Malindi beach. Bloody hot. We land in a hotel that prohibits prostitution, alcohol and homosexualism.
The beach itself is rather unpleasant. The tourists are not allowed to leave the hotel territory, and for a reason. After the first day of sitting back on the strand and ignoring all the beach-boys, we agree to pay for the club ticket and escape to the deck chairs.
It doesn’t get better in the restaurants, either. A loud Italian lady with a modest Rastafari sit in the next table. An old man is having a conversation with a local woman wearing flamboyant make-up in the background. Three Italians parade to another table with local babes on stilettos right behind them. Half an hour later, the restaurant can be divided exactly into two colors and genders. As an illustration, a Kenyan woman heading to the ladies’ room just kissed her date and is now scrubbing her lips with her arm. We discover we’re the only ones who are not involved with prostitution in this restaurant. This is a true Italian sugar daddies’ paradise.
About a short skirt
When the temperature reaches 35 degrees outside in the shadow, all our cultural tributes towards Muslim women are replaced with short lace skirts. The kind of skirts that flitter in the wind and don’t do too great job covering out bottoms when reaching for a sweet in the ice-cream truck.
Terje suddenly feels someone pulling her skirt. And not upwards, like she was afraid, but as much towards the ground as possible. Terje looks back and sees a woman whose black burka covers her completely, except her frown and a disapproving gasp.
Done by the impulse
When John persuaded us to kill a chicken for dinner in Nairobi, I had another wish – to have a chicken as a travelling buddy. This kind of wishes are not too unrealistic in Africa. You just have to be in the right hotel in the right time, where the Muslim woman who adores you keeps a zillion bright yellow chicks for some farmer every Monday in a back room, snatches one and secretly gives it to you. Easy!
In short, when we got back to our room and I opened my hands, a yellow ball looked at us, cawing. Not older than 12 hours. Terje wanted the chicken to be named Malindi.
When I get back from the shower in the morning, a bunch of people are in our hotel room. The hotel owner’s son brings the chicken something to eat, the receptionist pokes holes in a soap box, the electrician is cutting a plastic bottle into a drinking cup and even sawdust is found somewhere. When we ask a Muslim woman, how to handle the chicken, she hands us a brochure Broiler Management.