The lure of Lamu becomes immediately apparent if you stay in Jahazi, a Swahili-style house on a deserted beach about 25 minutes by boat from mainland Kenya at the southernmost tip of the island. You’re welcomed at the water’s edge by five staff – includingyour own boat captain and private chef – all wearing white shorts and Africa-sized smiles. With its private pool, fabulous baraza (meeting area), five colonial Swahili-style bedrooms and view of the Indian Ocean, many guests feel inclined simply to remain supine. (‘I hope for a massive storm so that we have to stay longer,’ scribbled Ewan McGregor in the visitors’ book.)

Jahazi is one of only six Kizingoni Beach Houses built next to what must be the longest stretch of deserted beach in the universe and surrounded by sand dunes. A few steps away from the ocean, the houses are built of coral block and plastered in the local limestone, with palm-thatched roofs, terraces overlooking the ocean, limestone floors tinted a soft ochre yellow and al fresco bathrooms beneath starry African skies (think also Swahili carved wooden door frames, colonial Swahili furniture and palm-leaf Ali Baba lampshades).

All you have to do here is move from one bed to another: from opium beds with big bolsters and oversized raw silk cushions to ones built on niru (plasterwork) bases, hammocks swinging in the breeze, romantic mozzie-net-draped four-posters, traditional Lamu day beds and kikoi-strewn beds swinging from coconut fibre ropes and overlooking the gardens. You wake up to alarm calls from tropical birds and to waves crashing on the white sand.

It’s compelling to spend days just flicking through magazines and eating the day’s catch and coconut rice, served on the terrace overlooking the ocean by the barefoot butler with the mega-watt smile. But Leslie Duckworth, known locally as the Duchess of Fixit, has other ideas for us. Probably the person who put Lamu so fashionably on the map, the Duchess is one of that peculiarly Kenyan breed of indefatigable entrepreneur. She knows le tout Afrique, manages the Kizingoni Beach Houses and has decorated them stylishly, writes books on African medicinal plants, buys and sells houses, is involved in the Lamu women’s community projects, has a shop in Nairobi…

She insists we stir ourselves and walk the few steps to the beach as night falls and the sky fills with stars. There we find a table set, Savoy-style, with a linen cloth and crockery, and at which we sit alone on a beach under the endless African sky eating succulent barbecued prawns and skewered crayfish followed by delicate passion fruit sorbet served by our butler. (Nets laden with fish from snapper to tuna are delivered daily to the beach.) Then Samburu warriors appear suddenly wearing vivid fabrics and bead and feather headdresses, and do frenetic and primitive tribal dances. There’s no sense that they’ve done this a million times before for tourists, because they haven’t.

The more energetic visitors can water-ski (a speedboat and boatman come with the house), donut, snorkel and swim the channel between the house and the mainland. (‘Amazing,’ concluded Sienna Miller in the guest book. ‘Swam with dolphins TWICE.’) Or you can get up at 6am and – accompanied by Samburu to deter the occasional petty thief; there is virtually no violent crime on the island – walk for around three hours in the cool of the early morning. (The less fit can go by donkey or camel.) As the sun moves up the sky, you stride through the sand eight miles to Shela, the Notting Hill of Lamu, along a beach where sea turtles lay eggs at full moon and thousands of teeny pink crabs scuttle sideways into the water. We pass only a goat, a stray dog and wandering cattle and, closer to civilisation, some donkeys with straw panniers being filled with stones and a Moses-style figure wading through the water, hauling a boat made from a hollowed tree trunk and carrying a live goat and a cow.

Finally we arrive in Shela. This is where you can sit on cushions in the famous Sixties Peponi Hotel to have a feast of fish in coconut off big brass trays; eat on the terrace while gazing at the dhows sailing past; or lounge at the bar – the centre of the world out here and the only place in Shella serving alcohol – where rastas and Euros in leopard-print bikinis share Tusker beers with royalty. I sit on the terrace feeling mightily smug at having covered my eight miles so fast. I drink steaming cups of coffee, eat fresh exotic fruits and gaze longingly across the water at the Robinson Crusoe home of the tribal-inspired jewellery designer, Carolyn Roumeguere (Julian Sands, Nicole Kidman and Donna Karan are fans).

And then it’s off to look at Shela. It’s clean, gentrified and quaint. A place less spoilt and cheaper than the Caribbean. A place where women wear sequinned kaftans and cheery sarongs. There’s only one bar and one restaurant; it’ll never be St Tropez, thankfully. But it is the place to buy former dilapidated Swahili houses, most now fashionably renovated. Go and see a few with Englishman Andrew McGhie who started Lamu Island Property – the island’s first real estate agency – and climb their stairs and look over makuti thatched roofs at the biblical scene. A delightful and engaging man, Andrew will spirit you into Arab houses built of coral and limestone and Swahili houses with mangrove and coconut roofs. ‘The island has changed more in the last five years than it has in the last 100,’ he says.

If you just want to rent a house for your holiday, try El Yafir, just moments away from Peponi. It’s the stylish house of Mary Greenwell,- who counts Gwyneth Paltrow, Keira Knightly and Kate Moss among her clients. Mary bought a plot five years ago in Shela. Inspired by the island’s Islamic traditions, she designed her beautiful petit palais with the help of architect Claudio Modola. It has niru floors, Swahili doors and furniture designed by Mary and fashioned by traditional craftsmen in local woodwork shops where artisans make intricate mahogany carved door-frames and bed-heads.

A vast Rajasthani front door leads into a cool hall with a fountain and font with bougainvillea petals floating in it. If there is such a thing as romantic church style, then this is it, with its arches, pillars, hanging glass lanterns and ecclesiastical-style windows. There are an abundance of places in which to lie and daydream: delightful alcoves containing day beds, four posters swathed in muslin, Moorish-style sunken baths and a fairy-tale terrace with urns of bougainvillea, cascading flowers and fringed with cream curtains fluttering in the breeze. There seem also to be endless smiling staff bringing endless plates of endless deliciousness, and they all come with the house when you rent it.

