Journey Along the Swahili Coast

When our “first” honeymoon didn’t quite live up to expectations—a run of modest hotels across Central America and none of the small, familiar markers of a honeymoon: flowers, champagne, even the occasional towel swan—my husband and I made a pact: we would do it again for our tenth wedding anniversary. Fast forward a decade, and we started planning the trip we wished we’d taken the first time.

We were married in Franschhoek, South Africa, so returning to the continent felt instinctive. I had grand visions of tracing Africa’s eastern edge—Zanzibar to Lamu, Mozambique to Madagascar—drifting between islands in a sun-soaked, salt-crusted pilgrimage.

But as I began mapping routes and studying weather charts, fantasy quickly met reality. Proximity, it turns out, is deceptive. Seasonal weather patterns and absent flight paths make island-hopping along this coastline near impossible. When conditions are perfect in Zanzibar, Mozambique is in the throes of monsoon season. And while these islands appear close on a map, reaching the more remote ones almost always requires backtracking through a major hub—Nairobi, at best, or Johannesburg, flying five hours south, only to retrace your steps five hours north again.

We had the time, but not the routing. After a certain point, it became clear the itinerary wasn’t something to force. So we simplified. What began as an ambitious East Coast island-hopping plan became three weeks moving slowly along the Swahili Coast of Tanzania and Kenya—a stretch of shoreline shaped by centuries of Indian Ocean trade, where African, Arab and Persian influences have created something distinct in its architecture, charm and food.

My non-negotiable was Mnemba Island, part of the Zanzibar Archipelago. It had lodged itself in my mind years earlier, after seeing a video of a travel journalist friend swimming with dolphins in open water—a lifelong dream. So that’s where we started.

Mnemba Island

After travelling from New York—a night in Nairobi, then an hour’s flight on to Zanzibar—the final leg is by boat from the island’s northeastern coast. And then Mnemba reveals itself: a ring of white sand floating in an expanse of shifting blues. Arriving at &Beyond Mnemba Island Lodge is a barefoot experience. You’re asked to step directly into the water on arrival—no jetty, no formality—and as I lower myself in, there is a sharp sting that catches across my feet. After weeks in a New York winter tundra, chilblains had taken hold across my toes, and the saltwater hits in a bittersweet way.

From that moment on, shoes become redundant. They’re taken on arrival with a passing comment; “you won’t be needing them”—and they’re right. “Barefoot luxury” is a term widely used—overused in my opinion—but here it holds as a practical reality. Mnemba itself is small, just over a kilometer in circumference, framed by a coral atoll; small enough to walk in half an hour. We do this on our first afternoon, and on returning to our banda, I quickly declare it the best place I’ve ever stayed. I haven’t yet spent the night.

At the heart of the island is the main banda—a gathering space housing the bar, restaurant, lounge, small shop and wildlife center. Depending on the season, the water center moves between here and the boathouse, which becomes the natural gateway to the reef and everything that defines Mnemba.

Framed by a protected house reef, Mnemba is more than a private island; it’s a marine reserve, carefully managed by &Beyond, whose approach to hospitality is inseparable from its conservation mandate. A 400-meter exclusion zone—patrolled continuously by a pair of navy boats—protects a fragile ecosystem that includes nesting grounds for endangered green-sea turtles, an active coral-regeneration program, and a broader marine conservation initiative through Oceans Without Borders, working to preserve both reef systems and surrounding communities. Step just beyond this perimeter and the contrast is immediate: boats crowding dolphins, the beginnings of overdevelopment along Zanzibar’s mainland coast. It sharpens your awareness of what exists here, and how easily it could be lost. 

Mnemba tolerates none of it. In its determination to protect its habitat, it protects the guest experience. It is undeniably private—just twelve palm-frond bandas, spaced carefully along the shoreline—but it never feels isolating. There’s a natural friendliness between guests and I quickly notice the mix of ages, nationalities and raisons d’etres for being there. It’s refreshing, and I can’t help but think it’s what adds to its magic.

There’s no expectation to interact. Meals move with you—one night a table appears on the sand outside your room, the next it’s set beneath a tree, lanterns shifting in the breeze. But lunches, usually in the main banda over fresh seafood, offer small moments of connection. How many dolphins did you see? Where are you headed next? In a world that can feel increasingly divided, it’s a reminder that people are often more interesting when you show interest in them.

The bandas themselves are large and open, cooled entirely and effectively by the sea breeze. Built from local materials by local craftsmen, they are rustic structures tucked into a tropical forest just back from the water, each opening onto its own stretch of white coral sand. Inside, the design is deliberately restrained to let the surroundings lead: muslin-draped beds, woven matting underfoot, and a soft, all-white, natural inspired palette that draws from the reef. Locally sourced materials—brass, ceramics, carved wood—sit alongside Omani antiques and handwoven textiles. Each comes with a beach deck and daybed, and a fully stocked fridge just steps from the sand. They are beautiful—a kind of Robinson Crusoe Architectural Digest dream Bugs don’t swarm you, mosquitoes are unnoticeable; instead, small antelope move quietly through the trees, entirely unbothered by your presence.

