I ran into this piece in the Philadelphia Inquirer about the tiny Swahili island off the Kenyan coast, Lamu. Now, I had the opportunity to visit Lamu twice during my stay in Kenya, and it is hands down one of my favorite places I have ever had the privilege of visiting. Lamu is easily the most unique place I have ever been to. While the Swahili island Zanzibar gets the name recognition and the tourists, Lamu and its culture has luckily been more preserved. No vehicles are allowed on the island, fishing is still the dominant way of life, and the locals are incredibly friendly.
Taking such pseudonyms as "California," "Captain Smiles," and even "Satan," the locals immediately offer to let you into their world. Late night bonfires on the beach, sketchily bought illegal palm wine, drumming five gallon buckets late into the Indian Ocean night--Lamu was one of a kind.
Photo: Me in one of the Lamu dhows
And this is why I suppose that reading the piece in the Philly Inquirer brought mixed emotions. For me, it always feels strange to read about another's travel experience that is similar to one of my own. Rarely do I think the narrator's account is spot-on; rather, I tend to view it in an over-critical eye. These feelings were just magnified when the account was about Lamu: "Oh, he is probably just stayed in an expensive hotel," or "I'm sure that he was just another one of those wazungu tourists who didn't even realize he was getting ripped off in the market every day."
I'm not sure exactly what causes this backwards negativity upon reading others' stories similar to my own--jealousy of the uniqueness of my own memories, unjustified pride in the quality of my own travelling experiences, nostalgia turned against itself--but it really isn't fair.
So here's to Mr. Steve Goldstein's fun times in Lamu. And may everyone else get the chance to enjoy that beautiful little island as well. I highly recommend it.
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