If you’re lucky (and Lamu is that kind of place) Andrew or Mary may introduce you to Eric and Christina Zeller – who live about ten donkey paces away from El Yafir. If so, go and be nosey in their home, Lulu Y Shella (Pearl of Shella), the spacious Fifties house built by casting director Bonni Allen. Now lived in by Eric, an interior and furniture designer and architect, and Christina, the über-stylish accessories designer for Givenchy, their house with its fusion of European and African idioms bears many of his deft touches combined with her aesthetic stamp. Between them they’ve come up with an eclectic mixture of cool features: from Arabic words as murals on the white plaster walls (‘we hoped it was going to be a lovely poem,’ laughs Christina, ‘but it turns out it’s just the opening times of the local museum’), to a stunning Eric-designed driftwood table that stretches almost to the mainland.

If you fancy travelling further back in time, jump in a boat and bounce over the waves a few minutes to Lamu town, a place so remote it has been spared modernisation and civilisation as we know it. Lamu is Kenya’s oldest town, a bustling port and Unesco World Heritage site with 72,000 inhabitants, 25,000 donkeys and one donkey sanctuary (opened by two Englishwomen, natch.) It has just one car (which belongs to the District Commissioner), one road (too narrow to turn; if the DC forgets something he has to reverse home), and 28 mosques for its mostly Muslim population.

Here you find women in traditional black bui buis and men in white kanzu robes wandering along tiny, winding alleyways, some only three feet wide. And there’s a throbbing market whose vendors, seated on the ground, sell sweet potatoes and papayas outside the 19th-century fort – once a prison and now housing a cyber cafe.

Originally a 14th-century Swahili sea trader settlement trading ivory, leopard skins, rhino horn and, later, slaves, it has an alluring mixture of Arab, Portuguese, Turkish, Omani and British influences from its erstwhile settlers: the Turks with their glassware and the Omanis with their art and arches. From the 9th century dhows have arrived in Lamu on the Kaskazi wind from the east with perfume, sugar and silk. Lamu is redolent of that history and going into the charming port-side museum is little different from standing in the street.

There’s fine Swahili architecture (including 16th-century houses) and many 19th-century mansions – high, austere, windowless homes hiding airy courtyards pungent with jasmine and delightful, hidden cool spaces with carved doors, intricate coral work, plasterwork niches and, possibly even antique hardwood furniture inlaid with bone. You can see all this and more with Andrew McGhie, if you’re looking to buy. (It’ll cost a snip of what anything as beautiful would cost nearer home; contact him on +254 (0)720 859 599, www.lamuislandproperty.com).

Lamu is known for attracting the ‘gyp set’: artists, eccentrics, escapists, dreamers, weirdos and romantics (once it was the African version of Kathmandu, a paradise for backpackers in search of alternative realities). It’s far from Kenya’s mainland political instability and election violence. There are no perilous roads, no traffic jams, no television and, thankfully, a lousy internet signal. Just dhow racing, henna painting competitions, donkey racing and er, competitions for who has the most healthy donkey (the prize for a robust donkey? A mobile phone).

It’s a place where time is measured in sunsets and you feel free and supremely relaxed; where you’re in touch with the vast African sky, nature and the rhythms of life. Where there are dhows in full sail and donkeys laden with panniers of coral rock. Where there are exotic days filled with lime sodas, sea breezes and ever-smiling people.

As long as you remember to keep slapping on the factor Ten Zillion suncream (it’s two degrees south of the Equator) and popping the horrid anti-malarial pills, if you must (although, being an island, there are virtually no cases of the disease,) there’s no downside. We bounce back along the waves to our Kizingoni Beach House, a smile on my face, another in my heart. Yes, it certainly out-paradises the competition.

Kizingoni Beach Houses from £1,965 per person based on four couples sharing a house for seven nights on a fully inclusive basis, including flights and transfers and airport taxes. For more information or to book, call Scott Dunn on 020 8682 5070; www.scottdunn.com. E-mail africa@scottdunn.com or info@kizingoni.com.
Virgin Atlantic flies Heathrow to Nairobi daily. Fares from £379. Book on: 08448 747 747; www.virginatlantic.com.

To hire Mary Greenwell’s house, contact Babu British: 00 254 7358 02340; babubritish@yahoo.com. High season prices: December, January, August – $400 for the master bedroom, and $50 for each extra person using the other two bedrooms per night. February and March: $300 for the master bedroom, and $50 for each extra person. Rest of year: $250 for master bedroom and $50 for each extra person. Price includes transfers, private chef and house boys. Food and beverages extra. Menus can be discussed on a daily basis with the chef.

• “What you don’t expect is for a Tuscan town of 10,000 people to dedicate two or three weeks of every year to fish and chips. And yet it really does happen – in Barga, northern Tuscany. Beginning around the end of July, the Sagra del Pesce e Patate is billed as a celebration of “traditional Scottish fish’n'chips”.” In The Guardian Mike McDowall tucks into Ketchup and chianti: fish and chips, Italian style
• In The NY Times Seth Kugel is eating Stuffed Peppers, Lamb’s Head Soup, Canyons and Condors in Arequipa, Peru. “How, you might ask, can the Frugal Traveler justify a two-dinner evening, especially when one is at perhaps the most chic restaurant in town?
• “Might the capital’s new-found confidence in the worlds of cycling and coffee explain why so many “cycling cafés” are springing up?” Richard Lofthouse reports on London’s new cycle cafés for The FT.

The actual purpose of my visit was none. My husband was attending a pan-African documentary film festival and I was accompanying him. After a frightful European winter, I was in need of blistering heat, if only for three days. One of the bonuses of this destination is that it is manageable for a short break. Paris to Dakar takes just over five hours. Nothing was to disappoint. Our flight landed at dawn, into 25 degrees. Our hotel, the Pullman, ex Sofitel, where the festival was being held, was nothing special but the staff were friendly and it was situated close to the city centre as well as overlooking the ocean and the Island of Gorée. Its leafy pool area, alongside the beach, was accessed by a bridge, une passerelle, that spanned a busyish street, the Route de la Corniche Est.

First the city, and I was immediately plunged into streets pulsing with vendors chatting in Wolof, the local language, or African French. All were attempting to sell this white woman, this toubab, an assortment of phone cards, electric kettles, shoes, woven baskets of haricot beans…‘cha’. There was no sense of hassle or concern and the hawkers dropped back with a smile when I refused.

