As such, it is a welcome addition to an otherwise limited writing of its type. It is a book that resonates for me personally in a number of ways as well. The first time I went to Diani, I spent a few days beforehand in old Mombasa. Five of us, all wazungu generically, white people, though two Japanese were among our number , needed a break and had the means to take one, so together with a Kamba friend we hopped aboard a train moving at barely more than a jogging pace and went down to the sea.
Without a plan, we checked in at a hotel that was a slightly dilapidated reminder of past colonial-era elegance actually beyond our budget, and for a couple of nights I was grateful for clean sheets and a proper bed, the familiarity of a fully functioning toilet and a helpful if wobbly ceiling fan.
But my first impression of the place was of the single sheet of paper positioned carefully on the pillow of each bed, typed not printed from a computer in Italian on one side and German on the other, offering both girls and boys of various ages and physical conditions for sexual rental, prices at hourly or daily rates.
Soon short on funds, our group packed up one morning and went down to the beach. Still without a plan, we hiked south along the shore without a destination in mind.
Eventually, hunger and a lengthening afternoon made us pay attention to our surroundings, and by chance we stumbled upon a small huddle of cottages in various stages of unprofessional renovation. They were owned by a half-Kenyan Goanese; that is, a little old man of part-Indian, part-Portuguese, part-African heritage, one of that peculiar population whose roots in the country predated European arrival but who were subjected to increasing racial hostility throughout the colonial period.
