Hotel Afrique

Where: at the beach, halfway between Malindi and Watamu
Single: 60 USD, full board

‘Bon Giorno!’ A waiter is calling me in Italian from far. We’re in coastal Kenya here, and the guy is clearly from genuine African kin. He’s even waiving his hand as a conclusion of his foreign tongued joviality. ‘Nzuri,’ I want to reply, but I can retract it just in time. That would be fine in the Kenyan language Kiswahili, but that’s not Italian.

Just arrived late evening in the Jacaranda Resort in Watamu. The town on the coast is known for its many tourists from Italy. Don’t know why, but they say there are many, even in nearby Malindi. That must have a historic reason of which I am not aware at the moment.

The manager of the resort, an Italian in his late fifties, is smiling very benevolently to me, and so does his wife. The waiter even serves me a fresh mango punch while I’ m being checked in. ‘Welcome,’ says the owner, adding ‘Good evening,’ and then explaining he only knows twenty words of English, and ten words of Kiswahili. That’s not too bad by the way. Think ordering a beer or a coffee should be possible on that vocabulary, and then you can survive a long time.

African

Am writing by the way during a very slow upload of a video file in the Serena Hotel in Nairobi. So you can see that a slow life style indeed can lead to inspiration. Not that I like that, but now it keeps me moving.

‘Here you are, Sir,’ says the waiter at the counter who most probably concluded that speaking Italian to me would not be fruitful. He’s handing out the room receipt.

‘Basta?’ says another waiter, looking at my empty glass.

‘Let’s go,’ say two other waiters who already secured my luggage on their shoulders. ‘Room 42,’ the one confirms with a big smile.

‘See you at the dinner. We‘re serving from eight until ten,’ says the manager, with something I believe was an eager smile. ‘Tonight we have real African dishes.‘

We’re walking on white sandy paths along big white cottages with reed roofs. Some windows are lit behind the curtains. It’s always nice to arrive somewhere when it’s dark. It gives you that wonderful surprise the next morning of where you are. It’s the best when you’re camping out with a tent, and are forced to pitch it in the dark. Can remember that once with a friend on a camp site we woke up on the middle of the way leading to the toilets, even blocking the entrance. It was the noise of complaining people that woke us up.

Wiser

‘Here you are, Sir,’ these so nice guys tell me, and hand me over the big key. They are gone so fast I can’t reach for tip. The room is the type that alights when you put your key in a slot. Usually they’re easy to find, even in the dark. It’s a matter of not closing the door too fast. When inserting it I can hear the air conditioning coming alive. Used to hate these things, until I discovered the newer models are not so bad. You just have to know that the ideal temperature to put it on is between 23 and 24 degrees. That’s all, no waking up anymore because of the cold, or getting a cold, because of you thinking that 19 degrees is still too hot to sleep in. Happily in some respects we grow wiser when getting older.

Let me have the shower. Inside there are many sign boards in Italian, and from the pictures I can deduct that it’s about being friendly to the environment, meaning not using too many towels, and to shower briefly. With that in my mind I step in. I don’t even have to bother because the water beam is so thin it’s almost impossible to use a lot. It’s one of the things you have the check when entering a room, but here there was no alternative anyway. Also there is no dustbin in the bathroom, which is something you need. Don’t ask me for what now, but I know I will need it later. Yes, there it is. I need it for the package of the soap provided by the hotel.

Refreshed by the shower I walk outside to find the restaurant. This resort is huge, and there are signs pointing to a restaurant. So I decide to follow the path down to where I believe the ocean should be. The waves are calling me from deep.

After a while I hear music that sounds like a French chansonnier, but during my descent it slowly changes into Italian.

Masai
The restaurant is on the beach, and maybe because of bad weather the latches are closed. From inside I can hear the Italian songs, and chatting of many people. On the patio there is a demonstration of Masai dance, together with selling Masai artifacts. I know the people who buy will end up carrying them as hand luggage in the cabin of the plane. It’s funny to see this tall wooden giraffes packed in plastic wraps, and tied with sisal rope, but still the ears will protrude. Think only Kenya Airways allow it as cabin luggage. The Pride of Africa cannot refuse the pride of Africa.