Time simplifies quickly. You wake early, naturally. The reef draws you in before breakfast and often pulls you back out again straight after. Mornings are spent diving: relaxed and scenic, though less diverse than other dives we’ve done in the Indian Ocean. After lunch, we retreat to our daybed, recovering from jet lag and easing into the slower rhythm of island time. Late afternoons loan themselves to a massage at the wellness banda—yoga if you want it—but nothing feels prescribed. You set the pace.

After several interrupted breakfasts and lunches in pursuit of the “perfect” dolphin encounter—a goal I had set, somewhat stubbornly—we head out on our final afternoon with Rob from the dive centre, equal parts dive master and enthusiast, for one last attempt.

Beyond the protected waters, the scene is chaotic. Inside Mnemba’s boundary, it is not. And then, suddenly, they are there. Eighteen dolphins, gliding quietly above the reef. We slip into the water and they move around us with ease, neither of us scared of each other. Despite their elegance, they move quickly—I have to swim hard to keep up, focused only on staying alongside them for as long as possible. They move in a loose formation, close enough to observe the details: scars, markings, differences in size. Underwater, there is nothing else to distract you. I am deliriously happy to be in their presence—to watch, up close, something I’d dreamt of doing for as long as I can remember. We stay with them for close to an hour, until my blistered feet—now sore from fins (the snorkelling kind)—remind me it is time to leave.

After four days on Mnemba, and a bucket list item ticked, I can now stand by my earlier claim: it is the best place I’ve ever been. 

Lamu

From Mnemba, we move north to Lamu via a boomerang flight detour through Nairobi.

The shift is immediate. The airport consists of little more than three rooms, and beyond the “terminal” doors you’re met by a jostle of people offering to carry your bags and guide you to the jetty. There are no roads out of the airport, only boats. Within minutes, you’re on the water, heading to wherever you’re staying.

Comparable in size to Manhattan, Lamu Island lies just off Kenya’s northern coastline, part of a small archipelago shaped by centuries of Indian Ocean trade. It is a system of waterways; transport is by boat or donkey. It is also one of East Africa’s oldest towns, where Swahili, Arab and Persian influences remain embedded in the architecture—coral stone houses, ornately carved wooden doors and narrow lanes.

Lamu Old Town, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is still the island’s center of gravity—commercially. It’s where you’ll find the bank (and the island’s only access to cash), a gas station, and mosques whose calls to prayer carry far out across the water. But beyond its history and function, it’s not why you come.

Down the coast sits Shela, accessed by the beach in front of the well-known Peponi Hotel. Founded in the 1960s by the Korschen family and still very much in their hands today, Peponi sits at the centre of it all—impossible to miss—and has long been something of a social anchor for the area. Over time, it has drawn a particular kind of following: expats, sailors, return guests, a slightly bohemian set that has shaped its reputation as much as the place itself. We hear stories—the charming, the nostalgic, and the more debaucherous.

Its beachfront position makes it ideal for people-watching, and we pull up a front-row seat to the daily rhythm of the island. The tide dictates everything: donkeys and camels cutting across the sand, fishermen hauling in 75kg tuna (and cats anticipating their next meal), boats arriving and departing taking tourists back to their digs. Inside, the bar is lined with photographs—decades of them—and many of the faces seem to be here now, older, settled into their seats. There’s a sense of continuity that’s hard to manufacture. Wooden tables are constantly being moved, pushed together and pulled apart to accommodate the steady rotation of lunch guests, while outside, bougainvillea spills down the walls of the open-air terrace where people gather for drinks, watching it all unfold. It’s easy to lose time here. But after four days on a remote island, the energy feels a little too frenetic, and I’m glad we’re not staying here.

Instead, we continue about thirty minutes by boat, around to the other side of the island. The coastline shifts as we go: a mix of architectural styles, private villas tucked into the landscape, stretches of unclaimed beach. Eventually we arrive somewhere more remote: Kipungani. On Google Maps, it simply reads: “Barefoot Lamu.” We remove our shoes once again and step onto the sand.

We’re staying in a private house, Wazi Dubu—one of a handful scattered along this side of the island. It quickly becomes clear this is the way I prefer to experience Lamu. Along this stretch of beach, just a few houses sit quietly apart, including The Cabanas—a small collection of thatched dwellings that offer the closest thing to a hotel here, with a newly added pool and a staffed beach bar.

From here, the water defines everything. Whether it’s waterskiing through the creeks, heading out for big game fishing (it was us who hauled the 75kg tuna onto Peponi beach), or a quick boat ride into Shela for lunch, the experience happens almost entirely at sea.

Drawing on its spice route heritage, the traditional dhow remains central to life along the Swahili Coast. Whilst in Lamu, we boarded the Tusitiri Dhow—a restored traditional sailing vessel that now operates as a live-aboard along the archipelago.

Stepping aboard feels like stepping back in time; teak decks patinated by the sun, canvas sails that crack slightly as they catch wind. It takes seven crew to hoist them, accompanied by a low-sung, rhythmic sea shanty—part coordination, part ritual.