Wandering in no particular direction, up and down streets named Boulevard Martin Luther King or Avenue Nelson Mandela, passing dozens of tucked-away boutiques and ateliers selling richly-coloured flowing garments, local artwork including glassware and some astounding tribal masks and figures, I came upon a bookshop, Aux Quatre Vents. Here I found all the African or Senegalese maps, history, travel guides, political tomes I could carry. Armed with a wealth of material, I returned to the pool. With only three days in Dakar, I wanted to make one visit, somewhere special. An informed choice was required.

The city of Dakar is situated on a promontory, a presque-île formed in the shape of a whale’s tail. Known as le Cap-Vert, it is the most western point of Africa and, being a cape, is surrounded by sea and beach on three sides. Its southern shores are more protected, less wind-blasted by the Atlantic Ocean. Four thousand years ago, this promontory was settled by fishermen. Fishing became the region’s economic mainstay until 1444, when the first colonisers, the Portuguese, disembarked and claimed Gorée Island. I lifted my gaze. I could see the island from where I was sunbathing. Over my head, large brown birds were swooping from one baobab tree to another. Vultures. Reggae was playing discreetly over at the pool bar. Children were shrieking and sliding into the water. Brilliant-hued bougainvillea plants were climbing everywhere.

Gorée was controlled by the Portuguese, then the Dutch. The British arrived in 1664 and finally the French who took possession in 1677. Gorée’s Slave House was built in 1776. From then on, the island became the principal point of entry to the continent of Africa for slavers and merchant ships flying the French flag. The Isle de Gorée, now classified as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is a twenty-minute journey by chaloupe from Dakar’s port. I set off the following morning. There were few tourists aboard the ferry. The passengers were a handful of the 1,200 islanders returning with hefty shopping bags.

Even before we had dropped anchor the magic, the haunting began. The approach offered the first taste of the architecture and the fort; enticing pastel colours, French influenced, and a pace of life that was slower than a donkey. I stepped off the boat and strolled the dusty lanes and alleys to the infamous Slave House, still in tact, restored in 1990 with UNESCO aid. It was from here – ‘The Door of No Return’ – that black Africans were shipped across the seas to unknown lands to work the plantations. Outside, is a masterful full-size bronze sculpture of a woman clinging to her man…

Looking out to sea, beyond the red-tinted walls, a shade that resembles diluted blood, the traders’ view. Over the water, vultures again speckling the sky like shadows from the past. Underground, the dungeons for the chained-by-the-neck blacks. History and the dank walls tell its lamentable story. Slave trading was eventually abolished here in 1815. After a brief visit to the House of Women, I wandered the island, talking to locals, mostly vendors selling their artwork: wooden chairs, beads or paintings, gazing upon beauty as well as heartrending poverty until I settled for lunch at the Hostellerie du Chevalier de Boufflers, which is also a rather attractive hotel. I sat for hours reading, unwinding, musing upon man’s cruelty, watching the ferries’ transits until it was time to return to my husband.

Together, we sipped our apéritifs while dense flocks of vultures invaded the sky, swooping and calling until suddenly they disappeared into the lustrously fronded palms, out of sight for the night, leaving us with silence, sunset, starlight and the promise of a jazz-filled evening somewhere in town. This visit may have only been three days, but I was entirely transported to another civilization; memorable, disturbing, tropical, laid back. We have booked a return trip for June and this time will stay longer and delve deeper into the bruised heart of Senegal.

Text and photos © Carol Drinkwater 2010
www.caroldrinkwater.com

Carol Drinkwater’s latest book Return to the Olive Farm, is published on 8th July by Weidenfeld & Nicolson at £18.99

• The word on the grapevine: Paso Robles is the place to escape the crowds in California’s winelands says Guy Adams in The Independent. “…there is a way to avoid both the crowds and the rip-offs: just step ever so slightly away from the beaten track. Forget the well-documented charms of swanky wine-tasting locations and head instead to a small city called Paso Robles. Its surrounding countryside is green, pleasant and surprisingly unspoiled, and produces good wine that experts rave about, at prices plebs can afford.”
• “Six of us had come together for a malbec wine tasting tour, not, as you might assume, in the foothills of the Argentinian Andes, but in Cahors, south-west France. Argentina might have put malbec back on the map, but the grapes originated here.” In The Guardian Susie Grimshaw discovers Malbec, the resurrection of France’s forgotten wine.

• “It’s beautiful, unspoiled, remote and teeming with wildlife…it also has some of the country’s finest accommodation.” In The FT Andrew Jefford discovers Australia’s wild Kangaroo Island, and brings us the highlights of Australia’s Galapagos.
• In The FT, Simon Collis reports that Tourists are returning to Rwanda By Simon Collis. “This is a country that can bring you within touching distance of the endangered mountain gorilla and offer breathtaking vistas across the misty, oceanic expanse of Lake Kivu…to the east, visitors can spot lions, leopards, elephants and giraffes in Akagera National Park.”
• In The New York Times Kate Siber takes on The Mighty Colorado at a Glide. “There we sat, five paddlers in three canoes on the Colorado River in northern Arizona, simply observing. The still surface of the river so perfectly mirrored the cliffs and sky that it was hard, at a glance, to know where the river ended and the cliffs began.”
• In The Times Alex Wade discovers that The waves are hot in Costa Rica.  In the northwest province of Guanacaste Wade discovers a Costa Rica beyond surf: “Here Volcán Arenal towers above Lake Arenal and its surrounding lush rainforest, erupting daily and creating one of the most spectacular firework displays on earth.”

