Elderly sex tourists ply the beach by night, even as an ancient Swahili community indulges in archaic traditions; impoverished townships fight for daily survival, even as luxury resorts thrive. Kenya has it all, as Stephen Bailey discovers.

Diani beach.

Kenya’s coastline comes straight from a catalogue of holiday reverie. Palms cast gentle shadows on white beaches. Cocktail bars and luxury hotels stand above sand awaiting footprints. Indian Ocean waters entice with their swishes of turquoise and sapphire. Wooden dhows and dolphins compete for my attention along the horizon. It looks like a postcard. And it is a postcard, because there’s hardly another soul on the beach.

Yet, the Kenyan coast isn’t supposed to be a place for romantic seclusion. A decade ago, the whole coastline bustled with package tourism. All-inclusive resorts flourished and over a million visitors came to wallow in the sunshine. Now the hotels stand desolate and I’m the only one creating footprints in the sand. Here’s the problem. Over the last few years, Kenya has been blighted by a series of terrorist attacks by al-Shabaab militants from neighbouring Somalia.

Arriving at Mombasa Airport I was a little panicky, clutching my bags with stressful fervour. There’s a visible armed police presence, my bags going through two X-ray scanners just to get out of the airport.

An hour south is Diani Beach and I’m immediately robbed. I set off onto the white sand, absorbing the exotic colour combinations and plonking my towel in the image of Indian Ocean escapism.

I’m lounging on the sand, watching the dhows, when a group of vervet monkeys emerges. A dozen start pulling stunts, cartwheeling and prancing about to the amusement of my camera. A yelp, a few shrieks, and another two monkeys have raided my backpack, ignoring the apples to scuttle off with a Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. Then there’s mass panic and raucous calls from the trees. I’m wondering if the monkeys are lactose intolerant when a baboon troop wanders onto the beach. So much for a peaceful spot of sunbathing.

Diani is eight miles long and but it feels much further, the gentle oceanic colours offering a relentless impression of space. I pass two melancholy camels and a herder trying to sell rides. Then a beach bar with one guest. Now, a couple of local men selling carved giraffes. But there’s a lethargy to the traders, as if the place is resigned to dropping off the map.

I’m not complaining; beaches like this aren’t quite as seductive when they’re shared. And they would be far more expensive. As resorts compete for customers their prices have plummeted. It’s always low season now and I’m paying €40 a night for half board at a four-star boutique hotel on the sand. There’s one other guest and I was offered a choice of 12 rooms with beach views.

Only in the evening does life begin to emerge here. Bob Marley covers bounce out of a wooden beach bar as I sip cocktails from a hollowed coconut. None of the crowd are my age and I feel bizarrely out of place. The hammocks and beach beds aren’t occupied by Rastas, they’re filled with Kenya’s sex tourists.

European women, most of them looking over 60, sit with tribally-dressed local lovers; Maasai teenagers complete with swords and goatskin belts, giant Samburu warriors in loincloths and vibrant ankle jewellery. When a dozen of these couples join hands on the dance floor for Marley’s Could you be Loved I drop my coconut in disbelief.

After four days, I’m looking a little pink from the sun and head to Mombasa, a chaotic coastal city that spills onto the Indian Ocean waters. The old town bristles with energy, markets squashing vivacious dresses into alleyways barely wide enough for a donkey. The donkey just shakes his head, sighs, and presses on through a bunch of red saris.

Kilifi beach.

This is an ancient Swahili community, thriving since the 14th century. Old men gather to drink spiced tea in the shade of Fort Jesus while indulgent boutique stores spill archaic compasses and colonial ship remains. A muezzin sends resonant voices across the harbour while whiffs of spices greet me in another alleyway. Whitewashed Arabesque houses lean into each other and I spend two hours walk-ing in circles, unable to decipher the labyrinthine streets.

The others suburbs of Mombasa have very different atmospheres. To the south lies an impoverished township of pandemonium, the children without shoes and the houses bolted together from scrap wood. The Nyali suburb lies to the north, home to gleaming shopping malls and plush hotels, opulent beachside complexes and new Land-cruisers stuck in traffic. According to manager at my hostel, this is where Somalian pirates invest their treasures.

International tour operators like Thomas Cook have stopped selling Kenyan beach packages and the US government advises against travel to the Kenyan coast. But, so far, it’s only the swinging primates I fear

I’m in Mombasa, when the newspaper pages are filled with a new atrocity. Over a 100 have been killed during a gun attack at a school in Garissa. It makes international news, so I check the map. Garissa is 460kms north, close to the Somalian border. Everything feels safe here. Armed guards patrol the entrances to shopping centres, hotels, markets, and even buses. It feels reassuring rather than threatening.

Yet, news of terrorism is always off-putting. International tour operators like Thomas Cook have stopped selling Kenyan beach packages and the US government advises against travel to the Kenyan coast. But so far, it’s only the swinging primates I fear.

Coastline view.

Another hour north and I find a new utopia, the town of Kilifi wrapped around a maze of palms. A river snakes inland, flanked by luxury resorts, sail boats, and imposingly broad pine trees. This is where the country’s expats come to holiday and they’re quick to point out the local neighbours. According to the Kilifi yacht club, half the town is owned by Colonel Gadaffi’s family. One even claims to have dated the Libyan’s niece. It feels more like Southern France than the Saharan desert though, white powerboats resting besides restaurants serving freshly grilled shellfish.

The beach is equally deserted as in Diani, waves gently rocking over a glaring expanse of white. There’s not even any beach boys trying to sell here. I lie back in the warm water, wondering how such tropical delights could become so abandoned. Even the monkeys don’t interrupt my slumbering and a thin coating of white perpetually clings to my toes.

Kilifi yacht club.

Every hour travelling north brings a new coastal retreat. After Kilifi comes Watamu, the waters alive with a kaleidoscope of fish and the beach echoing to the shouts of baboons. I stop just long enough to find a monkey troop and eat a Dairy Milk before their envious stares.

Next it’s Malindi, home to a dozen opulent resorts and the same impossibly white sand. Each has its own ambiance of space and serenity and its own sorry story of decay. Some resorts are still open, a handful of guests receiving fresh lobster meals for just €15. Others look like a dream home for squatters.

Two constants occupy the whole journey. One is of the postcard image, an uninterrupted swathe of bliss that responds to reverie. The other is of the locals. None of them confess to feeling scared. Nobody does anything different. For them it’s business as usual. But terrorism makes big headlines and the world is staying away. Which is exactly the Kenyan coast’s appeal. Travellers ache to visit an idyllic beach paradise before it becomes famous and overcrowded. So why not visit one after the fame, when everyone has left?