John Goldbach - It Is an Honest Ghost

We stood in an airfield, or an outdoor airport, as carts were loaded with our luggage, waiting to be ferried to the island. I had my luggage on me, one piece: my knapsack. I’d left my suitcase in storage at the hotel because we’d be back there in a few days before heading home. But my knapsack was over-packed, bursting at the seams. A writer from the U.S. south said, ‘We don’t need to worry about a bomb going off. It went off in your backpack.’

By the time we took the ferry — which was essentially a barge — from the airport — which was an open field — to the island, it was after nightfall. The ferrymen were referred to by those in the know as beach boys, that is to say, young athletic guys who spend their days playing Frisbee, smoking weed and performing tasks around the jetty, of myriad varieties.

The twelfth-century town of Lamu from the water on a dark night looked wondrous and beautiful, with its white buildings sparsely lit. The boat rocked as it slowed and approached a set of landing stairs, where it docked. Beach boys unloaded the luggage after we all disembarked, but I had my knapsack with me.

I stood beside Boris on the jetty, looking out at the dhow- speckled harbour, under a crescent moon and starry sky, and he said, ‘Not bad, right?’

The boats rocked gently, some lit up, some shadowy, the sounds of the town behind us.

A boy, armed with a flashlight, guided me to my hotel. The group had significantly shrunk, but there were still far too many people to all stay in one of Lamu’s many tiny hotels, so we were spread out around the island. I was staying in a place called Yumbe House, according to Anita Khalsa, who booked the rooms. The boy lit up the labyrinthine alleyways to Yumbe House, as we dodged donkeys and walked fast because it had started to rain. There were no cars on the island, though there were plenty of donkeys, and, ergo , plenty of donkey shit, which we sidestepped in the rainfall.

I kept thinking, There’s no way I’ll ever remember the route to the hotel.

The boy got me to the old stone hotel, where I attempted to tip him, and he refused my money, running away when I pulled out my wallet, and I checked in at the Staff House, a small hut made of bamboo and thatched, where a young thin man gave me a key with a wooden keychain. Checking in took all of a minute. I didn’t give him any money, or my passport, simply said my name, and he walked me up a set of wooden stairs in the small courtyard, open to the elements, full of beautiful flora, to the second floor, where I was in room fourteen. The key on the wooden keychain opened the padlocked wooden door onto a small room, with a bed in white canopy mosquito netting, a little old worn desk for writing, or an escritoire, and there was an en suite washroom with a toilet, shower stall and sink. The walls didn’t quite reach the thatched ceiling, so there was a gap, exposing the room to the outdoors, but that seemed necessary for air circulation. The floors were concrete, with a small throw rug near the bed.

‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘ Asante sana .’

I was left alone in my room, which I’d immediately felt a connection to and affection for, and I sat down at the escritoire; the little scarred writing desk had a tiny lamp on top and several small drawers and it was near an outlet, though the power, I was warned, would go out every day for several hours — the island had brownouts, but the power always returned, for a few hours at least, so charge your laptop when you have the chance, I was told. I took my computer out of my bag and plugged it in. I worked on my piece about the festival for about an hour, and transcribed some notes from my notebook, when there was a knock on my door. It was Jason.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Mark and I are staying here, too. We’re just having drinks across the way,’ he said, pointing to the other side of the courtyard, ‘where there’s sort of a common area up top, with chairs and day-beds. It’s covered. You should join us.’

I told him I’d be there in a minute and he said not to bother bringing booze, they’d already cracked a bottle of Kenya Cane, so I saved my notes and put on some Muskol mosquito repellent, did a few quick push-ups, locked up, and made my way across the courtyard.

It was raining hard and there were a few leaks in the thatch, but we were happy to be in Lamu and immediately high on the Kenya Cane mixed with lime soda. Jason smoked Marlboro Lights and after a while, after several drinks, Mark smoked them, too. Boris called my cell and I told him what we were up to, but he said he’d stay in, get some much-needed sleep and wait out the rain. He was staying at Petley’s Inn, he said, which faced the sea and had a bar. He had air-conditioning, he told me, but didn’t like the feel of it. We agreed I’d stop by tomorrow.

‘It’s after midnight,’ said Jason. ‘Merry Christmas!’

The muezzin’s call to prayer from a loudspeaker atop a minaret woke me early in the morning, though its echoing, hypnotic music put me right back to sleep. I woke again to the call to prayer, but it was many hours later. I was covered in sweat but it was hot. I sat up, under the mosquito netting, and realized we were in Lamu.

And it was Christmas.

I picked up my Nokia from the bedside table and saw there were six missed calls from Boris and two text messages: Where r u and R u ok , respectively.

So I called him back.

‘Hey,’ I said, when he picked up.

‘Hey man, so you’re okay?’

‘Fine. Yeah sorry. I guess I slept in.’

‘It’s two in the afternoon,’ he said. ‘You missed the greetings.’

‘Yes, sorry, I know. I just haven’t been sleeping,’ I said.

‘It’s okay, man. We’re heading down the coast to a small village at three-thirty, where we’ll eat and stuff. It’s like an hour or so by boats. Should be all right.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘So we’re leaving from the jetty at three-thirty,’ said Boris.

‘I’ll be there.’

When I hung up I put on some shorts and went in search of water and something small to eat. I walked out of the courtyard and into the narrow streets of Lamu. I turned a few corners and there were commercial stalls everywhere, selling colourful cloths of various varieties, wooden curios, from sculptures to dinnerware, and silver, a lot of silverwork. But amongst the stalls and the ceaseless calls of the bazaar, I spotted a shop that sold corner-store items — chocolate bars and aspirin and cigarettes, et cetera. I bought two large bottles of water for the room and a Snickers bar. Across from him a stall sold samosas, so I bought two and started to make my way back to Yumbe House. After turning down a few streets and realizing I was walking in circles, as the same retailers vied for my attention, a small boy asked me what I was looking for. I said, Yumbe House . And he walked me back to the old stone edifice.

In my room, I ate my samosas and Snickers and took my pills and freshened up for the trip down the coast. Then, sitting on my bed, I fell asleep.

I woke up to hard knocking on my door. I sat up startled. It was Mark and Jason.

‘I missed the boat, didn’t I?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ they said.

‘But we’re taking a smaller, faster boat,’ said Jason.

‘And we’re leaving now,’ said Mark.

‘Great!’ I said. ‘I’m ready to go.’

Down at the jetty, we boarded a small boat with an outboard engine and we put on lifejackets and a slim older man piloted the boat.

We were travelling fast along the coastline, the wind blasting our faces fresh, the sun starting to set. I sat on the bow seat, alone, Jason and Mark behind me, the ship’s pilot at the stern, his hand on the tiller. The only sounds were those of the engine and wind and they were like excited meditative silence. My heart raced.