CAMPING

• In The Guardian Simon Birch is Away with the birds: Britain’s remotest campsite, in St Kilda. “Less than two miles long, Hirta is a barren, yet wildly spectacular island. If you want to stay on Hirta, the only option is to stick your tent up on what has to be the UK’s most isolated campsite.”
• Benji Lanyado in The Guardian explains how to go Wild camping in Europe: how and where to do it. “Wild camping entails camping in a non-campsite environment, usually in an untamed rural location…Here’s the lowdown on the law across Europe, and the best places to pitch your tent.”
• In The New York Times Matt Gross tries Sleeping Under the Stars in Brooklyn. “I willingly set up camp at a New York City airport…That’s because I was staying at Floyd Bennett Field, a decommissioned airport at the edge of Jamaica Bay that happens to offer the only year-round campgrounds within the five boroughs.”
• Dixe Wills brings us Small wonders: Britain’s tiny campsites in The Guardian. “So it was that I cycled more than 2,000 miles to winkle out 75 of the finest petite campsites in England, Scotland and Wales, all of them just one acre or less.”

Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, is one of those places dubbed a ‘hole’. It’s neither particularly old, nor particularly beautiful. But read on because now there’s a reason to visit: the Oyster Bay Hotel. Renovated in 2007, the hotel is particularly beautiful. It’s also one of the coolest overnight stops in Africa for in-transit honeymooners and those who are en-route, whether to the high snows of Kilimanjaro, the coral sands and historical sights of Zanzibar, the Rift Valley or the Serengeti with its annual migration of two million animals.

The Oyster Bay Hotel is a nine-bed villa with shady colonnades and courtyards. It sits on Oyster Bay, next to the embassy residences and overlooking the ocean. Opposite, huge boats line the harbour (harbour duties are low here) and then set off in twos and threes to deter pirates. The hotel’s interior is in keeping with the new African aesthetic: tribal, organic and chic. It has a large, minimalist open-plan space with muted colours and materials that you want to touch (think jute, fur and hemp), plus artefacts that tell a story. There’s a Kudu-horn lamp musical instrument used in ceremonies to communicate with ancestors; interesting lights, such as raw rattan hanging shades and a Buri palm leaf floor lamp; tribal-chief-sized beds, village-sized bathrooms and free-standing baths. ‘Such a cool vibe,’ scribbled Harpers’ editor Lucy Yeomans in the Visitors’ Book.

I was there in transit to meet friends at Lake Tanganyika – the second deepest lake in the world and the world’s longest freshwater lake – where we were picking up a Lady Lori helicopter (East Africa’s numero uno heli company) to fly to the Serengeti. In the meantime it’s only the style-addicted like me who feel content to go to Africa and just revel in a hotel’s interior. So in pursuit of areas beyond my World of Interiors mindset I decided to spend my few spare hours on the island of Zanzibar.

The ferry trip to Zanzibar involved my travelling companion, Maretha Wemtzer, the (endlessly helpful and hospitable) white South African big mama of the Oyster Bay Hotel in lengthy cross-cultural negotiations. There were ten strangers who, offering their assistance, accompanied us from the taxi to the harbour-side ferry booking office. After a small tree’s worth of form-filling, animated chats about ‘Muzungus’ (white people), residents’ rates and charges for tourists and lots of gesticulating and hand-waving, finally a deal was struck: $80 for my return trip and substantially less for Maretha because she’s a resident. We were accompanied on the two and a half hour ride by cheerful Tanzanians and narcoleptic backpackers who slept on the ferry floor.

When you arrive in Zanzibar by sea, you pass the old dhow harbour where outrigger canoes chug up and down in turquoise waters bordered by golden sands. On the shore, there’s the old Arab fort and House of Wonders (a 19th-century ceremonial palace) of Stone Town, a World Heritage Site. The Aga Khan, spiritual leader of the Shia Ismaili Muslims, has poured development money into Zanzibar. The dollars show immediately on its manicured sea front garden – Forodhani Park – where, on the day we go, someone also happens to be wrapping the trees in red fabric, in readiness for a party. Better than a yellow ribbon round an old oak tree, any day.

We walked through Stone Town, Zanzibar’s old quarter. In Zanzibar, Portuguese rule was followed by that of Omani Arabs. Omani sultans made Zanzibar the seat of their Imamate, and their home. It then became a British protectorate in 1890. Little has changed since the 1850s; Stone Town is a maze of alleyways, mosques, bazaars and high-walled buildings with teak door frames and the Koran’s scripts and symbols: from the lotus (denoting reproductive power) to fish (for fertility). A roadside vendor was selling cane sugar juice and barbecued cassava (like sweet potato.) Around him, a few men sported the traditional kanzu (ankle-length robes) and some women wore bui-bui (black gowns). But the hot fashion item is still the men’s crocheted hat.

We visited artefact shops selling Coca-Cola cans fashioned into toy cars, beaded necklaces and bags and dresses made by women’s communities from kikoi fabric. Zanzibar Gallery, a wondrous book shop sells endless tomes on African art alongside photographs, carvings and textiles. At the fish market there are piles of unidentifiable blue fish, flailing yellow Piscean prototypes and octopuses; the vegetable and spice market has spiky ‘ugly fruit,’ cashews, pungent cloves and cumin – all taken away after purchase in bags made of old newspapers. At lunch we sat in a restaurant overlooking the ocean and ate the delightfully named pilli pilli perch, steamed with lime, chilli and garlic.

Then we took in a little history. The slave trade had existed for centuries before the sultans came to Zanzibar, but not on such a scale. In the mid 19th-century, 30,000 slaves a year were bought to Zanzibar. Some were punished by being buried alive in the walls of houses under construction; others were beaten and fondled lasciviously in the market. We visited the dank and cramped subterranean quarters where slaves were kept before auctions, many dying before the sale. Then we walked around the Cathedral which was built on the site of the old slave market; saw the altar, the location of the old whipping post; and a crucifix, made from the tree under which Livingstone’s heart was gouged out after his death, and buried. It was his belief that his heart er, belonged to Africa.

On our return trip to Dar es Salaam in the evening, the ferry was full. Men in business suits, with polyester ties, Africa-sized status and even bigger smiles, stood port side, getting drenched with spray. And laughing. And laughing. It was a very happy moment.

We arrived back to the Oyster Bay Hotel and a Tanzanian feast of ‘bamia’ (okra), nyanya chungu (white baby aubergine), and spinach. All dishes were cooked in coconut milk and delicious enough to turn even the most ardent cannibal into a vegetarian. For pudding there was hot grilled pineapple drizzled with cashew, butter and honey sauce or passion fruit crème brulee. Maretha, a formidable foodie, has her staff of black men in white tunics cooking up a storm.

