Buongiorno. buona giornata.
As the greetings in Italian come drifting from the crack of another day, we remind ourselves of the tiny pocket of Italian delight we chose to escape to.
There is a particular sort of hush that descends when one is at Watamu. It isn’t the manufactured silence of a hotel lobby or a luxury retreat, but rather a small corner in a vast living quiet that seems to breathe with the tide. Settled in the bays of the mighty Indian Ocean, this Italian settlement boasts of untouched white sand and miles upon miles of marine life and corals when the tide retreats.
Our corner of the coast felt almost untouched. We walked miles out into the blue during low tide, trodding gently on a plethora of marine life, an extraordinary stretch of reef, a landscape of jagged coral and shallow pools where the underwater life is suddenly, quite startlingly, within reach. Often rugged and sharp, one is careful, until you finally reach those pockets of lovely, crystalline water that remain trapped in the hollows. Take a pause in your careful strides and you see the magnificent spot you’re in. This is the middle of the vast blue-green-azure Indian Ocean; you stand alone, like a miniature speck in the universe, a spot gifted to you temporarily, after which the water would soon drown the mysteries of the marine life beneath your feet now.
It’s a bit of a marvel how the landscape transforms. Small boats drift by, offering to ferry you to the islands that sit like emeralds on the horizon. We reached one such island. The sand feels soft as satin, your feet sink into this magic white sand. We sit in the shallow blue and just look around. There is a profound magic in simply sitting in the midst of nowhere, away from the chatter of the world.
Time passes, possibly one amongst the few things that moves here. And then, as the water begins its slow, inevitable return, we make our way back to the shore.
The group of small Masai shops and the cheery ‘Jambo’ from the people on the shore floats through the air like the sprinkle of sand and salt water on your face. Against the gold and orange of the sky, they play a shifting game of dots and crosses—tiny, dark brushstrokes on a grand, celestial canvas. The local men and women sit patiently, their chatter filling the air with the comfort of a home. While all the time, you see children chasing each other on the beach, falling with glee, their laughter echoing in the golden air, ringing in life to the magical beach.
The air here carries the sharp, clean scent of the salt spray. It’s like a magic potion, that tethers you to the present moment. You forget those emails, deadlines and your ]’to-do lists’. In Watamu, the one schedule that matters is the one dictated by the moon and the shifting tides.
The sun sets over the near horizon; that great big ball shows off its last-minute glory before retiring for the day, leaving behind a sprawling painting of molten gold and orange. The light catches the sails of the distant dhows, turning them into flickering lights against the changing colour of the water. This is a moment of raw, unadulterated beauty. You feel how small you are in the magnificent game of the universe. Yet you leave the shores for the day, feeling that undeniable connection to the earth.
Another day is over. Nothing moves. Nothing speaks. Just us and the silent, gentle pull of the world.
