In the resort life, hours blend together and fuse into a state of anxiety-inducing stillness. Surely, the sunshine is healthy, and the swimming pool is refreshing, for an hour. We grab our straw hats and our flip-flops, dashing across the resort out of the main gate and onto a tuktuk for a gander in the mystic streets of Mombasa.

Mombasa is no different from any other large city in East Africa. Inside the tuktuk, we hold onto dear life as the driver swerves in between trucks, avoids pool-sized potholes and overtakes on the footpaths. It is a dangerous yet welcomed exciting affair after a day laying by the pool.

A tea time is organised every day at the sandy and relaxing beach bar. At sunset, we munch on tuna sandwiches with tea as fairy lights illuminate through a line up of tall palm trees and camels parade in the white beach with overly excited tourists.

We lay on the wooden beds by the pool at night and lulled by a stunningly beautiful full moon, we nap resting our weights on each other, for once, enjoy the stillness of the moment under the stars.

It is a two-hour journey North of Mombasa to the village of Watamu. A two-hour journey of small villages sheltered under palm trees and embraced by pineapples plantations that seem to extend from the coast to the mountains. Bicycles gracefully cruise along sandy roads and just as the town ends and the bush begins, we check into Turtle Bay Resort.

In the resort life, white sand and blue water become a must. At Turtle Bay, an environmental compromise has been made by every property in the area to protect fauna and flora in conservation projects that translate into pristine beaches, regenerated mangroves and local employment. It also translates into the blissful sight of a beach empty of touts and empty of the thought of money.

Fellow guests stare at each other through their thick dark sunglasses, reading yesterday’s British newspapers or playing sudoku. A lifeguard encourages a game of waterpolo to the blind sight of everyone around the pool. At night, the beach is dark and mysterious, and the water seems to pole dance with sturdy palm trees while bring fresh algae and mischievous red crabs with it.

In the resort life, no good deed comes for free, no minute becomes unaccounted for by the staff and not a single Masaai dance is performed without the expectation of a tip at the end of it.

On the last day of this African adventure, we take advantage of the ‘all-inclusive’ arrangements made for us and kayak across the shallow tide, while I destroy my shoulders when trying windsurfing for the first time.
We grab a couple of bikes from the gate and cycle into a village of fishermen returning with the catch of the day while their wives cook for the children in squat around a boiling pan placed over an open fire.

The last rays of sunshine set the mood for a last walk on the beach as we chase sand crabs and refresh our now sunburned skin. We sip on crimson-red fruity cocktails by the swimming pool while the coordinators present ecological and social achievements and the staff dance at the sound of typically Kenyan ‘Jambo Bwani’.

With only two hours of sleep, we leave Turtle Bay amidst the two in the morning fresh darkness and, through the van’s open window, the night in the Indian Ocean coast lets a last whisper of mist in. I fall asleep as we are driven across villages of brightly lit roadside motels and dark houses, reaching Mombasa Airport when the night is old and a new day is about to set over the mangrove.

We lift off Moi International as an orange sun rises over the Ocean, and an hour later, we land in the busy Jomo Kenyatta for our final farewell bid to Africa.

Heavy, we roll across the main runway at the stare of workers and airport staff. The Boeing triple seven engines roar over the National Park and float next to a snowy Mount Kenya. Amsterdam-bound, I close the window blind, watch a movie, kiss and nap.

Once again, Asante Africa. You’ve blown my mind for the second time.