The Island That Time Forgot

Getting to Lamu, off the coast of Kenya, is a mission. But as Nick Dall and his brother found out, tearing yourself away from this rhapsodical island of donkeys and dhows is even harder.

The bus ticket inspires confidence: “Pwani Tawakal Mini Coach – We run, others fly”. We pass through impressive pineapple fields before getting to Kilifi, a magnificent steep-sided lagoon, and, a couple of hours later, Malindi, a picturesque beach resort that is, for some reason, extremely popular among Italians. In the immediate vicinity of the bus station alone, there are several pizzerias and a gelateria.

Our bus bumbles along the sandy road that dissects a lawless region notorious for attacks by Al-Shabaab bandits. Thankfully our only assailants are mozzies and boredom and we eventually reach Mokowe to board the ferry that will take us to Lamu itself. In a ramshackle, overloaded vessel, we cross the 400 m channel that separates Lamu from mainland Kenya.

Being the only mzungus on the ferry, we are given a heroes’ welcome when we arrive. Lamu has been a trading port for nearly 700 years and it still has a mercantile bustle despite being all but wiped off the map of global commerce. As soon as we set foot on land, 10 guys who all seem to be called Mohammed try to sell us everything from fresh crabs to dhow trips, bulging tamarind pods and cheap nylon mosquito nets.

Lamu is similar to Zanzibar. Both islands share histories of spices, slavery and shipping – and both are predominantly Muslim.

But Lamu is also very different to Zanzibar. For starters, there are only two cars on the island: the high commissioner’s Land Rover and an ambulance. Instead of vehicle traffic, there are thousands of donkeys. Lamu’s inaccessibility, coupled with the real but fading threat of terrorism, means that apart from intrepid backpackers and the megawealthy, the island has largely been untouched by commercial tourism.