I looked around the beautiful and homely room; at the festivity drums, ebony veneer tree-like lamp, cow skin rugs and a gong that’s used to warn villagers against thieves; at the attentive staff and flickering candles. And I listened to the haunting music of African chanting. Dar es Salaam may not be particularly old, nor particularly beautiful. That’s certainly true. But with the re-opening of the Oyster Bay Hotel it would be hard ever to call Dar es Salaam a total hole again.

Stay at Oyster Bay from £250.00 per person, per night on a fully inclusive basis including airport transfers. Scott Dunn organises tailor-made holidays throughout East Africa, including Oyster Bay.

Call the Africa team on 020 8682 5070 or visit: www.scottdunn.com

Lady Lori Helicopters:

In East Africa, those in the know call Lady Lori helicopters the way the rest of us phone taxis. (The only difference is that these flying taxis cost $2050 an hour.) One of the pilots, Ian Mimano, once landed us elegantly between the hoops on the croquet lawn of Stefanie Power’s erstwhile safari club, so it would be a cinch for him to James Bond it onto the Oyster Bay Hotel, putting down between the oversized metal face sculptures that decorate the lawn. Used by government big wigs and celebs from Sting to Branson, Lady Lori would take less than half an hour in superlative luxury to reach Zanzibar.

Book Lady Lori helicopters through Scott Dunn or direct on (+254) 7257 97397/7334 08738;(+254)20 605 726, 605 417/8; www.flyladylori.com; operations@flyladylori.com

Car Rapide

Click on pictures to see enlarged version
I have now been on my own for almost a month and it has been a steep learning curve. Public transport has been exciting, trying to haggle the price to somewhere reasonable, whilst waiting for the seven places in the Peugeot 505 to fill up before you leave. I crossed into Senegal from Kayes, Mali and turned North at Kidira, where I loosely followed the Senegal River to St. Louis. For the next few days I travelled by night and explored by day; Ouro Sogui, Matam and Podor, all small towns on the banks of the River Senegal. On two occasions I arrived in the early hours of the morning and slept ‘rough’ in a petrol station and in the back of a little meat shop with no trouble at all.

Sept Place

Out of the three, Podor is probably the most interesting, with a French Fort that is being restored – but the history behind it is more impressive than the building itself. If I hadn’t arrived on a Friday I would have waited for the Thursday ferry to St. Louis, which takes six days, to make a change from the potholed roads. St. Louis is a town full of unpolished character and typical of ‘old’ capital cities. Neglected and needing a layer of paint, it is obvious there is no money coming this way. This is a huge unemployment problem; if you’re lucky there might be one person in a family of 15 (usually a young man) who has a job, but this will only be for a couple a days a week as there just simply isn’t the work for the number of people.

The Muslim family I stayed with looked after me very well. The children were charming and the young mother had another baby since while I was there. Her other son, Habib, who is five, decided I was his ‘white man!’ In terms of sights, sounds and smells, St. Louis is full of them. Among the usual, small restaurants, internet cafes and artisan markets there are abandoned colonial buildings and palms trees, pelicans eating from rubbish dumps, tramps and a beach which is used as a toilet. There are broken bridges, old water towers, a fish eagle and the kind of smell that needs getting used to in the fishing village. None of these should be considered as reasons not to visit St. Louis though; they are simply characteristics of a town that make it what it is. I wouldn’t want it any other way. More importantly I believe it is the people living amongst all this that make it a place to visit.

If the railway hadn’t been disused for over ten years and covered by a daily market so thick you can no longer see the tracks, Dakar is a direct 265km away. Instead I took other means of public transport and five hours later I was there. Dakar is vast and I fell on my feet in finding Ndongo, a particularly street wise pizza delivery boy, who after a short conversation about accommodation, picked up my bags and threw them in the back of a cab. We arrived at his family’s house where I stayed for a week with his ‘mama,’ his sister, his brother and Malik, his five year old son, who I spent most of my time colouring in exercise books with.

There are thousands of places to see in Dakar, all of which you can read about in a guide book. I enjoyed the Ile de Gorée, famous for its role in the slave trade, but offering a lot more. It was fascinating to see as an artist and is a beautiful little island (900m long and 300 wide). The French and the English fought consistently over the island, with the French keeping it until Senagalese independence in 1960.

Dakar Goree ferry

You can catch a boat from Dakar every couple of hours to the Island for 5000cfa, unless you are local, in which case it is much cheaper. The island is now full of artists, living in and amongst the old French bunkers and concrete military buildings making for a fascinating place to explore – free from red rope barriers and people asking you ‘not to touch.’ You will probably find a man called Halil, who lives beside the largest cannon in Africa (now out of service and never used). He is very knowledgeable and offered me a place to stay in his hut.

Marche Kermel

On Sunday morning, I headed down to Marche Kermel to draw the fresh fish and crabs and as I left I was invited to have tea with Ali. This is not unusual and on this occasion I accepted. After a little of while talking about life in general and England, Ali and his seven friends had a whip round for Sunday lunch. Such is the hospitality that I wasn’t allowed to make a contribution. I should explain that we were sitting in a car park at the back of the market on benches and the floor yet 30 minutes later, their friend produced a traditional Sunday lunch of battered sole, a kilo of prawns and a sort of onion sauce, all eaten out of one big bowl with your hands. It was easily the best thing I have eaten in Africa, although Mama’s chicken ‘Yassa’ came close.

Banjul Fishing Beach

I soon left Ndongo and his family and headed south for Banjul, Gambia where I turned east and followed the river up the middle of Gambia. If I was to do the trip again I would drop down into Casamance, the southern section of Senegal as I have only heard good things about it. My next stop though was the Gambia River National Park, where for the first time I rang ahead to let them know I was coming. It was lucky I did because I arrived in a tiny village at a river front with nowhere to go until Aliou picked me up in a boat. We motored for 30 minutes to a stilt house overlooking the Gambia River which was quite stunning. It was the closest to luxury I have come to in Africa: three course meals, made beds, clean sheets, privacy and I was generously looked after by Matthew the manager.

