The journey to Lamu island remains an adventure. Kenyans love to organise a queue so we queue outside terminal 1D at Kenyatta international, mixing with bewildered looking tourists and resigned East African nationals before being permitted entry where we queue again to scan our bags before standing in a queue at the Jambo airline check-in desks. Then we queue to get through to the security scan – scanning shoes here is still a thing. All shoes. Flipflops, trainers, boots, sandals- no one escapes the shoe police. It’s now 07.30. I haven’t had coffee and miraculously Craig is still breathing.
It would be fair to describe the domestic terminal as unchanged in the quarter decade when I last sat on the hard plastic chairs.
Thankfully the wee Safari Express coffee shop remains, still serving great tasting coffee, so I slowly emerge into humanness as the Kenyan sun appears, the caffeine hits and Craig, sensibly, remains mute.
It’s an hour flight in a twin prop plane – a two by two- similar width to Concorde, without any of the razzmatazz . We fly just above cottonwool clouds and I think of Denis Finch Hatton; no wonder he was bewitched, this is a fabulous way to see the vast beauty that is Kenya. 
We are travelling to Lamu at my request. 10 years ago we were in Cape Town for my birthday celebration- now I’m returning to Peponi’s where I can authentically pretend that I’ve found the halt button to the passage of time.
The speedboat from Manda across to Lamu jolts me from all these romantic notions. Upon landing and as our suitcases disappear into the verdant hotel greenery, our host offers a welcome aperitif and I find myself agreeing to a gin and tonic. It’s 11am but it’s 5pm somewhere. As the island is 90% Muslim, Peponi’s is one of the few places that serves alcohol so the bar is always busy- no matter the time of day or night.
I’m not alone as Craig also joins our early happy hour and we appreciatively sip while catching our bearings.
The view across from the new bar is much different from 27 years ago. What was once pristine empty beach and mangrove swamp is now full of holiday resorts and private villas. It’s like looking at an upmarket Benidorm circa 1995. I had previously walked Manda beach in private contemplation and solitary sadness however this wouldn’t be possible today, such is progress.
Some would say progress is allowing the boda-bodas to ply their trade between Lamu old town and Shela, with their irritating beeping and motors roaring. Others would tell you that despite the UNESCO heritage status, the rising modern seafront buildings mark progress. Then again, is progress the increased profusion of Tanzanian styled dhows rather than the traditional narrow Lamu dhow? Or the motorised speedboats which now make charge between Shela and Lamu old town? Progress is the polite word used to describe, “it’s not like it was”. Of course, it’s not. Am I turning into an ‘old duffer’?
We spend a day wandering the old town in the company of a young guide, weaving through the cool narrow streets, the width of a donkey and its load. We climb to the top of the old fort, which the British used as a Mau Mau prison, and from up here, hidden solar panels soak up the sun juxtapositioned between newly washed sheets billowing in the ever present breeze. I silently watch two women, free of burka and hijab walk across a bridge high up between two familial buildings. Life below moves unknowing. Up here, it’s another dimension.
I return to Lamu old town by myself on two separate occasions- it’s 1500 shillings for a one way trip and on both my journeys, I sit as a queen in my own private water charter. It’s a lovely way to observe life on island where unsurprisingly everything revolves around trade and water. 
As a Muslim island, guests here are asked to respect the culture and for women in particular to cover their shoulders and knees. I come with a suitcase packed full of all my Barbados flowy frocks and apart from a strategically placed scarf to cover any peaking cleavage, I’m able to move without causing offense. Unlike some wealthy white Brits who land at the hotel, loudly proclaim that it’s a known hippy place and then peel off their short frocks to reveal skimpy bikinis underneath. They sit at lunch with all their flesh on display and my inner snob becomes outwardly sniffy.
Me and my nose stare into the distance and into focus comes island wildlife; the donkeys silently plod along, carrying sand,bricks,water, people.
The Peponi camels take up residence when the changing tides allow, carrying heavy provisions for Shela citizens. Palm trees, laden with coconut fruits sway in the cooling breeze. 
Wooden sail boats jostle for trade and pleasure. Honestly, how many more descriptions of tropical paradise can I inspire you with?
The day I’ve tried to ignore appears. For all of the remembering and forgetting, time steals abeyance and here I’m thrown into subdued celebration, on a private, luxurious dhow boat, bobbing in the Indian sea. The straining wood creaks as the prow of the boat carves through the water, the sails snap in the wind, flying fish jump ahead of us. There’s no music, no WiFi. Just the captain, his mate, Craig and me. It’s a perfect day, a perfect birthday. 
I still don’t quite know how I got so lucky but somehow I can still be that wide eyed, grateful youngster of those many moons before, particularly when the charcoal appears and they cook the most delicious freshly caught fish – even better than I remembered.
It helps that the captain is married to Bibi, chef par excellence, on Shela. She runs her own cooking school and he shares her method and recipe for the melt-in-the -mouth grouper fish. Craig says he’s going to make it; I’m going to live in hope!
Here’s to the decade ahead.
But in the intervening 4 hours and 37 minutes, the people watching and banter is priceless.
