Blue Lagoon (That's its Real Name!)

Watamu is a tiny hamlet on the coast about an hour north of Mombasa. Known for its three lagoons, Watamu is far from the maddening crowd and very casual (except for a very nice resort, Turtle Bay, that's waaaaaay out of our price range). Being low season, few tourists are about. Men selling their fish or handmade sandals or boat rides or guide services have an extremely limited audience. Upon arrival, Ed and I hop out of the matatu and decide to check out a few places to stay, to see what rate we can get. The first place we visit, Marijani, agrees to the price we offer; 800 shillings per night, including breakfast. So we settle in. After three days of travel and sight-seeing in Mombasa, I'm ready to kick back on the overstuffed Swahili sofa and simply read. Which is exactly what I do. Later in the day, Ed and I walk over to the lagoons. They're gorgeous with coral islets mushrooming from the surf. When the tide goes out, we walk right up to one of the massive coral "islands" and examine its miniature wildlife. In the village, children hold their hands out and ask for sweets or money or writing pens. They follow and ask over and over again until a local adult walks by, then the kids clam up and leave quickly. Back at Marijani, I shower, relax and read. While showering, from the second floor window, I look into the walled yard next door. An older white man sits under a circular pavilion, reading and drinking tea. A white woman weeds a nearby flowerbed. Huge, exotic plants cover their compound and two fierce-looking Doberman pinchers guard the yard. At the slightest noise on the road, the dogs steel their bodies and point their noses toward the gate. Who are these people living in the middle of nowhere, tending to their yard, drinking tea? Where are their children, their extended families? The woman is bent over, using a trowel to scoop up soil, and a turtle plods along the sun-warmed concrete. She is unaware of the turtle's path leading directly to her foot and I wonder if she'll jump from fright. When the turtle bumps gently into her ankle, she simply stops weeding to bend down and rub his extended head. One, two, three soft strokes to the turtle's head, who seems to pause for this express purpose. Then the turtle plods on across the warm, paved compound while the woman resumes her weeding.