Poco Milano: Malindi, The Little Milano

Conservative Swahili women on a beach stroll

In the sometimes steamy airs of Malindi, the latest arrivals are easily distinguishable. The Italians are different. They walk in groups. You would think they seek safety in numbers. In truth, they have little choice in the matter. The first visit to Malindi is a highly choreographed affair. The business end of things determines their every step.

Malindi is multiracial, multicultural and multinational.  It is home to several nationalities of different lifestyles. The traditionalist Mijikenda woman draped top to bottom in khanga wonders at the secrecy of the burka-clad Swahili woman. The two will pause in wonderment at the skimpily dressed girl wiggling about; oblivious of the horror aroused in conservatives.

 All the indignation is experienced in quiet contemplation. Not a word is thrown about. In Malindi, conservatism and licentious liberalism stride side by side. The apparent tolerance is enforced by economic circumstance. The town thrives on tourism plus all its accompanying baggage. That is how the Italian comes in.

 Tourist is somewhat misleading when it comes to Italians in Malindi. The swarthy or bronzed out 'capo' and 'signora' striding hand in hand in the street will likely raise few eyebrows.  Chances are he is Renzo and Signora is Lisa. Street vendors and tuktuk riders will shout out their names across the street.  These deeply tanned Italians are townsfolk not travellers. In fact the Italiano really is one of the tribes of Malindi. Here, the Kiswahili term ‘Mzungu’ largely refers to the other Europeans.

'Capo' simply means boss. The connotation made famous by The Valacchi Papers and The Godfather is that 'capo' is a mafia title. In Malindi every Italian man is a 'capo'- a boss. In designer sunglasses, cologne, shorts, tight shirt, thongs and sun oil he cuts an iconic figure. At his side in the shortest of dresses or shockingly revealing tights should be a slim, almost boyish Kenyan 'signorina'. She will wear multicoloured braids or better still- has her hair dyed purple, brown or flaming orange.

In the movies it is men who fawn over pretty women. In Malindi, it is pretty girls who bend over backwards to please Italian men. She will cloth herself for him, colour her hair to his fancy or even dope her skin with chemical to a hue of his liking. She will sway her hips to his joy in the manner of Naomi Campbell at the helm of the catwalk.  By the way, Naomi is a regular visitor here along with her friend former Benetton boss Flavio Briatore. Briatore is blessed with exclusive resorts in the town.

They say when you go to Rome do as the Romans. That is true of Rome, not of Malindi. Malindi is the chameleon town that changes its spots to take on the visitor's liking. It changed its faith twice before to accommodate visiting religions.

First it was to welcome the Arab traveller. The town not only took his faith but his cuisine and engineering skill. When the British came, Malindi found space for his language, religion and his ways. The premier beachfronts in the town are named 'Silversand Beach' and 'Golden Beach' as if locals ran short of names before British arrival.

The Italians received no less a revering welcome. Malindi quickly reworked its ways for the Italian's comfort- pronto. In particular, the tourism business and space quickly changed hands to accommodate Italian interests.

 I suspect the best of Italian cooking is for the 'ristorante' in Milano. The noticeboards outside Malindi restaurants clearly disagree. They bodly declare, “Aperto per Colazione, Pranzo e Cena". On the flipside they state in more familiar terms, "Open for Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner."  The translation in Italian is to assure Italia that the menu is in accordance with its specifications.

Inside, the best of intentions are deployed to meet the standards set by Italian palates. It starts with the waiting tongue. Of necessity in Malindi, is a quadrilingual waiter. If he is monolingual then he is Italian. To the standard three languages every Kenyan speaks, add Italian. The Kiswahili, English and vernacular are not enough to get you a job in the better resorts and restaurants.

Italians love their cooking and so must you- in their tongue. The Italian love for pasta has rubbed into this town. Pasta di stagione, lasagne and ravioli are not strange names along the bumpy, often potholed streets of Malindi. The popular spaghetti and pizza has crossed over into the local food chain. In our collective dream Malindi is Poco Milano or Little Milano.

The intercourse between the Italian in Malindi and the local is mostly commercial but the sexual aspect is most visible. It is not for the love of sea breeze that the town is teeming with ladies in their twenties. They too are mostly seasonal residents like the Italians. In the cold months of April to August when the Italians retreat to the comfort of the European summer, the pretty women disappear. It cannot be to Siena or the Riviera di Ponette.

The bulk of these women arrive by bus from Nairobi. It is whispered that they follow the harvests and the seasons like the quelea quelea. They will be in Eldoret and Kitale for the maize harvest in January. Come the wheat harvest in Narok, they will flock there. The lucky one will land an Italian in Malindi.  Marriage for these girls is a privilege reserved for European men. They flock to Malindi hoping for riches and hitching up with a 'Mzungu'.

After many seasons of trying in and outside clubs along Lamu Road, many retreat to the more predictable life of the dingy bar. Here for three hundred shillings a 'shot', they will ride out the tourism 'high season of December to April. Over the low season, some girls will settle for fifty shillings per shot. It is not a shot of whisky but sex. Some will be nursing a nagging drug habit acquired in racy life of Lamu Road.

For the boys, a few strands of dreadlocks can start off life on the seafront. The raison d’être for the beach encounter with the Italian is a photo album of local attractions. Of course they can push a few joints as they sell local attractions. They will also know someone who knows someone with good 'brown sugar'. The better for all involved if they are hooked on something. That includes the search for love or sex.

The young men too will bend over backwards for the pleasure of the Italian woman. Usually she will be well past her prime. The joy and comfort of having a virile young man pumping by her side must be something to live for. The hip hop swagger, cocky eye and initial greeting are no doubt practised many times.

“Ciao, Bambino (Hi Baby),” he will say as she approaches.

“Non sono un bambino (I am not a baby),” she might reply.

Allora (In that case), he is not easily deterred. He will pursue her with a barrage of niceties until she thaws. If it is not for love, it is for convenience. He promises to be the pliant guide, the loving servant and the bodyguard. He will walk the dog and her mistress. He will cuddle and pamper both. Bambino will pay the bills.

The unsaid often happens. Sometimes it is men angling for other men. Consummated in the privacy of the high-walled villa, these unions are taboo. Yet the bold male prostitute will occasionally stroll down Lamu Road or Casuarina Road. In plaited hair or dreadlocks, he will pose invitingly by the roadside. His makeup and poise will tell him out. Girlish and suggestive, he might lower his pants deliberately to oncoming traffic.

Few will openly talk about it except in jest. Some lodgings in town post notices barring homosexual acts in their premises. It is happening. Of course it is illegal just like “brown sugar” or soliciting. Come nightfall or in the privacy of the walls, anything goes in Malindi.

Arab, Swahili, Mijikenda and other African intermingle and share neighbourhoods. Their common language is Kiswahili. By some unwritten rule the fondly loved Italiano lives apart from the rest. Nestled by the sea in exclusive villas and cottages, he ventures into the town as if from abroad. Only a handful can mumble a few words of Kiswahili even after years of trying. Just the one word is enough to get them around town- Jambo or Hello.

It is true of this town that the exclusive treats of the First World are surrounded by the dirt and grit of the Third World. Ten foot walls and thick hedges are the norm where the Italian lives. The threat of the Dobbermann and electric fencing keeps off intruders.

The most loved in Malindi is probably the most insecure. It matters little that few incidents involving them are reported. The allure of the sea and warm breeze is irresistible. However, it is not enough to dull the threat of inequality. Benvenuti a Malindi.