepared to have a blast come night time, the first-night room scramble and lingering shower queues notwithstanding. Night 1: 2004 Beckons There are no signs of mbuzi choma and rice dinner, yet it is 9pm. No one seems to have anything up his sleeve by 9pm. Satan is throwing a bash at his shack but damn, there is no booze, lament many. And, damn, it’s New Year's Eve. Between us and 2004, one thing is assured in the name of partying: Our Kshs. 9,000 worth of fireworks. Unbeknown to the Lamu party, however, a bunch of local youths armed with a turntable and accompanied by stunning buibui-clad ladies descend on a brightly lit paved spot at the edge of Dodo’s compound, just next to the fence. They unfurl a banner, the trademark "Ogopa DJs" emblazoned on it. Prominently displayed by the DJ’s turntable station, the banner draws our curious amusement as to the flagrant abuse of Ogopa's trademarks by a bunch of young, ragtag [but skillful] DJs who obviously have nothing to do with the real Ogopa DJs. Placed around Dodo’s spacious compound, powerful speakers are wired together and we’re about to have a party. Undeterred by the disinterest shown by the retinue of young buibui-clad women who just sit pretty as local hip hop is played to a still freshening up Dodo's, Milimani's Jane, Rukia, Naomi and myself, together with Kennedy feel like shaking a leg. We approach an open yard barely a few metres from the DJ and close to where the DJ is doing his thing. As settling-down Lamu party members curiously peer down from their newly acquired rooftop abodes, Jane leads us in a brief shuffle dance. The music switches to salsa moments later and the jig gets complicated. Owing to limb coordination problems, Ken and I opt out. The ladies are impressive. We jig lazily but none of the other 50-plus guys is joining us. We wonder why. Ah, dinner is ready, that’s why. So we walk down the flower-flanked paved paths snaking around Dodo’s to the kitchen veranda. Everyone is famished and in that condition, maintaining good table manners is a tall order. In the still night, Dodo is still rocking to sounds courtesy of “Ogopa DJs” on the edge of Dodo’s compound. Guys gather in small groups engaged in conversation and sipping various kinds of drinks. Wow! Chelan even brought champagne. At a few minutes to midnight, we momentarily glance over the canopy of adjoining palm trees to distant fireworks displays towards the Eastern end of the island. Lamu is in a partying mood indeed. Meanwhile, at a spot on which an altar-looking structure pokes out from the ground, Mukhtar and Chelan are readying our fireworks display. Dodo’s rocking to loud music only no one’s dancing yet, something that doesn’t dampen the DJ’s spirits, however. Soon lights that had brightly illuminated the compound are switched off and the music’s volume level scaled down. There’s an ad hoc countdown (or was there?) and in the indiscernible dark, Chelan unleashes the colourful display into the sky. Cameras click upon each explosion. Amid sporadic deafening explosions, well-wishing toasts and hugs are exchanged. “Happy New Year!” We yell.
In the ensuing moments, chaos reigns. Benja bungles a couple of times and we stop gazing skywards and start ducking sideways. The explosive stuff goes berserk and ricochets towards us. One lady tour party member screams in pain and lets go her drink as a stray fireworks ‘shrapnel” scolds her hand, the last glimpse I manage to sneak in before scurrying for cover behind some bush. Amidst the explosive melee, the “bush” actually turns out to be Annette, who grabs my hand and almost wrestles me to the ground as she, too, scrambles for a duck. The energy adrenalin gets you! By 1am, the party’s over -or is it? Not quite. A section of tour party members gets wind of a New Year’s party on Manda Island and summons a boat taxi to ferry them there. In this group are Jane Mberia, Naomi, a Paul, Mutiga, Loketo, Aida, Liza, Antony, Veronica and I decide to shop for pints and party all night. Satan avails his motor boat and me, Mutiga, Paul and Loketo, accompanied by Satan himself, sail to a surprisingly desolate civil servant’s canteen and grab ourselves a crate and a half of assorted booze. We sail back with the loot to Dodo’s for the pinting. Across from where we are pinting at the kitchen veranda, Mark, Karis and Issa, who are engaged in loud talk and are in varying states of inebriation, provide unsolicited but hilarious entertainment. Before long, we decide to move on to where the New Year’s partying fervour is said to be highest: Shela. At Shela, mama mia! The mammoth crowd of hundreds -nay, thousands- of revellers is ecstatic; the sound system is incredible, the performance of the visiting European pop/rock band pulsating. It is an open-air frenzy. The crowd includes nearly half the Lamu party….and you would easily think half of of Lamu’s populace comprised the rest. Minutes later about ten of us are dancing together near the raised platform on which the brilliant pop group is performing popular rock, reggae and pop hits. Above the raised platform is a frame supporting powerful lights that illuminate the guitar-wielding and organ-playing band of four or so wazungu. The atmosphere is spellbinding. I feel like I’m at some Wembley pop concert. If there’s someone looking down on us from the sky, then we must be looking like a seething mass of ants gathered upon some carcass. I’ve never even seen so many people revelling in open-air Nairobi, let alone in a far flung destination like Lamu. Both bare-chested, Mutiga and Loketo join me and Paul for a jig. In the neighbourhood hovers Karis, Esther Njuguna, Issa, Antony Kihara, Joseph Warui, Mark, Joan, June, Aida, Benja, Eddie, Lillian and can’t figure out who else from the mob. The Lamu party carves itself a dancing niche at a spot not far from the raised stage. Everyone is equal when it comes to dancing prowess. But one person is more equal than others. Only she is boogieing. It doesn’t take a minute for my alcohol content to read nil after she and I pair up. My, my, my and I’m not being Johnny Gill. June is good. Even though the concert field is about half a kilometer from the beach, the concert ground is covered with half a foot-deep covering of beach sand that attempts to bog us down as we dance. There are lots of wazungus, both young and old. Lots of them. I think there is one mzungu for every four or five dark-skinned guys. The sight of locals and visitors -both white and black- all having a blast together on some secluded island away from civilisation as we know it is a sight to behold. We learn that the European pop group had been sponsored by the Prince of Hannover, who has a villa in Lamu and is said to sponsor a concert every New Year’s eve. In his inebriated stupor, Loketo provokingly rubs his left palm across the face of a mzungu dancing besides him. I expect the mzungu to lunge at the Rotaract Club of Nairobi Central President in a fit of ire. “Happy new year”, the RC Nairobi Central prezzy stutters at the offended mzungu who, on hearing the puzzling goodwill wish, grins sheepishly but maintains a cautious glance at him anyway. Soon the pop group winds up and thanks the crowd, which indignantly responds with chants of “we want more!” The performers accede to the revellers’ overwhelming pleas and perform an impeccably near-similar rendition of Bob Marley’s Redemption Song. The crowd responds by singing along. A whiff of marijuana smoke wafts by my nose. Benja confirms that that was it. As the pop group winds up its performances and starts packing on the stage, it is the turn of Carnivore’s DJ Tony, the official concert DJ, to take over and rock the party. None of us awestruck, speedily sobering guys wants to leave, even though others like Forez, Martha, John, Annette and Nduta, overcome by sleep, have left for Dodo’s. It is 5.30am on New Year’s Day and the field is rapidly emptying. We are back at a sleepy Dodo’s just around 6.30am. We have only about three hours of sleep before descending on the island town for a guided tour |
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