In Italy, some say that Watamu does not exist. That it is a mirage of white sand invented by tour operators' glossy brochures, a kind of Las Vegas of the Indian Ocean but without the casinos, with the only roulette wheel entrusted to the mood of the monsoons and the bank account of the tourist on duty.
But there it is, alive and well, shaking off the grey years of the pandemic like an elegant lady who gets up from her armchair and returns to dancing, perhaps a little out of step but with the same crooked smile that we always forgive her for.
Watamu has hit the jackpot this year: charter flights landing like locusts, tour operators rediscovering the art of gambling, hotels and resorts sprucing themselves up for the big show of the season. It has become the new cover of Kenya's holiday album, the spot on the map that even its Ugandan and Ethiopian neighbours are starting to circle with a highlighter.
After all, it has everything: picture-perfect sea, beaches that look like Instagram traps, the savannah an hour away by jeep (because, as we know, a stuffed lion in front of the hotel is no longer enough), and that invisible scent of Africa that they don't sell in “all-inclusive” packages but which remains the real reason why people return, despite mosquitoes, blackouts and sudden price increases that would make a mortgage in Europe pale in comparison.
And if you really get bored of the Eden-like landscape, you can always rush to Paparemo or Licht House, cult venues where tourists delude themselves into thinking they can dance with the same lightness as the Kenyans who watch them laugh, sweat and sing out of tune. For those nostalgic for “dolce far niente”, there is Ocean Sports, for gastro-optimists there is the Visiwa restaurant, and for the more democratic there are the chiringuitos and improvised bars along the bays: paradises where the beer is warmer than the sea and colder than the electricity.
But the real secret is neither the dolphins nor the turtles, nor the festivals, nor even the new shortcut that avoids Mombasa (although God bless that link road). The secret of Watamu is its ability to transform itself into whatever you want it to be: a safe haven away from the crowds of the capital, a salon for the African bourgeoisie on holiday, a stage for influencers in bikinis, or simply a place to return to and feel tiny in front of an ocean that knows no reservations.
And so Watamu advances, unstoppable like a tide that doesn't need to ask permission. In December and January, it will be the usual full house, and each time it will seem as if the resort was born yesterday, with the sunbeds just unrolled and the palm trees yet to be planted. Then perhaps, amid all the clamour, we will remember that behind the curtain there is always Africa, with its anarchic beauty and contradictions, its parsley and Toblerones, which never go on holiday. Beautiful and possible, despite us.