Kenya

Before the ink dipped in the inkwell used during our recently finished French trip is even dry, we begin drafting the new notes while awaiting confirmation of going to press, or rather of the sending to my dear readers, of the chapter concerning the August getaway across the border.

The technical time of changing suitcases, of rearranging the nuances of clothing, and here we are, after a few minor organisational hitches due to airport delays, with eyelids tightly shut letting ourselves be lulled by the roar of the propellers of the plane that will take us to repeat during this 2007 the grazing of the soil of the black continent.

It seems incredible, almost impossible, but even just for the necessary technical refuelling stop, we see again the magical welcome sign of the mysterious and fascinating island of Zanzibar, which we leave to reach after only half an hour of a little quail's hop our destination in Mombasa.

The duty of a chronicler and a reporter, perhaps unreachable dreams cherished during the decades-long drafting of these accounts, should force me, deontologically speaking, to describe in minute detail what appears to us after our arrival in Kenyan land, but honestly I find it insanely difficult to find the words to be able to hint at the misery, the poverty, the destitution, the nothingness that surrounds us upon leaving the country's second city.

To say it outright, I don't even have the courage to take up my Nikon-branded armed hand, I look out of the window, I brood on earthly existence and I think, reflect, meditate....

The concept of politically correct is very much in vogue in today's Western progressive reality and so, without any classist preclusion, we must exalt the qualities of the local driver, an extra dark chocolate little brother of the galactico Hamilton who arrived in Formula One to blow up the market, who with hair-raising overtakings, last-instant braking, slaloms worthy of the best Dolomite slalom skier leads us onto the INTERstate that runs along the Indian Ocean among potholes, craters, little pits, humps, bumps and various obstacles with Malindi as its direction.

Despite everything, here we are arrived, I have consulted with the editorial committee of the crazy thinkers, of which I am president honoris causa, and I have decided, alas for the first of the detractors personified by my consort, to continue with the descriptions, details, notes and travel inspirations always and in any case from my "bizarre perspective".

Now the moment of confession has arrived and so, swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, I admit that I am not a shareholder or strategic partner of Ventaglio, thus ensuring my total impartiality of judgement and opinion. Temile Point is a jewel, a mini village with the finishes, comfort and elegance of a resort that can very well rise to continental relevance.

The few buildings, in purely indigenous style, are set among infinite varieties of exotic plants, colourful flowers, luxuriant bushes, with millimetrically tended little paths, all in a rather refined and sophisticated atmosphere, bearing in mind the geographical position of two degrees below the Equator.

We take possession of the location, accumulate a few dozen megabytes in the cameras' memories and witness the evening show which proves truly impressive thanks to the physical strength and perilous acrobatics of six natives, very similar to the spider monkeys that populate the village, in that they are practically boneless and extremely flexible, performing gymnastic evolutions quite similar to what is practised among primates in the trees.

This morning I believe I have spent in the best possible way in these almost 42 years of my life ten dollars, entrusting the family unit into the hands of two beach boys who, speaking the tricolour much better than 95% of our true fellow countrymen, took us to a beach, obviously indicated as the coast of love, absolutely to be placed on the medal podium among all those photographed on planet earth: we were six, snow-coloured sand, a few rocks covered with grass, foliage and very green shrubs, cobalt blue sky, transparent water of the Ocean and the resulting cocktail served fresh thanks to an exceptional dusting of sea breeze.

Life at the village is, to say the least, under control from every point of view, the two kids monopolise in its totality the condominium pool that we are seriously thinking of buying, the triangulation route restaurant, rooms, body of water absolutely negligible to the point that, in order to try to burn off a few calories, obviously ingested in massive doses, we make ourselves available for the basest playful entertainments and the most shameful appearances with the animation just to live ever more intensely this umpteenth Ventaglio experience.

Four little balls at ping pong, two or three shots of arrow at archery, a good six or seven strokes in the crystalline water as well as a few minutes, obviously nothing more, in the richly equipped gym are all that is alternative that our thinking cranial box processes as an alternative to the very pleasant relaxation of the limbs kissed by the solar star that contributes to an immediate increase in the rate of pigmented tanning.