The island keeps no cars. The tide keeps the appointments.
You hear Lamu before you see it — a generator, a donkey, a call that slides along coral walls. The channel between Manda and the old town is a commuting river of dhows.
Stone and salt
I stayed in a house whose doors were older than the nation. Afternoons were for doing nothing facing the water. Evenings, the promenade filled with boys playing football around the customs shed.
Dinner was fish and lime and a conversation about monsoon timing. Luxury, again, was a room with shutters and no itinerary.