Sadly, my conclusion is that there is little joy in the hearts of the elders. Conversations are formed of complaints and injustices, of things going wrong, not done right, criticisms, finger pointing, blame. Not one person offers an opinion or thought focused on solving issues or making things better, not one seems grateful to be there, to be able to stand in line. This negativity is like a poison filled boil; it’s toxic in its ability to swallow folks into the swamp of disapproval and distrust. Since when does growing older mean growing grumpy?
Here in Barbados many still cling to their history of slavery and servitude as a cloak of context and rationale for all slights and ills. It’s been explained to me that this history justifies why women view other women not as sisters but as competition; and culturally why men don’t feel they have the same responsibilities for contributing to family life. I don’t know if any of this is true but what is interesting is that when I ask about culture and patterns of behaviour – trying to understand why things work the way they do – quite often the response is to go back 200 years. I even had one lady tell me she feels the pain of her slave ancestors every day. If folks always live in the past, how can they bear responsibility for the here and now, for what’s going to go on in the future?
I have a little device which attaches to a drink bottle and it flashes annoyingly when the drink bottle has not been tipped up. It didn’t last as the rubber quickly eroded in this humidity and now it’s forlornly flashing on its ownsome in my bedside drawer.
As time goes on, I start to earn his trust and I’m invited to his Rawakitura farm in the Kiruhura District of Uganda- a 5 hour drive from Kampala, 3 hours of which are on bumpy, dusty, murrain track. Once there and the charade of checking for bombs and explosives has been conducted, we sit on white plastic garden chairs under a large open 2 sided marquee and wait to be summoned to the front to talk to the President. I’ve already been warned to bring a toothbrush and change of clothes and to be prepared to sleep “up-country” as there are many more distractions for him at the Farm. But on my visits there I was always able to get back to Kampala, sometimes with my life in my steering wheeled hands, particularly as driving in the dark outside of the city is not advised. On my visits I see no conveniences but as I’m now well practiced in not drinking any fluids there is no need for me to enquire where they might be.
Eventually, I’m bestowed the honor of going to the boma. This is where the prized Ankole cattle are kept, where the President is most relaxed, where real business gets done. On the day in question there are a small handful of us and I’m the only woman in the group. We sit on the ubiquitous white plastic garden chairs close to two 10 ft circular brick watering holes. Museveni is in his herd boy dress and his avuncular mood is infectious. Drinks are passed around, I take a bottled water but do not open it. He gestures and the ballet begins. From the left side come approximately 20 of the most beautiful bovine beasts I have ever seen, they amble to the watering hole, guided by their herdsman; with their gleaming skin and muscled flanks, they revel in their power and grace. It seems that they know they are pristine, much-loved Ankole cattle owned by the most powerful figure in the land. Museveni asks questions about each animal, the herdboy answers, then the next 20 of the herd are ushered in from the right hand side and so it’s goes on, left to right back to left, interminably. 
Part way through a frisky bull decides to mate with a willing cow, directly in my line of vision. The President delights in this show of virility and there is much innuendo and laughter, a lot of which seems to be pointed in my direction. It feels like it’s some sort of test and I try to not rise to the bait however I’m marginally uncomfortable given my singular female status. By now the President is seated to my left and shortly after the bull has dismounted and been led away, he stands up and walks about 10 paces away. With his back to me he casually pees into the bush while still talking to the group. What to do? Where is the protocol on where to put ones gaze as the Head of State unzips his breeks and relieves himself in your line of sight? I stare straight ahead and try to appear nonchalant.
Suitably chastened I drink the bottled water and later I’m pressed into having a two cups of tea. Like all leaders he misses very little and I know to refuse would offend his hospitality.
In fact on our wedding day, the only words she uttered in my direction were to tell me to get the band to turn the sound down as she couldn’t hear herself speak to her friends! But saying nothing is almost easier than stepping up to the plate. So I admire May Fulton’s honesty although it’s obvious to me now that it wasn’t personal; no woman would ever have been good enough for her wee boy.
The temple itself is a nine sided building designed to represent unity of all faiths. Its golden brick gleams in the sunlight and the green 44ft diameter dome stretches 130ft into the blue cloudless sky. After a leisurely wander around the temple, we sit in the well manicured garden, shaded by a large tree. I fuss around with eats and drinks all the while thinking Craig is quietly subsumed by the serenity and peace of the place. Below us a group of school children are listening intently to their lessons, the sound of the African lilt coming from the teaching nuns is being carried upwards in the light breeze. Craig jolts me out of my revere with a meaningful speech about there only being seven Baha’i temples in the world. That’s one for every continent so we’re sitting in a most special place in Africa, a place where all faiths and beliefs come together under the larger concept of humanity. He says some other lovely things and by the end of his discourse I’ve agreed to make a lifetime commitment and I’m wearing a stunning diamond on the 3rd finger of my left hand. Of course we hug and kiss and then look up to face an irate nun, angrily admonishing us for such a public display of affection in a holy place. We apologise and listen to a long lecture about the sanctity of innocence and the need to avoid encouraging the virginal young minds down the hill into wanton ‘harlotedness’
These contraptions were how the ladies in the 30’s and 40’s achieved curls and ringlets in their hair. You grasp small sections of hair in the metal grip in the middle, twist it round until you reach your scalp and close the attached metal clasp over so it’s kept firmly in place. You then sleep with a head full of these and in the morning uncurl your hair and look like Mae West or Sophia Loren. At least this is the theory, I found these chunks of metal impossible to sleep in and my best ever result was more Lena Zaveroni than Shirley Temple. 