The lodge overlooks the river and two or three large islands which are home to four families of chimpanzees. It has been their home for 30 years now and they are as close to the wild as you can get. Ideally they would live an uninterrupted life but because the islands provide on average only 80%t of their food, Rene and his team of chimp handlers feed them every couple of days. This gives visitors a very privileged view of chimps and gave me the opportunity to try and draw them.

After three days of private toured boat rides, sunrise coffee trips, bird watching, baboons, monkeys, lizards, rare manatees surfacing each evening and the howls of chimpanzees waking me up in the morning, I had to force myself back onto the road. What better way to do this than to try and get to Bamako direct….

A short boat ride with Rene, a 4×4, a mini bus, another crowded mini bus, a ferry, one more minibus, a car ferry we had to pull across on a rope (if you pulled you didn’t pay!), two more minibuses, a night on Mohammed’s floor who I had met in the last bus, a small bus, a horse and cart, a taxi, a decent sized coach and another taxi. 36 hours later exhausted I arrived back in Bamako to psych myself up for the bus to Bobo Dioulasso in Burkina Faso.

CITY

• In The New York Times Lisa Pham is On the Trail of Ghosts in Paris. “Tour participants are taken to a variety of haunted locations around the French capital — culled from history books and locals — where they discover stories that transcend time. For example, the Théâtre de la Ville in Montmartre is said to be haunted by the ghost of Gérard de Nerval, who is known for translating Faust and walking around Paris with a pet lobster wearing a blue ribbon. The most recent story included on the tour is of the so-called Vampire of Paris, who committed a series of murders during the 1990s.”
• “There are many memorable sights in Rajasthan but one in particular will stick in the mind. This is the view from the ramparts of Jodhpur’s 15th-century Mehrangarh fort, parked on a cliff and soaring 400ft above the city’s skyline. Mehrangarh is the greatest of India’s desert forts: below it and spreading west from its heights, the old murmuring city shimmers in a blue haze, particularly around the settlement of Brahmpuri, the quarter of Brahmins, a caste that, it is said, painted their homes in shades of indigo as a mark of both distinction and segregation…And if you look directly down to the bazaar, you might just detect a pile of distinctive modernist blue cubes. These are, in fact, part of Raas, Rajasthan’s most innovative boutique hotel.” In The FT Sunil Sethi discovers Boutique retreats in Jodhpur.
• “One month ago, Madeira’s capital was pounded by catastrophic floods and landslides, which killed 42 people across the island. Much of the damage has now been cleared up,” writes Emma Gregg in The Independent. “With its grand seafront promenade, black-and-white mosaic pavements, attractive historic buildings and old-fashioned shops and cafés, Funchal is back in business. The annual flower festival takes place 15-18 April.” Gregg highlight the best of 48 Hours In: Funchal.
• In The FT Claire Wrathall checks into Marrakech’s La Mamounia. “…the most celebrated hotel in the ancient Moroccan city of Marrakech has undergone a succession of refits and enlargements, not all pleasing. But its reopening late last year after a three-year revamp returns it to the realm of the angels…This is as fabulous, sensuous and fascinating a hotel as I can think of. It’s not just the colours, the scents, the sounds of trickling fountains and birdsong. Almost wherever you look, there is zellij, the minutely-patterned geometric mosaic tiling that defines Marrakech’s most important sites, such as the exquisite 16th-century Ben Youssef Medersa – imagine the Alhambra in Granada on a smaller scale – or the breathtaking Saadian Tombs.”

ESCAPE

• “The sea surrounding the Turks and Caicos has a hypnotic beauty I had not found in other “beach paradises” in Thailand, Indonesia or even the Cook Islands. As I stared at the transparent water, engaging in a kind of “dry snorkelling”, I could not wait to shed my city clothes and dive in,” writes Francesco Guerrera in The FT. “Thankfully, the Parrot Cay Resort is inches away from a pristine beach of fine white sand…A few days into the holiday and time appeared to have slowed down: the frantic New York minute gave way to long, lazy Caribbean days.” Guerrera samples two resorts on The tranquil Turks and Caicos islands.
• “Stepping aboard the Scenic Emerald riverboat in Budapest at the start of its 1,134-mile voyage along the Danube, Main and Rhine rivers, I had been surprised at how few British travellers there were – only 11 including me,” writes Sara Macefield in The Telegraph. “The result was a distinclty more easy-going atmosphere and a more eclectic cultural mix than I have been used to on river voyages taken in recent years. But it was more than this. With its intriguing promise of five-star river cruises on “exclusive spaceships”, the Scenic style of cruising offers a markedly different feel to the usual riverboat experience…With luxurious features such as private balcony suites, butler service and a choice of two restaurants – along with a price tag that includes free wine with meals, gratuities and excursions – Scenic Tours is taking river cruising to a new level.” Macefield climbs aboard the Danube cruise: the next level in river cruising.
• In The Times Nick Wyke checks into Sha Wellness Clinic, Alicante, Spain. “This impressive holistic medical spa is run on macrobiotic principles. Under the one roof guests can see a whole roster of specialists, from sleep disorder and Chinese medicine practitioners to a dermatologist or genetic analyst…Set back like a futuristic space ship on a hill overlooking a classic Brits’ Abroad strip of the Costa Blanca, the view from the ample fourth-floor deck is pure Hollywood Hills. It’s a stylish modernist vision of white curves, giant panes of glass, exotic tressling plants and mirror-still pools.”
• This weekend The Telegraph features Michael Buerk on the passion of Argentina. “It has everything, or as close to everything as makes no difference. From the subtropical rainforests of the north, Argentina reaches down more than 2,000 miles to the glaciers that poke their fingers at Cape Horn, a snowball’s throw from Antarctica. The pampas, where everything grows, stretches west from the endless Atlantic coast to the high Andes; real cowboy country where the estancias make Montana ranches look like a Rutland gymkhana…At the heart of it all is Buenos Aires, one of the world’s most exciting cities.” Buerk shares his highlights of Latin America’s gem.
• In The Times Lydia Bell discovers La Isla: the secret side of Cuba. “And so begins our spell on La Isla, the home of the most helpful, unhurried people in Cuba…La Isla is stunning. It has downy pastures dotted with mangos, palms, delicate pines and banana trees. It has soaring granite peaks and pale, shimmering lakes. There is a sense of space and freedom, the empty highway slicing the island lengthways…If Cuba is 50 years behind the rest of the world, La Isla feels 50 years behind Cuba. I just hope that the Government doesn’t install an all-inclusive resort any time soon.”