‘Hello,’ I hear a bright voice. A smiling lady is gesturing to a plate of welcome juices and bites. I am not amazed to discover slices of pizza with green pepper. They’re great, and I decided to skip the juice, and to head directly for my beer. That Hello by the way could either have been Italian or English. So I find myself back on a comfortable zebra patterned sofa. Enjoying my Kenyan beer I hear the people admiring the artifacts. The Masais dancers have stopped jumping, and mingle with the crowd. Judging from what the people are speaking they’re all Italian. It‘s amazing to find a community of one nationality in a holiday resort on the Kenyan coast. Also every sign board I saw so far was in Italian. My memory does not easily swallow foreign words, so I already forgot. Except one line from many years ago. It was in the train my friends and me used to take for holidays. At the windows it would say ‘E pericoloso sporghesi,’ meaning ‘It’s dangerous to lean out’. It’s nice how small things from today invoke these memories from the past. It gives a feeling of background, which proves very important from time to time. No wisdom with any memories.

Beer
The crowd in the patio is getting thinner. The people are moving to the restaurant, and so do I. Inside all the tables are already taken. I really have to look around for a place to sit down, and I find it right at the entrance. The good thing about it is that I am very near the beer keg. The first thing I do is serve myself a glass. Don’t like to eat without having some drink in advance. Taking slow sips I look around. The restaurant is built in its own big hut, and has a circular shape. The reed roof is supported by a wooden pillar in the middle. That’s the place where one of the rotations of the buffet is displayed. There I find the salads, and all types of cakes which are soaked in sweet syrups. Not my cup of tea, and staring to the right wall I see two guys wearing high hats. Creating my way there in between the people eating, I discover they serve spaghetti with margarita sauce and parmesani cheese. It’s a long time I had that in Africa, and the guys are preparing it on the spot. With a full plate I return to my table, feeling I was just rewarded a trophy. The spaghetti was very good, had the right taste and bite, and the sauce was soft and not too salty. Only Italians can make it like that, wonderful.

After another beer I decided it was time to check the African dishes that were promised by the owner, on the far side of the opposing wall. There they have dishes that resemble Swahili kitchen, but are far from it. So there is pilau, fish and beef stew, spinach and cabbage. Nothing wrong with it, no way, but it is what I am eating almost every day traveling through East Africa. So let me just decline this opportunity.

Training

‘Spaghetti!’, the owner cries out when he sees me eating a second plate. ‘The African food is there!’ So I explain why.

“Yes, yes,’ he says. ‘We trained them three months in Italy to make the best spaghetti.’

Now, that’s something. Home made spaghetti from Italy on the Kenyan beach. Even though there was African food tonight, it tells something how far you can go in recreating home in a holiday resort. The music, the language, the sign boards, the food. It’s little Italy on the Indian Ocean. Only the view is different from home. It’s like changing the programme on your television, but eating the same pringles with it.

Went sleeping soon after the spaghetti, because I had to get up early to do editing on the room. Then early morning it occurred to me that my plugs didn’t fit the sockets. The British three pole plugs seemed absent, but small two way sockets were fitted on several places. That could only be the Italian type, imagine. Happily I noticed that the bed lamps were connected with normal plugs. That’s odd. Why only the lights? This was the second Italian encounter, after having had another kind surprise at the bar. ‘One coffee, please,’ I asked the waiter earlier this morning, of course he served me an espresso. They are small, but go very nicely with the view and the breeze on the beach. Also yesterday’s beers were banging inside my head. These things happen on the way. It’s a long time ago I had disturbing feelings with solitary drinking. Some times I am tired of these compulsory chats in hotel bars, with always very interesting people you’ll never see again, even when you exchanged cards. It just depends on my moods.

Arrival

The editing went well, although I was limited in my movements. Since the only fitting socket was near the small bed table, I had to put the laptop there. So it was not that luxurious as a real desk, but it didn’t bother me too much. The editing got finished in a few hours, and then it was time to head back to Nairobi to go to the Serena Hotel to do the uploading. After having checked out I called a taxi. Waiting at the reception I witnessed the arrival of a new group of visitors. The owner with his huge smile is directing some boy to start drumming and singing, and then a bus enters the compound. Italians with tired eyes from flying alight. They’re luggage is taken out of their hands, and they’re being served a drink. ‘Benvenuto, benvenuto,’ say the owner and his servants to the ones listening. It’s amazing. The group most probably came with a direct chartered flight from Italy, and after a transfer they enter another Italy. It almost makes me wonder why you would leave home, but I understand knowing the white sands beaches and the green blue ocean. Also it’s a lot cheaper.

The taxi comes, and we take the long path through the forest from Jacaranda to the main road. It’s normal that when you pass by as a white guy that the children will jump up, and start greeting you. ‘Ciao, ciao, ciao! That’s what they say here, and ‘Caramela, caramela!’ Meaning sweets translates the taxi driver. We’re on the way back to Kenya. Ciao!