Working my way north from the Tanzanian coast, I crossed back into Kenya and decided to seek out some peace and quiet amidst the chaos of Mombasa. Intending to stay a few days I watched instead as a week came and went, my days filled with writing work and my evenings spent exploring the gritty and beautiful nightscape of the city. The following images were the result. Enjoy.

The line between well-deserved relaxation and sloth can be a fine one. Travelling in hot, tough landscapes I find that I fantasize about sandy beaches and easy days, but when the reality is realized I can only abide so much of it before feeling like valuable time for cultural exploration is passing by. My week in Pangani was fantastically pleasant and enjoyable, days spent meandering around Peponi Lodge's palm-studded grounds, splashing around in 75 degree water, and washing down the daily catch with cold Serengeti lager. But by the end of it I found myself unsurprisingly restless. While I managed to get photo sets cleaned up and organized from the two January courses, I even found that the languid pace was not conducive to focused writing. So, a few days ago I broke camp and headed north, switching buses in the northern port city of Tanga and then venturing back across the Kenyan border towards Mombasa. It was a lovely interlude, don't get me wrong! But it felt good to get back into the mix of things, seeing new sights and hearing new sounds.

The journey by bus from Tanga concluded with a ride on the Likoni Ferry across to the heart of Mombasa, an island connected to the mainland by the ferry and two main highways. My plan was to pass through Mombasa and keep heading north to Kilifi, another beach-front paradise where some friends of mine have a backpacker's joint that is supposed to be the bees knees, and even incorporates what looks to be a quite successful permaculture system. Motoring across the waters on the packed ferry at sunset, the air filled with diesel fumes and the call to prayer, it felt clear that no part of me was ready embrace another week of easy street. And as the ferry made landfall and I set out into Mombasa's salty, crumbling, bustling streets it was also evident that this is the sort of place I love getting to know.

Mombasa exudes a sort of character I had not yet run across in an Kenyan city. As an important contact point between the East African interior and the influences of India, Colonial Europe and the Arab world, the city has spent the last several hundred years simmering in its own multiculturalism. The resulting patchwork of styles and motifs, customs and vernaculars has been soaked in the briny Indian Ocean air and baked in the equatorial sun so that its vast labyrinth of roads, arches, passageways, towers and verandas are in a constant state of decay and reactionary repair. Its hot. And humid. And there are trees and vines and other green things finding purchase where they can to sprout out of tumbledown ledges and minaret walls. Most things look as if they could fall down at any given moment, and yet the city teems with life and things continue functioning as they have for a long time. And importantly, this aesthetic is reflected in the cultural norms and in a pleasant and easy diversity. Mosques and cathedrals and Hindu temples sit together in the shade of tall palm trees and people of every pigment and style of dress seems to mix effortlessly in the crowded streets. I'm sure there are tensions, as there are everywhere in the world where people live together in close quarters, but by and large it feels like a peaceful and gentle place where diversity is complementary rather than adversarial.

It took me some effort to find the right place to be within this framework. It would seem that most foreigners who come this direction use it as a brief waypoint on the way to the beaches stretching north and south from here. Those who stay in Mombasa seem to favor an array of backpacker hostels across the bridges, off the island, in rather removed Nyali Beach or Mombasa Beach. Not knowing where to land on night one, I accidentally found myself in a Taxi leaving town, depositing me in the end at one such place in Nyali. It was a giant walled compound with every possible delight a 20 year old looking to party could possibly dream up. Swimming pool, big screen TV with Champion's League football matches lighting up the large gardens and hookah lounge. Bar parties and chart music blaring through the day and night. I could camp there for $3 a night and given the desperate situation of any Kenyan tourist venue with a large infrastructure these days, they were practically giving away food and drinks just to have a guest.

The following day i escaped, making my way back to the island and to a wonderful little place called Hotel Royal Palace in the very heart of the labyrinth of Old Town. Housed in a decrepit, white-washed five story tower and run by a very friendly mix of Muslims and Christians, it is a humble place while still showing all the marks of being conducted and cared for with love. Each room is painted and decorated in its own sweet, funky style and a nice little breakfast is served on the rooftop with panoramic views of the city skyline. My window looks out on a tangle of lines with a colorful pallet of laundry drying in the heat, and five times a day my walls tremble as the call to prayer is sung, beautifully, on the loudspeakers in the mosque next door (forming a chorus with hundreds of other similar voices raised across the city).

It also feels like a bit of a revelation to have a room of my own. Since arriving in early January i think ive only slept in a bed four times, and my sleep was better last night than i can remember it being in a long time. Additionally, i have a little table at which to write, and which i hope is conducive to getting the creative juices flowing. This letter seems like a good start.

Below are a few pictures from my first day of wandering.