It is a season that gives hope for that word which, in Malindi, for the tourism sector and those who have had intermittent and low-key investments for years, is embroidered on a kikoy woven by an African Penelope: REBIRTH.
As in a trendy restaurant that has returned to everyone's liking, this year Malindi has seen a succession of wealthy Kenyans and Italian villa owners, a good number of Africans from landlocked countries, and tourists ‘forced’ to take those days off. Young people from all over the world found something to suit their tastes (or rather, cocktails to suit their throats) in places that are becoming cult destinations, such as Lost, and used Malindi as a cheaper and quieter hub from which to visit nearby Watamu.

Since mid-January, however, like the tide with the full moon, the average age has risen considerably and three-month vacationers have also arrived, the Bandini tourists, who stay in the warmth waiting for spring. Once upon a time, when there was more money around, they arrived in November and left in April, taking advantage of the classic three months renewable for another three.
Today, renewal is paid for, and those $50 are added to the other various endemic increases, and for many also to the age that requires checks, presence with grandchildren, and other commitments.
However, Kenya is not to be given up, and Malindi is back in vogue precisely because you can find yourself among like-minded people, in places that were losing their identity while retaining their Italian names and specialties.

So this year, the transformation is taking place, with small revolutions (those who have seen what is happening at Karen Blixen know what I am talking about) and happy new openings (the Sapori restaurant, for example), with those who resist and those who discover that when you can no longer find yourself, or it is not convenient, getting together with others is not so bad, especially if you are looking at pictures of snow on the rugged Italian hills and floods in Sicily while sipping mango juice in front of Silversand beach. When I went down to explore in February, I found myself in this atmosphere: satisfied and cheerful business owners, old people who were either sprightly or happily senile, and relaxed middle-aged assholes like me.

And Malindi, that post-diluvian reptile that has seen peaks and troughs, is still far from throwing in the towel. As long as there is a desire for a gentle breeze on a calm sea, for tropical fruit after an excellent pizza, for not having to suffer an insistent youngster trying to sell you everything or for evaluating the philosophical consistency of a local student; as long as there is the desire to celebrate an octogenarian's birthday by dancing nostalgically at the Bussola or the Baia Imperiale, to ride without a helmet on the back of a willing boda-boda, to visit four supermarkets to compare the prices of milk, eggs, and rice, to indulge in the luxury of amatriciana once a week and prawns once a month, in short, to live the most classic of Italian frivolities in the tropics, there will always be a place like Malindi.