My grandparents had very little but they scrimped and saved to give us children memorable holidays and loads of love and attention. Much of who I am today came from what I learned from and observed of them.
The illusion of any room to move was also impacted by Nana’s decision to cover her floors in brown and tan flecked carpet so you were never sure where the heavy dark furniture ended and the carpet began. She also liked her heavy tan and taupe settee suite. “It’s easy to clean” she would say, moving one of the several sheepskin rugs and brown blankets off it to give it a daily brush down. “Brown is a practical colour” she would tell me. I would nod my head, mute. I was not expected to proffer any opinion but to silently agree.
follow StopFake.org on Twitter and perhaps even donate. Paying for well researched, corroborated and factual news reports may be one of the ways we can ensure we have a better version of truth in the years ahead. Let’s not be lulled into cosy comradeship ‘BS’ – the Russians are well schooled in this cyber-war. And don’t get confused between this and Trump’s versions of ‘Fake News!’. I believe they both want the same outcomes – to destabilise and discredit news reporting which challenges their actions and ideology. To create fear and mistrust in established organisations, in experts, so that when Putin or Trump are called to account over actions in places like Syria or the Middle East, they can manipulate or shout Fake News! And the electorate, with doubt in their hearts, turn on each other. But there the similarities end. Trump is the amalgam of Billy Graham and Ian Paisley when they were spitting and spewing hell, fire and damnation from the pulpit. Putin is the New Seekers crooning Kumbaya, lulling us into singing and swaying along.
I happen to really like her, she appears to operate from a place of great insight and integrity and is not afraid to call a spade a spade when necessary. She’s been reporting on politics for many years and is widely regarded by her bosses as being “tough, influential, exceptional and hugely knowledgeable about Westminster politics”. James Harding, BBC head of news, made clear they support her completely and while respecting the Trust, they disagreed with this finding. However, it was disappointing that they did not report on this story more widely. Democracy is not a linear process but it flourishes in climates of openness and trust.
Occasionally the weather quietens, allowing us to stop and enjoy the magnificent views of sky and cloud and the old course. It’s Christmas Eve and Roscoe is in full- flow, charm-chat mode with his Aunties, who enjoy his exuberance, allowing Craig and I to walk and talk without having to entertain. On the 9th we cross a style, clamber over the sand dunes and start walking back towards St Andrews town with the East Sands beach to ourselves. It is a perfect start to our Christmas break.
When the Scots last ruled themselves, there were clan wars and bloodshed and alliances were made, and broken as the wind blew. Our natural tendencies are towards socialism which is why so many of the national trade union leaders are from Scotland. It’s a matter of belief that we should have free car parking at hospitals, free public transport for OAPs and free higher education for Scots based children but all of this costs money. I’m struggling to see how we can balance the books if independence from Great Britain was ever on offer again. And without the Auld enemy to unite us, would we not end up turning on each other once more?
Nana had lots of friends through the Brethren church and they visited each other often. Never would she go anywhere without a packet of biscuits or some homemade cake or jam in her hand. It was considered impolite to not have something to offer to supplement the hosts hospitality.
Just as not all Germans are highly individualistic with a preference for direct, honest communication and not everyone in France agrees that their superiors or elders know more, can bend rules or are better than they are.
Thankfully I’m sitting under a open-sided white marquee and the breeze from Lake Victoria is most welcome. We are located on the edge of the “sports field” in front of the manufacturing plant as I’m attending the Uganda Breweries Christmas party. Guests are made up of management and their families, and all staff, first wives and first wives children. Uganda is still fairly polygamous and to make sure we don’t end up with half of Kampala here, HR have been quite strict in managing numbers. Even so, the sea of children outnumber the adults at least 5 to 1.
African children can – emerging from the earth in a smiling burst of humanity. The swell of children are beginning to shout and taunt Father Christmas, they are keen to know what he is planning next. In a fit of madness, or fear, he decides to start throwing the gifts from the mound of sacks piled high on the back of his flat-bed truck. Of course the larger, stronger children can catch and whoop, the smaller ones start to cry. The South African MD who has stood in silent shock, galvanises and begins to try to make his way to help Santa, but he cannot get through the sea of children. Now off script and besieged by a flood of children, the flatbed truck comes to a shuddering halt and in three seconds flat Father Christmas disappears under a tidal mass. It is chaos. Then, almost as soon as it starts, it is over. Father Christmas is lying on the ground, naked apart from his underpants. Red velour suit, gone. Welly boots, gone. Stuffed tummy and cotton beard, gone. Rubber gloves, gone. Presents, all gone.