As those of you who have watched television with me well know, I am not a fan of 'to be continued' tales, especially when they are of the X Files variety. So I apologise for breaking my story. I am also sorry because it means I am rather far behind in telling you all the ridiculous things that keep happening.

Upon arriving on Ngomeni Island, we walked up to the couple bandas that stood off the shore-- reed shacks, one for the living area with a couple tents in it and the other for the kitchen. In the kitchen were the fellow guests-- two Spanish girls. As their English was not very good, we ended up having to converse in Spanish and Swahili...interesting for someone who had never heard Swahili until a month ago and has not taken Spanish since 10th grade. Still, we all managed and I tried to look at the bright side of things-- by being left out of many of the conversations, at least I had thinking time...

That evening we took a stroll down the beach...the island is one of those places where you lose a sense of where you are in the world. Apart from the Italian satellite station out at sea, all around was silver water and sand. I ran all the way out the the end of a sand peninsula-- one of those moments when it is entirely necessary to let your grimy hair fall out of its tie and be blown about crazily by the wind of the Indian Ocean. Or at least I thought so.

That night we were treated to fresh shark (ninapenda papa as well as samaki) in a curry sauce that included dried apple mangoes-- a mix i highly recommend for those of you living on islands with mango trees nearby (are there any of you? how do i know you?). Night fell and brought the galaxy back with it...campfire smoke seeped out of the banda as we sipped our ginger chai (another recommended recipe).

The following morning, after a swim in the sea (showers? bah. as i write, water has not touched me outside of my hands and face for 4 and a half days), Tiff and I built a village in the sea. I had just completed the market stalls (what? did you think I meant a mere collection of sandcastles?) when it was time for lunch...fresh crab! with lime and a chili or two for me, apparently making me eligible to be african. not sure that is quite what the citizenship requirements mention but i will be sure to mention it to the immigration officers if I am ever considering trying to get a kenyan passport.

After lunch, we all sailed off in a dhow to visit the mangrove swamps. Sailing on the dhow has been one of the highlights of my whole trip-- it is amazing to be on a sailboat where there is only one sail, no boom, no winches-- simplicity makes you feel so close to the water and wind. the sailors, often quite small and thin, so nimbly seem part of their vessel. I always love watching people who are in tune with their boats-- when people can sail almost by instinct. On the return journey, I was sitting at the stern and ended up piloting the boat back, to the joy of the crew. I was titled 'Captain Wangu' -- my captain, which is one of my proudest nicknames. there is something about someone letting you sail their boat, even for a short while, that creates a little bond between you. when i saw the captain the next day, we were all grins and wished each other goodbye and god bless you. may he sail well, inshallah!

The mangrove swamps were everyone else's favourite part of the day and pretty cool. although my highlight was wading through the boggy mud, beautiful! though i later partially regretted that experience as it led to me having around 30 plus bites just on one foot from the little mosquitoes that live in the mud there. geez, speaking of which, i think i forgot my malaria medicine last night...eek! the coast is rather malarial, as compared to the highlands of Nairobi.

We departed from Mahdi Island the next morning, hoping to make it to the island of Lamu before evening. On the way to the island, we had crossed in a motorboat-- on the way back on our way to catch the bus from Malindi, we crossed in a little canoe, oh so stable! one of those times when you just have to roll wit' it... definitely!

After several hours of bouncing up and down to a ricidulous extent (the baby behind us managed to vomit over about three passengers to give you an idea), our bus to Lamu the first island of the archipelago off the northern coast.

