Beach Days, Baboons, and Being a Mzungu in Kenya
Six nights on the beach sounds like paradise, right? And honestly, Diani Beach was pretty close to it. I stayed in a one-bedroom unit right on the sand, where the view was pure magic—totally worth battling the relentless mozzies every night. The ocean breeze, the sound of the waves, and the sight of a Muslim wedding celebration one afternoon just added to the magic. That was such a cool cultural moment to witness!
Wildlife was everywhere—especially monkeys and baboons. So many monkeys. They’re cheeky little things too, and I quickly learned that if I didn’t keep my door closed, they’d help themselves to my room. Lesson learned the hard way.
At one point, I needed to visit a chemist for ear drops—don’t ask, beach swimming problems—but it was surprisingly easy. Everyone spoke English and knew exactly what I was talking about, which was such a relief when you’re not feeling your best in a foreign place.
Diani Beach had a much more laid-back, Western-tourist vibe. Think chilled-out cafes, quiet walks on the sand, and a slower pace of life. In contrast, up here on the north side of Mombasa, where I moved to next, it’s a different story altogether. It’s vibrant, loud, and very much geared toward local Kenyan tourists—outdoor music blaring, bars spilling into the streets, and people everywhere. It’s chaos, but the good kind.
The move from Diani to Bamburi Beach was an adventure in itself. We hired a van, and Safari (our driver) decided to take the ferry instead of the bypass—totally worth it. The water was so crystal clear, I swear you could see the blue fish swimming in the blue water. But of course, this is Africa, and no journey is complete without a bit of drama. We got pulled over by the police while waiting for the ferry and were charged a “white tax”—2,000 shillings. Apparently, we’d come from the “wrong direction” (along with everyone else), but shockingly, we were the only ones fined… probably because we were the only white faces. Yep, that’s a thing.
Driving here is a whole other story. The roads are like Swiss cheese—massive potholes, and what’s meant to be a two-lane road is often five cars across. Drivers here have nerves of steel… or no patience at all.
Being a mzungu (white foreigner) in Kenya is definitely a different experience. At the beach, kids and teens would come up to me shouting “mzungu, mzungu!”—asking endless questions, touching my hair, and wanting to know if I could swim. Most locals can’t swim, so they rent inner tubes to float in the ocean—just 50 shillings for a few hours.
I’ve also had no shortage of young men trying their luck to “keep me company.” Apparently, being a mzungu means you must be loaded. Hate to disappoint, boys—but I’m not spending a cent on anyone. Not yet, anyway!
