The buffed, the bronzed...and the Bengalis?

For the piece de resistance of my parents' Kenya swing, I took them to Lamu Island, which is partly a 600-year-old Islamic settlement where donkeys share the narrow stone streets with women in full hijab, and partly East Africa's answer to Barbados. Wealthy Americans and Europeans have turned the island into a seaside pleasure dome with massive beachfront houses and catamarans floating in the bay that are worth the GNP of a small African nation. Meanwhile most of the locals live in historic Lamu town, which has some of the best preserved stone houses in the world.

 

I've written earlier about Indian families' aversion to the beach. Still, I thought it would be nice to bring my parents to the island as a way to unwind after the dusty safari - and I wanted to write a story about all the white settlement going on in Lamu town. I booked a room at the Peponi Hotel on Shela Beach, which The New York Times last year described thusly:

It's a 20-car pileup of manicured stereotypes as bronzed Italian men in thin-soled loafers; expat Brits and upcountry Kenyans in rumpled linen; London-based Russian businessmen in monogrammed shirts; and weather-beaten Frenchmen and their former-model wives gather to clink Old Pals, the house cocktail, while their tweens form knowing, bored-looking cliques and the wives show off the Shela uniform: flowing, sequined Indian top, a kikoyi [think sarong] sashed with a chunky beaded leather belt, beaded sandals and layers of ethnic jewelry.

Into this walked my parents, who almost never drink and who don't own any linen whatsoever. Still, The Times's review was a bit harsh - the Peponi does have its Robb Report side, but it's also the perfect place to sit and chill by the beach. The food is excellent, the fish fresh, the water clear as crystal, the service attentive - and lounge-chair-to-guest-ratio is roughly 2:1.

 

Surprisingly, we didn't stick out too badly. My parents busied themselves with non-beach activities - my mom spending most of her time in the hotel gift shop, my dad obsessing over breaking large bills so he'd have enough small ones to leave tips. Dad was always trying to buy 50-shilling (about 70-cent) bottles of water with 1,000-shilling notes. He'd be pissed when they give him change in 200-shilling notes, not the 100s and 50s that are good for tips. So naturally, he'd buy another bottle of water to get the smaller bill. Needless to say, we were very well hydrated.