Sensuous henna designs spiral up hands like an insistent creeper sending tendrils of motif to the light. Slim sandaled feet and seeking eyes are the only other visible body-parts in the Darth
Vader-in-drag outfits. Scarves of colourful fabric peep out from under the black headdresses, signs of life, spontaneity and youth hidden under black.
With an 85% Muslim population, women in bui-buis and men in kanzus and kofia caps are a common sight in Lamu. In this ancient Kenyan town live the descendants of Arab traders, once catching monsoon winds to Africa, and the Bantu people mingled over aeons of time to form the distinctive Swahili culture of East Africa. Lamu Island’s legacy of trade in slaves, ivory and mangrove poles shimmers briefly in memory like golden afternoon light catching the sails of the dhows still well-used on the Indian Ocean and characteristic of the Swahili Coast.
Men still sit in the town square as if phantoms from the past, or charge through on braying donkeys, their long legs dangling ungainly on either side. With the motorised transport of the island consisting of a single tuk-tuk scooter ambulance, a donkey ambulance and one four-wheel drive vehicle belonging to the district commissioner, the mode of transport is by foot, donkey or dhow, and with roughly 4500 donkeys and a population of 20 000 people who live with the motto ‘a man without a donkey is a donkey’, it is no wonder that the streets are a minefield of donkey excreta.
Wandering through the twisting narrow lanes, with the many double-storey buildings built from island coral with ornate carved doorways, I find a small shop with old colourful ceramic fragments cemented into the surrounding wall and front step, leading me into the shop sign-posted ‘Slim Silversmith’. Slim emerges, welcoming me in with the most well-used Swahili word, ‘Karibu’ - ‘Welcome’, and shows me the trays of heavy set silver rings and pendants he creates using old pieces of ceramic. These crockery fragments from the past include some older pieces said to date back to the fifteenth-century Chinese landing in Shanga on a nearby island in 1415 and once used as jugs, plates and mugs in Lamu. Popular with tourists, these remnants hold mystery and intrigue, pieces of the past, travelling over seas from foreign lands, once holding nourishment or used as vessels to be sipped from and left as remnants of time in old buildings or washed and smoothed in the rolling patient motion of the waves.
Mbarak or Slim Silversmith learnt the trade twenty-five years ago from his uncle, taking over the shop when he died and has been using the ceramic pieces as the centrepieces for his jewellery for the last fifteen. He has put word out for these pieces on the island and pays people to bring them to him.
Slim is more than a silversmith, being a wordsmith as well, and tells story after story, weaving them through time, baskets of words that hold the story of his life. I sit in his workroom as he fits the ceramic pieces into silver rings, his work-block an old piece of greying coral. Colourful ceramic shapes spill over the surface of the desk in a tablecloth of colour and design. Slim holds donkeys in high esteem, being a typical Lamu resident, telling me how they built Lamu, their backs carrying the building material for the town. He begins his tales as the rain pours down, washing the ancient streets and transporting me into the magic of the words.
He tells me of once throwing back a small dolphin caught in the fishing nets. The catch usually shared by the fishermen was therefore denied to him by the captain. His friends’ catches were shared with him afterward however, making up more than the allotted share. His recurring theme is good fortune returning to the sender in an exchange of positive universal energy. He recounts how he gave a gift of a bracelet to a physically-challenged girl and received in return soul smiles and rare gift of communication, and of how two young backpackers, in the time of Jimmy Carter, visited his store with their small baby. He placed a small bracelet around her wrist as a gift of welcome. They returned to Lamu ten years later, visiting Slim, believing the bracelet to be a symbol of good luck, a gift from the heart that opened a door of good fortune into their lives. The daughter gave her bracelet in and Slim added a section to enlarge the chain. He shows me a photo of a young Queen Elizabeth hanging on the wall amidst a clutter of old postcards. He explains that the photo is his heritage and adds that when he was young it hung in his father’s room. When his father died, everything had already been taken by the time Slim arrived, except for the photograph of the British monarch. Our conversation comes to an end as the rain decreases to drops and the East African sun attempts unsuccessfully to make its presence felt in the humid grey weather. I stumble out into the ancient rain-shiny alleyways, ceramics, stories and raindrops mixing together into the Lamu day.
It is easy to fall into a routine here. Rather than birdsong, I listen for the Muslim call to prayer in the early morning while lying in the cocoon of bed, as it wafts and travels over the rooftops, through the narrow streets, old as time. The day is full with Swahili treats, bujii (small bean patties) that I watch sizzle in large frying pans of oil, small strong cups of coffee for the brave and caffeine-immune, chapattis and maharagwe (beans), and glasses of passion fruit juice mixed with lime. The day ends at the water’s edge with small glasses of spice tea and sweet biscuits bought from a woman clad in layers of black fabric and sporting a friendly smile, who sits with her kettles, flasks and charcoal brazier, the sweet delicacies held in large plastic jars. I make this a ritual in the evenings and watch the dhows come in lowering their sails and the clouds colour pink and red as I sip the sweet tea.
Although Lamu was established in the 16th century, the wealth and golden age created through the cruelty of trade in ivory and slaves reached its peak in the 19th century. With the abolishment of slavery in the 1870s however, the flourishing island of Lamu plummeted into decline. It became part of the British protectorate in 1890 and was incorporated into Kenya in 1963 when the country gained its independence, remaining fairly isolated until the 70s when the bubble of rich Swahili culture was rediscovered intact by travellers. The Swahili culture left in isolation had continued its uncomplicated existence far from the busy development and rush of the rest of the world. As a Swahili proverb says: ‘Haraka, haraka, heina baraka’, ‘Hurry has no blessing’.
In the last few years travelling to Lamu by road has been hazardous due to Somali bandits. Police checks and camps along this north-eastern section of Kenya now have the situation under control.
As I travel south along these bumpy dirt roads, the rest of the world begins to intrude on the peace of Lamu and I try to rearrange its chaos to suit my quietened Lamu spirit. I still see fragments of the past, listen to the call to prayer from a warm dark bed. I am still sipping sweet spice tea, walking alleyways, calling Swahili greetings and watching dhows glow in the afternoon light. I hold these things dear as the bus returns me unwittingly into the madness of the 21st century.