The much-touted relaxed pace of the island, however, is eclipsed by much touting. No less than 20 locals, all trying to be helpful (read: earn a commission), compete to guide passengers to a hotel. We knew it would be difficult to bargain for a good hotel rate if the hotel owner had to pay off a"guide." So, after crossing the channel from the Manda Airstrip on a diesel launch, we tried to lose them. We started by asking nicely, then begged them to leave us alone.
"Pleeeease," I implored, frustration dripping from each vowel.
"No," one of the touts countered, "this is how we survive. Would you rather we steal the money from you." Odd that he saw these as his only two business options in life.
So we stopped at a cafe for a fresh fruitshake, hoping they'd get bored and leave. It wasn't long before we discovered this was a bad move. The other touts finished escorting their toutees to hotels, and were able to devote their full attention to us—the last remaining hotel-less visitors.
As we left the cafe, a verbal battle erupted over who would take the commission from the hotel we would eventually choose. We staged a sit-in on the sidewalk, stating we wouldn't move until they left us alone. After 10 minutes it became clear we weren't going to win this one--these guys had nothing better to do until the next plane arrived the following day.
We ended up dropping our packs at a $10 inn, then headed out, thinking the hassles would be over. Not quite. The same group was waiting for us to emerge so they could help us arrange (read: commission) a dhow trip to the surrounding islands, almost obligatory for every passing globe-trotter. This boat is to the east coast of Africa what the felucca is to Egypt, the junk is to China, the floating, discarded condom is to Manhattan.
This boat is to the east coast of Africa what the felucca is to Egypt, what the junk is to China
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After declining several pricey offers, we joined up with a nice Israeli couple who had found a boat and were looking for a few others to share the cost: $30 per person for four days, including snorkeling, fishing and prepared meals. We were told we would head to four islands: Kiwayu, Pate, Manda Toto, and one nameless uninhabited isle with a village that has never been visited by foreigners . . .all while avoiding the Somali rebels in the area.
Captain Kelly, a soft-spoken 35-year old, told us to be ready to leave at five the next morning.
"Five?" I echoed, praying I wouldn't have to start relaxing at such a painful hour.
"Five o'clock Swahili time," Captain Kelly explained. "That's 11 am your time. We start the clock when the sun comes up." For some reason, this method of time keeping made more sense to me than starting the day American style: during the commercials between late-night talk shows.
First we had to get some drinks for the trip. And to do this, we needed empty beer bottles. Not to fill up, but to leave as a deposit. Bottles are so scarce here, the beer sellers can simply run out, so bottle stock is much like the concept of cash flow in financial circles. Which means there are always travelers in this town running around begging locals for beer bottles—a fairly strange sight.
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