OUTDOOR/ADVENTURE

• “My eyes refuse to leave the white mountain filling the sky before me, the 24,786-foot Himalayan peak Annapurna III. It dominates the horizon as surely as a sunset does, but with millenniums-old glaciers ringing its crest like a necklace of diamonds, it feels more dazzling than even the brightest setting sun,” writes Ethan Todros-Whitehill in The New York Times. “It is a shame, then, that by 2012 a road will have been built on this path, destroying this experience and, according to many, placing the last nail in the coffin of what was once the greatest trek on earth…On trekking blogs and message boards, purists are already mourning Annapurna’s demise. So when I walked the Annapurna Circuit this past October, I decided to test this trekking prejudice: with Jen, a guide and a porter, I would walk the 17-day trail, even if it meant mingling with jeeps, and find out first-hand if all the doomsaying was warranted.” The Last Footfall in Nepal?
• In The Times Mark Hodson goes Skiing in Chamonix (behind a horse). “There’s ice climbing, paragliding, canyoning, mountain biking and the frankly terrifying pursuit of speed riding (like kite surfing on skis, down the side of a mountain). And now there’s the traditional Nordic pursuit of ski joëring where you are pulled along a picturesque forest track by a draft horse. Sounds sedate? It’s not – these animals can rattle along at 60kph. And there are no brakes.”
• “Riding the rapids in the Grand Canyon is a Disneyland-ish experience – one second you’re plunging straight down into the trough of a wave, the next you’re getting drenched with cold spray as the boat shoots up and over the crest. It’s a white-knuckle, roller-coaster ride that has people screaming with the thrill of it…” writes Elisabeth Hyde on a 13-day, 225-mile trip down the Colorado river. This is Rafting on the Grand Canyon in The Guardian.
• “I can only say that, sitting on a 4×4, gazing out at dry, scrubby wood and brown earth and brown dust, in a light that, even though it was only afternoon, seemed strangely pink, I felt that I was falling in love,” writes Christina Patterson in Roar terror: If you want a good night’s sleep in Zambia, beware of the lions… for The Independent. Despite an interrupted sleep, Patterson is overwhelmed by Zambia – “Zambia is extraordinary. This land, of great beauty, and astonishing wildlife, and warm, dignified people, and that strange, gorgeous, early-evening pink light, is truly something special. Go, before everyone else discovers it, too.”
• In The Guardian Kevin Rushby overcomes his equine fears and takes his family Horse riding through the south of France. “Riding through the sun-dappled forest, the only humans we see are a couple of mushroom collectors. We emerge at an abandoned coastguard station and a magnificent panorama. Behind us are the snow-capped Alpes Maritimes, ahead the sparkling sea and the mountains of Corsica on the horizon, 200km away. Westwards we can see Provence disappearing in ridges of blue and violet, while to the east are the mountains of Italian Liguria…The trip has challenged my prejudice, and then surprised me by flipping it over entirely. The truth is that I was the one with the grudge, not the poor horse.”

ART/CULTURE

• In The Independent Norman Miller advises To get ahead on the arts scene, go to Glasgow. “It’s 20 years since Glasgow’s image-shifting stint as European Capital of Culture, and in the intervening two decades the city has quietly become an artistic powerhouse. This month alone sees the International Festival of Live Art (which ends today) and the Glasgow Art Fair (25-28 March), while April brings the International Festival of Visual Art…An art jaunt around Glasgow is a good way to experience the contrasting sides of a city renowned for combining a can-do attitude with an ambience built on a blend of beautiful architecture and urban grit – a sort of shock chic.” Miller reveals his cultural highlights of the Scottish city.
• “We’d just arrived at Naulakha, the striking Vermont dwelling Kipling designed and inhabited during the last decade of the 19th century. A long, tall structure in the American Shingle style, it is perched high on a hillside overlooking the Connecticut River Valley…” In The New York Times Anne Lawrence Guyon discovers Where Kipling Reared Mowgli (in Vermont). “Unlike many former residences of cultural heroes, this is not a museum with audio tours or roped-off doorways. Naulakha is a vacation rental, and every aged book, period chair and elegant bed is available for guests to use, with a tacit expectation of consideration for the home’s historical significance…it was not surprising that my initial moment of awe proved to be the first of many. The most mundane of domestic activities — sipping tea by the Kiplings’ fireplace, conversing on their porch, breaking bread at their dining room table — were infused with a heady cognizance that Ruddy, as he was known, very likely did these things too.”
• Agnès Poirier discovers Design in Milan: a top 10 guide ahead of next month’s Milan Design Fair. “Beyond the historical Duomo, beyond the boho-chic Brera, the southern district of Chiesa Rossa – ensconced between Porta Ticinese, Porta Genova, the canals and the art deco former central electric on Via Giovanni da Cermenate – was once home to factory workers, but is now where young designers dream up the shapes of the future.

