MAGAN'S WORLD:Manchán Magan's tales of a travel addict
I'VE BEEN holding my tongue since January and it's getting sore. It began in southern Mozambique on the first Saturday of this year when I loyally sought out an internet cafe to check out the day's Goand noticed that the cover story was recommending Lamu Island as one of the top destinations for 2010.
You cannot be serious, I thought to myself, but decided to keep out of it. After all, I’ve made it my aim to encourage people to visit Africa and I can’t start attacking the place now.
Ever since then I’ve been wrestling with my conscience. Part of me really wants people to visit Lamu Island, it’s a beautiful location and badly needs tourism income but, well, I have reservations.
Let’s start with the facts. Lamu Island is a lush tropical island, surrounded by mangrove trees off the coast of northern Kenya, with pristine, white beaches lapped by the warm waters of the Indian Ocean. Its principal attraction is the Swahili Arab culture of fishing in medieval-looking dhows that still survive amid coral-built fishing villages on an island in which the only transport is by boat or donkey. It’s an intimate and more authentic version of Zanzibar, sharing with it a past as a wealthy trading port at the heart of the Arab spice route.
It sounds idyllic, and in many ways it is: a labyrinth of ancient coral limestone buildings with intricately carved wooden doors, Escher-like revolving staircases built around shady courtyards, and beautiful decorative stucco plasterwork.
I went there to write, and the high ceilings, small niched windows and imposing porches make for perfect cool sanctuaries from the equatorial sun, while the shaded roof-decks were idyllic open-air bedrooms overlooking the ocean.
So, what’s the problem? There are two. First, the same routes that brought spices to the islands for centuries, have now brought heroin, and some of the idle, unemployed youths have become addicted. When I was there, almost every second day a tourist was robbed by a dreadlocked junkie brandishing a knife or machete, and the authorities seemed to be doing little about it, despite the fact that on such a small island they must have known who was responsible. I’ve heard that in the past year local imams have stepped in and taken measures to resolve the issue.
My second concern is harder to address. It’s to do with the very element that makes Lamu so special, the fact that it’s a genuine, untouched 18th-century town built on the foundations of a 14th-century town. It means that while enjoying the architectural authenticity, one must also endure the more unsavoury aspects of medieval life: the effluent running along the streets, the ubiquitous donkey dung, the occasional rat scurrying by your feet, the infestation of tetanus bacteria, and all of these in a town with almost no street lighting, so at night you feel the rats rather than see them, and step into the open sewers.
It was a doctor from Mombassa who first clued me in. “Can you taste the human excretion in the ice cubes?” he asked over breakfast one morning, with the precise, yet distorted intonation peculiar to colonial countries. “Think about it,” he continued, “these buildings have been here for centuries using the same dry pit latrine – no cars or trucks can get in to clean them out. This town is floating on a pool of sewage.”
In fairness, the same could be said of any medieval town, and perhaps it’s dishonourable of me to point it out. I don’t want to discourage people from going to Lamu; tourists tend to regard it as the highlight of any Kenyan holiday and its status as a Unesco World Heritage site is richly deserved. I just wanted to share my tuppence-worth.