I love. To walk. Along the beach. Filling my pockets with shells and beach glass. So an unexpected day. In Mombasa. On a work trip. In Kenya. Presented me. A day at the beach. Which I have craved. And dreamed about. For months.
My hope. Was to walk. But. As I neared a low wall. It started. Jambo. Hey lady! Jambo, lady! Good morning! There they were. The young guys. Selling stuff. Who I remember. Making a beach walk impossible. On my last visit. Hopeful entrepreneurs. Making a walk down the beach. Unbearable.
So I park myself. In the shade of palm trees. For the day. With a book. And burn my face. To a bright red.
The other memory of Mombasa. Is getting up one morning for breakfast. There were beautiful, young Kenyan women. With their plates piled high with food. Their companions portly, jowly, aging German men. In shorts. And socks and sandals. I wanted to erase this impression on this visit. Of what my Kenyan friend calls “a few bad apples.” But last night. At the table next to me. He. Said to Her. You must be hungry! You have so much food on your plate. This is our last night, darling. Together.
And now. Mombasa. Probably rightly so. Continues. In my mind. Without changing.