Bankrupted by paradise

Kiwayu Island, Kenya

I came on a holiday to unwind and decompress but I have just been handed the bill and so I think I will have that heart attack after all. We are at Mike’s Camp on the desert island of Kiwayu north of Lamu, my favourite place in the world. This is where Claire and I had our honeymoon ten years ago. Our anniversary coincided with a scare from my doctor, who says that for health reasons I should cut down on several activities that underpin my very identity.

The journey to Kiwayu was set about with temptations. We flew to Lamu and lunched at Peponi’s Hotel while we waited for Mike’s speedboat out to the islands. From now until after Christmas the terrace at Peponi’s is a non-stop party. It was really hard to avoid getting sucked into the bar area. Here you quickly fall into the trap of drinking cocktails called Old Pals. These are so expensive you have to sell your children to pay off the tab. I avoided that, and when the boat arrived, we even zoomed past my friend Gerald Johnson’s floating bar. ‘Where alcohol is not only for breakfast!’ is the way Gerald advertises his place.

Claire says I am the stingiest husband ever when it comes to family holidays. My response is that I have a farm to worry about. A farm is like keeping a goldfish, only bigger. You can never walk out on it. Another reason is that I am a freelance journalist, so I am too insecure about missing work to take a break. A third reason — and I am too ashamed to confess this to her — is that the worst part about me being a journalist is that I want holidays for free.