A Working-craft Dhow Launches Visitors Into Colorful Lamu

June 30, 1985|By J. Madeleine Nash.

LAMU, KENYA — Omar was not difficult to spot in the crowd of dhow captains waiting on the dock. He was wearing a chartreuse T-shirt with a show of parrots on the front, a floppy straw hat the size of a Mexican sombrero and a rose kitenge, the saronglike wrap favored by Swahili men.

As we stepped aboard his small dhow, Omar glanced up at a cobalt blue sky beginning to fill with cottony clouds. ``Wind clouds,`` he said with a smile. Soon we were gliding past mangrove swamps framed picturelike by the sail. A stately heron patrolled the shallows, and two fish eagles circled overhead. Boys swimming in the water waved.

Omar was taking us to the small village of Matandoni on the island of Lamu. The main city of the island, which lies just off the coast of Kenya, dates from the 14th Century and is named Lamu as well. In all of Lamu there are only three forms of transportation--foot, donkey and dhow.

Dhows are sailing vessels that have plied the Indian Ocean for centuries, opening trade routes between India, Persia, Arabia and East Africa. Traditionally dhows followed the monsoons. The strong northeast winds that blow from November to March brought the dhows to Lamu. The southwest winds that blow from May to September sent them away again. Large cargo-carrying dhows still traverse the Indian Ocean, from the Arabian Sea to Zanzibar, though today they are almost universally motorized.

Omar`s was a fishing dhow: a broad, beamy boat known as a mashua. Like their larger relatives, mashuas are built of mahogany and waterproofed with shark oil. Their main feature: a wide, triangular sail that can be drawn close to the wind or let out in front almost like a spinnaker. We were especially intrigued by the bow of Omar`s dhow: It was carved and painted in red, white and green, and on either side were two small circles containing a star and crescent. ``Dhow eyes,`` explained Omar. ``To help dhow see rocks.``

Omar was one of many dhow captains we had met only the day before. He had introduced himself as Omar Sharif, like the movie star; it was not his real last name, just the Lamu version of a CB handle. Finding a dhow captain willing to take tourists on excursions was not exactly a problem. In our case, a short walk along the waterfront sufficed to flush out dozens. ``I am the captain of a dhow,`` the inevitable line began.

Each of the dhow captains we encountered had a special angle. One posted a sign on his boat: ``We give massages.`` Another touted his cuisine: ``We catch fish and cook it with a sauce, and we make coconut with rice and such a salad as you never taste before.`` The going price for a day on a dhow: 200 Kenya shillings, or roughly $15.

Getting to Lamu proved a bit more expensive. The easiest point of departure is the coastal resort town of Malindi, and though it is possible to take a bus or car, we decided to fly to nearby Manda Island. The cost of two one-way tickets on a six-seater plane: $50.

On Manda Island we boarded the motorized dhow that acts as a regular ferry. The boat quickly filled with locals carrying bundles of brown-and-green twigs, and, as we watched, one young man popped a twig into his mouth along with a stick of bubblegum. What he was chewing on, he explained amid giggles, was muranghi or mirah, a mild upper.

The bundles of mirah had flown in with us on the plane and were now bound for market in Lamu. At least one occupant of the boat appeared to have chewed too much mirah.

``Cool,`` he repeated with boundless enthusiasm. ``Cool.``

Nimbly stepping off the boat, Mr. Cool (as we had nicknamed him) gave us a friendly hand up. An older man wearing a gold-and-white embroidered cap and long white robe bowed deeply.

``Welcome,`` he said, ``to paradise.``

Our hotel, the New Mahrus, at first seemed far from paradise. Situated on the town`s main square, it greeted us with a dank staircase and dingy second- floor reception area. The concierge was a young, slightly pudgy man who wore his hair in an American-style Afro and spoke English with a crisp Oxbridge accent. His nickname was Bushbaby, Bush for short.

Briefly we wondered if we had made a mistake, but as we climbed the inner staircase to our room, we suddenly found ourselves on a bright and airy terrace. The room was small, but it was clean, painted white and equipped not only with mosquito netting but also with a small electric fan. Just outside was a balcony overlooking the central market. It was mid-afternoon, and street vendors still had their wares on display: piles of green bananas, coconuts and pawpaws, or papayas.

Suddenly we heard the sound of drums insistently beating and voices chanting. Below there materialized an exuberant parade of women clad in black from head to toe. Following them through narrow streets, we saw brown eyes glint mischievously and pretty faces as some of the women momentarily forgot to lift their veils, called buibuis, or casually dropped them to converse with a friend. Their sandaled feet were elaborately decorated with tattoos.