Lamu: Part Two

We had decided that we would go back on the boat for our second day at Lamu and try our hand at deep sea fishing. The Douglas's seem to carry around a curse of bad luck when it comes to fishing. Perhaps a long deceased ancestor upset Davey Jones and was sentenced to have offspring with pitiful fishing skills for eternity. Never-the-less I decided that I will not be punished for the sins of the past and set out determined. 
And so we begin our adventure, sailing in the Imani; the most faithful, slightly leaky, Rasta boat to have ever sailed on the Indian Ocean. It took a while to get far enough into the open sea for good fishing and although the gentle waves were lulling me into a state nastalgia it seemed to have a less enjoyable effect on some of the other passengers. Unenjoyable for both the passenger and the spectator. Finally we made the first stop and the fishing lines were issued. The term "fishing rods" would not be appropriate as the square plank of wood inwhich the fishing line was wrapped around could not have been classified as a rod. The sinker was a rusty peice of rebar and the bait was just a plain old chunk of squid not desguised by any kind of fancy schmansy lure or shiny metal twirlers. I felt the curse of Davey Jones weigh heavey upon my shoulders; I would never outsmart Neptune's creatures with this kind of archaic madness! I sighed as Captain Dolphin shook his head and started the motor to search out a better spot. The beginning of a long fruitless day no doubt.
With the motor cut and the boat slowing, Toothless (a name I had developed for rasta helper who was missing a tooth) cast my line for me and then handed it over. Do I even bother trying to find the technique for fishing with a plank of wood? My skeptical thought was cut short by my mother's shrill shriek of excitement, "I caught something! I caught something! Ahh ahhhhhh! AHHHHH!" Seems the curse is on my father's side. As the dark figure attached to her line loomed closer to the surface the boat tipped to the right in response the onslaught of ecited passengers coming to witness the ascent of the first catch. And then there it was. An octopus. In my ecitement I reached out to touch the wealthy limbed creature but at that moment it freed itself from the line and escaped into the blue. Cruse my cursed hand! It seemed all for the better though as Toothless began acting out what would have happened had I managed to catch the beast with my bare hands. He didn't have to know English to explain that the octopus would have malled me. But from the moment that my mother had had that first lucky nibble the Imani had seemed to transform into some sort of fish magnet. Toothless would throw down a line, tug at it for only a brief moment and then reel up a fish. I was shocked. Who knew that in trying to maximize the catch potential by covering our equipment with shiny lures and buying the newest light weight rods we were actually drowning the delicate art of fishing with over modernization. I shall never touch a rod, nor lure, again. And, miracles of miracles, I was able to reel up a fish. After Toothless had made sure it was tightly attached to my line of course. I laugh at Davey Jones and his curse!
A few hours later we arrived to the shore of Manda beach with a bag full of freshly caught fish and a few bright, red sunburns to prove our days work. The rastas disappeared somewhere on the beach and left us to swim in the warm water of the Indian Ocean. We then took our places underneath a thatched roof of a small tiki shade house and awaited our lunch. We were served generous portions of coconut rice, stewed vegetables, fish (yes, the fish that we had caught) and fruit. I don't know what was more wonderfully novel; being served food by men, cooked by men or the absolute deliciousness of the "from scratch" dishes.

Lamu: Part One

The rainy season, one would think, covers more than one city. This was my logic as I threw my black pants on and wonderfully warm, purple sweater on the coolish, rainy morning we left for Lamu. The plane ride was less than eventful. The steward was a mousey looking Latino that the ladies had fun giggling about and secretly snapping pictures of. I don't know how you take a secret photo on a plane that only sits 20 women but it was amusing non the less.
So as the plane rose into the chilly rain clouds and began it's journey to Malindi I dozed off after a dozen or so head bobs. When I awoke (from a flash of someone trying to catch the unattractive sleep pose) I noticed that the lush land of Nairobi had turned into a scorched, desert of dying and thirsty trees. I unzipped my sweater slinging it over my bag feeling twinge angst at my weather judgment.
We landed on the mainland and the first thing I noticed was the heat and the clear absence of rain. The next was the cats. A whole line of them were laying in the sun of the duty free shop that met us outside the exit of the tiny airport. One was nestling in a cracker box and another was on the front counter displayed beside the softdrinks. I looked around rather unimpressed as the heat was making any emotion to much work including amazment. "Excuse me, excuse me" I jumped out of the way as a man pulling a donkey cart came flying in to collect the bags. I trudged along behind sulking about the heat making my jeans stick to my legs and the heavy bags I had criss crossed over my shoulders. A gaggle of girls trailed along as well with cameras and giggles. I frowned at them and wiped my forhead. Everything is annoying when your hot and sweaty
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Two hours later I sat reclined in a lovely chair with a glass of passion fruit juice in my hand and a beautiful view of the Indian Ocean layed out before me. The world is beautiful place when the ocean is present and the sweat glands of the body can breathe
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That evening I stepped onto the deck of a cosy sail boat with all my mothers and prepared for a sunset cruise. The boat leaked a little and the captain was a 26 year old rastafarian. I knew right away that there would be no pesty life jackets handed out or no annoying wavers to sign and so I hoped up on to the side of boat and leaned over the edge hanging off the frayed rope holding the sail down. The sunset was breath taking; a giant orange bubble melting like butter into the horizon and from that moment I was in love with Lamu.