We join the dhow just off the coast of our house and drift slowly toward Shela, a book opened, a boardgame in-play. It’s a route we’d taken daily, but it offers a totally different perspective whilst on board. We anchor for lunch—a three-course seated meal served on deck—before the crew initiate an afternoon of singing and playing, pulling in my younger family members to assist with conch shell-blowing and improvised sprite-bottle percussion. Their energy, and Captain Mia’s smile, is magnetic.

We’re only on board for the day, but as the sun sets, I can’t help but feel disappointed we hadn’t opted to sleep on deck beneath the equatorial starry skies. 

You read a lot about Lamu, but contrary to what is widely reported, it is not white sand beaches and turquoise waters. Coming from Mnemba—the apex of barefoot luxury—Lamu is something different entirely. A little rougher around the edges. Beaches threatened by a micro-plastic pandemic. A level of hospitality that has resisted the pressure to go ultra-luxury. But that’s not the point. Lamu is a feeling. A vibe. A jostle and onslaught of the senses largely created by the warmth and charm of the local people.

Manda Bay

Reluctant to fly back on ourselves yet again, the final leg of the trip is, thankfully, simple. From Lamu, we retrace our route only as far as the airport before continuing on by sea for another twenty minutes to Manda Bay.

Having just left Lamu at “rush hour,” it’s surprising to round the corner and find the quiet remoteness of Manda Bay tucked away along a mangrove channel and a private stretch of beach. We are delighted.

Coming from Lamu, two things stand out almost instantly. The first is the absence of plastic. The beach here is clearly groomed daily, but the microplastics were so deeply embedded into Lamu’s shoreline that removing them would have required something closer to sieving than cleaning. Going barefoot there felt like a risk. Here, we slip off our shoes to step ashore, no threat or brace to a sharp plastic edge.

The second is the absence of mosquitoes. Having spent the previous week in an ongoing swatting battle against bites—proving that anti-malarials were absolutely necessary—the difference on Manda feels almost doubtful. But it holds—even at dusk.

I’d been looking forward to Manda, but after Mnemba, I was worried I’d been spoiled. And indeed, I had, but not to Manda’s detriment. So, it came as little surprise to learn that Bruno Brighetti, who founded Manda, was also behind Mnemba. The man clearly had a vision and good taste!

Manda Bay has been part of the Lamu archipelago for decades, long before “barefoot luxury” became shorthand for this stretch of coast. What began in the 1960s as the Blue Safari Club—a loose collection of beach huts—has evolved steadily over time under the stewardship of the Roberts and Dyer families. There’s something familial here. Much like Mnemba, its guests are diverse and conversation flows easily. 

The bandas themselves hold onto that original spirit, a kind of deliberate simplicity. Twenty-two in total, spread across three categories, our beachfront room, the highest room category, lines the seawall. Materials are consistent throughout: timber, palm-woven matting underfoot, thatched roofs overhead. There are no glass windows, no shutters, just open frames to let the air move through. Beds are oversized, swathed in walk-in mosquito nets, with little more than an overhead fan and a veranda to extend the space outward. They are charming and very comfortable. You don’t need anything more—though I do catch myself telling my husband that a sofa wouldn’t have gone amiss.

After a morning wake-up basket of coffee and biscuits delivered to your banda, breakfast is served at leisure in the open-air dining “room,” lunch is a communal buffet, dinner is a set menu on the beach. It’s easy. It’s caring. It’s soulful.

That same approach extends beyond the lodge itself. Through the Manda Conservancy, the families have become closely involved in protecting the wider ecosystem of the island—reef, forest, and community treated as one interconnected system that, if managed carefully, sustains the place it depends upon.

This becomes clear when owner Andy takes us on a drive on our first evening. What you don’t expect is how quickly the island turns inward, and how much more there is beyond the main camp—140 acres in total, more than four times the size of Mnemba Island. Beyond the beach, the landscape shifts to scrub and coastal forest, denser than it first appears. It’s not safari in the traditional sense—no vast plains, no predictable sightings. We stopped briefly at the ruins of an early Swahili settlement, before continuing on to a cluster of baobabs and then a stretch of cleared land—by Manda.

The story behind it is less subtle. The opening of the industrial port across the bay and the dredging of the channels disrupted traditional migration routes, cutting the island off from the mainland—and with it, the elephants that once kept the vegetation in balance. In their place, Manda has taken it upon themselves to recalibrate the ecosystem, and indeed their commitment is commendable. Why? Andy says their hope is to reintroduce species and restore some of what has been lost. When I ask Andy, over a sundowner overlooking the forest, what his vision for Manda is, he simply says, “This. I don’t want to change a thing.”

Manda Bay has been here for decades. What they set out to create still holds: a series of thatched bandas designed to sit lightly within an environment that is, by nature, fragile. That is its magic. They have a clear understanding of how to care—for both people and place.

Only as we leave—tying our shoes again at the airport—that I finally make peace with the phrase “barefoot luxury.” It feels less like a marketing line and more like something that was born out of this stretch of Swahili coastline—if not this very island. A kind of travel defined by what’s been left out rather than what’s been added.