With every step, the sandy ground under my feet crunches with the sound of discarded plastic.
Over the last few years though, this hedonist hideaway shed some of its wild ways.
People here are sleeping on their resources, I want to show them how important the land can be.
A view of Lamu Town.
Cleaning up is part of getting the magic back.
A few steps away, lemongrass and Spanish lime seedlings sprout from cut-open jerrycans.
Theres no such thing as waste, Selassie says.
Shela Beach in Lamu.
Just resources in the wrong place.
For many, Shela was an eye-opener, a beautiful barometer of how simple life used to be.
We dont want people to think this is the next Mykonos or Ibiza.
A lounge area at Jannah.
Hospitality shouldnt be about me-me-me, she says.
It should be transformative, immersive, and connected.
Jannah is for people who dont look for hyper-sanitized travel.
The interiors at Jannah.
Its slightly out of ones comfort zone, but thats when you start growing.
A similar ethos resonates across the works of other Shela transplants.
NaiSabah is a way to go beyond Lamus surface, he tells me over frosty Tusker lagers one afternoon.
Breakfast at Jannah, served on the terrace of The Pink House.
We saw a cow with 35 kilograms of plastic in his stomach, he says.
Sailing onward along the Lamu Channel, we glide past mangrove forests and tidal creeks at a honeyed pace.
Thats what Lamu does to people, I recall Trzebinski saying.
A recent lookbook image from Ikeno.
You get sucked in and become deeply passionate about it.
A NaiSabah dhow.
On board a NaiSabah dhow.
