After ten days touring some of the best parks in Kenya, getting to a beach hotel would require some acclimatization. Anyone would long for a resort to melt the hours in the sun, wrapped in palm groves and just a few steps from the warm waters of the Indian, with nothing else to do but give yourself to life spring and carefree. But the early rises are still too recent, the endless safaris, unpacked suitcases and conversations by the fire listening to the syncopated growl of wildebeest.
Your body is looking for a hammock to lie on, a pool where you can relax your muscles, a bar where they serve cold beer. Your head, however, it's still full of lions napping in the bushes, herds of elephants, of leopards ambushed in the trees, of prehistoric rhinos and giraffes browsing the acacias. It's hard to go to breakfast without being driven by the desire for the savannah, enjoy a lunch with a bottle of wine without thinking about how long there is to get back to the SUV and even delay the drinks at night without feeling that, within a few hours, the alarm clock will ring to get us going again and walk the dusty roads with the same illusion as the first day. A decompression, out of compassion.
After ten days touring some of the best parks in Kenya, getting to a beach hotel would require a decompression
Have left Tsavo, a park that is difficult to separate, only a few hours ago it contributed to that feeling of bewilderment as we walked to our rooms in the Sarova Whitesands Beach, a macro hotel complex located on the outskirts of Mombasa over 300 rooms that predisposed to that vacation happiness that only cries out for rest. The hours and hours of savanna, however, they forced more, to look for some extra incentive apart from sunbeds, pools and drinks. Xavier, my partner in VAP, and I thought we would get closer to the historic center of Mombasa, but we decided to leave it for the last moment. We had two days ahead of us to recover from the nostalgia of safaris. It took us very little to find the beach.
The low tide had opened, withdrawn the waters, a wide sandy area on the shore that invited to stroll and share confidences under a blinding sun. A boy rented bicycles and two teenagers, smeared faces, they were taking a mud bath in the sand. The street vendors had already lined up their local craft stalls and I feared continued harassment by relay teams, one of those that forces you to get rid of one hustler after another at every step. But, unlike what happens on the beaches of Zanzibar, where your perseverance becomes overwhelming, here the sellers left you alone, quieting down when they heard the first no.
The night was falling slowly until the gloom blurred the bodies. Suddenly, we were all shadows
As the afternoon wore on, the tide was devouring the beach again, slowly but surely, narrowing the corridor through which the passers-by walked waiting for the twilight. A camel traveled the beach all day in search of tourists. Its owner had been lucky: an Indian couple and their teenage daughter had hired his services, leaving him, perhaps, the last dollars of the day. Every now and then we ran into a prostitute who was waiting for clients before the tide finished doing its job.. The night was slowly falling over Mombasa, that was guessed in the distance, until the gloom blurred the bodies as if they were painted with charcoal. Suddenly, we were all shadows.
The proximity of the Indian Ocean was a magnet, to the extent that, the next day, at five thirty in the morning the eyes opened with the precision of an alarm clock. There was half an hour to dawn. I put on some flip flops and went down to the beach. It looked half deserted and the tide was very high. Sitting on a log, I saw the sunrise while the water was wetting my feet. First a faint glow illuminating the clouds, rescuing them from the gloom. After, the irruption of the sun, vigorous, plethoric, swollen with pride, he painted the entire horizon with fire, on which the silhouettes of a ngalawa were cut out (traditional swahili two-seesaw barge) and motor boats of fishermen.
The irruption of the sun, vigorous, plethoric, lit up with pride, he painted the entire horizon with fire, on which the silhouettes of a ngalawa were cut out
The next day I perfected the method. I went down barefoot and in a bathing suit and got into the Indian Ocean with the first rays of sun, wrapped in another dreamy sunrise that lit up its waters as if someone had brought a fire. A group of teenagers stretched on the beach and ran back and forth. The street vendors hadn't even opened their stalls. The water was hot and full of algae, although it did not matter. I felt far away and that was more than enough.
At eight o'clock, when usually you wake up one day routine always portends, on the beaches of Mombasa and was a happy guy
Back at the hotel, I swam for a long time in the deserted pool, while an employee cleaned the funds with a long pole. I was starting to like Sarova Whitesands. In the room, I went out to the terrace with "The Green Hills of Africa" ??by Hemingway, that briefly returned me to the longed-for sheets. At eight o'clock, when usually you wake up one day routine always portends, on the beaches of Mombasa and was a happy guy. Of course, one does not always have the sea just a few steps from the bed. Normally you have to settle for a shower tray. Therefore, Now when the alarm clock I often think I missed a sunrise of water and fire rings and a dip in the Indian.
More information about this and other routes through Kenya at: Kobo Safaris.