FAR EAST

• In The Telegraph Barbara Noe experiences the magnificence of Japan’s Kumano Kodo pilgrimage trail. “Their pilgrimage route, a trail network called the Kumano Kodo – across wild, waterfall-laced mountains and sprinkled with temples and shrines – highlights three grand shrines: Hongu Taisha, Hayatama Taisha and Nachi Taisha. Dressed in the white of the dead, they made pilgrimages here to purify themselves, pray to deities dwelling in the trees and rocks, and ask for special favours. Named a World Heritage Site in 2004, these shrine-bedecked trails continue to be restored and rediscovered – Japanese and visitors alike use them for ritual purposes as well as for some supreme hiking.”
• In The New York Times Julia Makinen reveals A Fresh Look for a Landmark in Macao. “By the ’60s, some 300 people were living at the house, with little inkling that their humble abode was once the palatial estate of one of Macao’s most prominent families. When the city gained possession of the parcel and then began the restoration in 2002, nearly 80 percent of the structure — in Macao’s Unesco World Heritage zone — had been altered or damaged…Now, after an eight-year, $5.3 million renovation, the mansion is welcoming its first tourists, as one of just two 19th-century Chinese-style dwellings open to the public in Macao.”
• “If there is a whisky drinkers’ paradise, it is usually assumed to be somewhere in Scotland. Perhaps one of those remote distilleries where you can taste the landscape in the glass. But true connoisseurs know that the best place to drink whisky is almost 6,000 miles away, amid the neon confusion of downtown Tokyo.” Stephen Phelan in The Guardian gives us the lowdown on Tokyo, a whisky drinkers’ paradise.
• “Wan Chai used to be best known among foreigners as an area crowded with seedy bars and massage parlors, but it remained popular for locals, filled with historic tenement blocks, old-fashioned street markets by day and youngsters shooting hoops after school. Now, the Hong Kong neighborhood is thriving, as a nascent cultural scene emerges and as young creative types and entrepreneurs alike are being lured by cheaper rents.” Kabir Chibber reveals New Life in Old Hong Kong and shares his highlights of the Wan Chai neighbourhood.
• “Taiwan has been off the map, almost literally, for decades from the British traveller’s perspective,” notes Neil Taylor in The Independent. “After a week in Taiwan, I felt I had seen China as I dreamed it could be, full of bicycles, narrow-gauge railways, contemplative monks and teenagers happy to come to terms with its troubled history. The future begins here.” Caught in a culture clash: Taiwan is thriving in China’s shadow.
• “There is nothing quite as bracing as the smell of rotten eggs in the morning,” writes Andrew Jacobs in The New York Times. “The odor, which courses through the lobby and rooms of some of the finest hotels on Taiwan’s northern end, is a telltale indication that you’ve arrived in hot spring country — a lush and mountainous region that forms the island’s volcanic belly…These days, workaday refugees from the mercantile bustle of Taipei, the island’s capital, flock here to soak away ailments real and imagined.” Jacobs discovers the lure of Taiwan’s Steaming Pools of Paradise.

Map of Dogon region

Click on pictures to see enlarged version

I have now been in Mali for over a month and what a country – this should be on everyone’s visit list, although I will say that it’s not possible to see the whole thing in two weeks and even three weeks is a push.

There are a couple of things I have particularly enjoyed seeing and experiencing here. The first, organised by Fromhere2Timbuktu, was the third annual Festival of Camels in Tessalit. The Tuareg people have suffered immensely under the pressure of the recent kidnappings, often being used as scapegoats when no one knows who to blame. They made this small traditional festival an opportunity to prove to the outside world that they were open and welcoming. Unfortunately many tourist groups were stopped in Gao by the police and not allowed to continue to an area now agreed to be very dangerous indeed. Our trip however had been organised to travel with a military convoy to Tessalit and back.

Guitarists at Tuareg Festival

The convoy was an experience in itself (convoy being used in the loosest sense of the word,) with ten or 12 vehicles charging across the desert three or four abreast, trying to avoid the dust from the car in front. The convoy was only there to make the festival available to us as tourists so for that reason I didn’t want to do too many drawings of guns and soldiers and miss out describing this amazing little festival.

Camel races

There were only 30 tourists and their guides permitted to go up to the festival, which made it all the more special but very sad that so few people could experience what turned out to be a fantastic two day event. The local Tuareg people all dressed up in their amazing finery with clothes that turn their skin blue giving them the name ‘Les hommes bleu’. We heard some great music from a band called Tinariwen and other local bands, all celebrating traditional Tuareg life with the role of the Camel as a significant backdrop. The second day saw a six kilometre camel race, a parade of camels and a competition for the most beautiful woman.

It is unlike any festival you will have seen in the west; a thousand people and 30 tourists, all enjoying the music coming from a stage with goat skin sides. When the bigger bands came on, the 4 x 4s were pulled up at the back like a drive-in for people to see over the giant turbans in front. At one point all the camels came into the seating area with their jockeys who danced on their saddles in their booboos and waved their whips above their heads.

Aside from this moment of mayhem there is a certain civilised air to it all. Women sit in one section – it’s not obligatory at all but it is just how they do it – there are a number of chairs, people sitting cross legged at the front and standing at the back. An area is left at the front for three men and three women from the crowd to do the traditional Tuareg dancing.

I thought I was lucky enough to get on to the stage to draw, but actually in hindsight I think if you asked nicely anyone could stand at the back and watch, and a lot of people did. Afterwards everyone retired to their goat skin tents, which all faced one direction to minimise the wind and the sun. It was well worth the trip – but it’s 35 hours of travelling so it’s not to be squeezed into a week.

Dogon scene

My second memorable experience was the Dogon Country, which is one of the few places I can say that has taken my breath away. I have seen busy market cities and never ending desert before, but this is something that would be hard to find anywhere else. To start with, the geography of the place is extraordinary; you have a 200km of 600ft escarpment running from North East to South West. At the top and the bottom of this live the Dogon, a name perhaps derived from the French for people of the Ogon – ‘de Ogon’ – d’Ogon.

Dogone scenery

The history behind the Dogon is that during the 15th century they arrived in Bandiagara and lived side by side with the Tellem, a community of miniature people who built their houses high up in the escarpment and gathered fruits and hunted animals in the Seno-Gondo Plain.

Dogon children

Eventually the Dogon drove the Tellem out, either by using up their hunting ground for growing crops like millet or by actually chasing them away. It remains a mystery where the Tellem went. You can however see their incredible, delicately built houses on the face of the escarpment, where the Dogon now bury their dead, winching them up with rope made from the young Baobab bark.

Dogon child

The area is one of the few places that has remained non-Muslim, because of the difficulty in accessing it and the traditional Animist culture has largely been retained. It is one of the few areas in the world that has benefited from intense tourism, allowing them to keep their sensitive and somewhat different way of life. Aside from the desert the Dogon country is one of the few places you would need to take a guide for trekking and a 4 x 4 to get there. We drove the entire length of the escarpment in about four hours. You should also remember to take a pocketful of Kola beans as payment for taking photos.