From the top of our hotel, Pole Pole (slowly slowly, aptly named for the spirit of the town), we could see all the roofs of the town. Lamu reminds me a lot of the feeling of the old town in Fez, Morocco. This comparison is probably more due to the fact that I have not been to many old Arabic towns, but the atmosphere was similar-- cats leaping around, donkeys carrying loads, flat roofs, curling alleyways. Lamu however of course has a special twist, being a great example of coastal Swahili culture, with its mix of African, Arabic, and Indian. Along the alleys, the carved doors create a rather grand atmosphere, and at the top of them is the Arabic symbol meaning Allah is the beginning, here is where we start. But don't look up too long as often there is a traffic jam with donkeys wanting to go in the opposite direction from you. Indeed, they are the major mode of transport-- there is only one vehicle on the whole island, which belongs to the district commissioner (our guidebook reported that he has his driver drive it up and down the beach daily to show off). When I was strolling down a path holding banana skins trying to find a bin, someone stopped me at a doorway: "Oh, can I have these to feed my donkey?" Of course I said no that they were mine and there was no way in hell that his scummy donkey was getting them.

That evening we dined at the abode of Ali-Hippy, named so after hanging out with an American hippy in the 70s. He finds tourists on the seafront and invites them to dinner at his house at 7pm sharp. The food was ok (though we had been spoilt on the island to be fair) and we did not drink the highly diluted juice (having been forewarned about his bad record of increasing tourists' use of pit latrines rather substantially) but the whole situation was so ridiculous it was worth it. Imagine, this tubby guy wearing a little skullcap with a keyboard balanced on his short stumpy legs, playing out some simple Swahili tune, accompanied by about 10 members of his family singing such esteemed lyrics like 'Hakuna Matata' and 'Lala Salaama' (sleep well). We were accompanied at the meal by a gap year traveller from Birmingham who recounted a rather gory story of mob justice in Kampala where he had saved a guy from being stoned to death for stealing about $14. So all in all, a rather charming little dinner experience...

We departed the next morning, with Tiffany dashing down the seafront with henna all over her hands and feet. Another bumpy bus ride to Malindi, then a few more hours to Mombasa and we were back at the lovely New People's Hotel, basically my second home whenever I want a peaceful night's sleep. This time our room was right over the road...oh the sound of matatu horns lulling you to sleep!

In the restaurant below New People's we spied the Spanish girls from the island. We went to say hello, thinking they maybe were picking up some miraa (legal herb which is chewed as a stimulant). They informed us that there had been a police raid on the island the day after we left and they had spent most of the previous night at the police station. The police had rocked up the island in motorboats wielding machine guns and demanding to search the premises. Mahdi had somehow managed to escape and was hiding at his village, where all the elders would protect him, a hero of the village as he is. The girls looked somewhat peeved and said that the police had claimed that Mahdi was illegally operating his tourist venture without a license.

Mahdi was supposed to meet us that same day to take us shopping but after hearing of the raid we were unsure that he would come to Mombasa. We were so traumatised by all of this that we, ahem, went to eat lunch. Ah, I still smile when I think of the meal-- we went to the Singh restaurant down from the Sikh temple-- glorious Punjabi food! And even though we felt absolutely full of cofta and dahl and aloo(potato)-filled chapatis, we still made space for dessert. I had the most amazing kulfi-- Indian ice cream made of pistachios. My Lord, I was in heaven.

Ahem, anyway, yes the serious story. Mahdi walked into the restaurant during our meal. We were very glad to see him, obviously. He told us that the most likely explanation for the police raid was that they had been hired by a guy in Watamu, a nearby town. Married to an Italian (who dominate the tourist trade in that area), he had been threatening Mahdi and telling him to vacate the island repeatedly, even though the island is communally owned by the village-- and additionally cannot really be owned by an individual. It cannot be surveyed because much of it disappears at high tide.

The situation made me think again about the problems of a state which is detached from the communities which it is meant to serve. The police are often not seen as a source of protection and secuity but rather a dangerous weapon to be used by those who hire them. The state has not grown from the people but exists as a strangely detached body. This is what I think lies at the core of so many of the challenges facing Kenya today.

As it stands, I think Mahdi will be ok. As will his ecotourism project. In fact, (parents, don't read the next sentences), he has almost convinced me to come back and work at setting up the project next year. He needs someone to help him survey the village and its people and to come up with a proposal to submit to a lawyer. I could stay and eat for minimal cost...and learn Swahili....and swim in the sea...and learn to sail a dhow... who could resist? It would be a great opportunity for field research as well as learning about the ecotourism business...