Kenya Part 2: Scuba Drama, Dolphin Queens, & That One Explosive Dinner
- Tricia Kampert
- May 25
- 14 min read
Updated: Jul 11
Ready for Part 2? Because we weren’t.
We left the savanna behind, thinking the wildest part of our trip was over. Cute. At first, the road was smooth… shockingly smooth… like Kenya was trying to lull us into a false sense of asphalt security after all that safari sludge we’d been swimming through. We were just starting to relax when a semi-truck’s tire exploded beside us with a BANG so loud, we briefly
considered diving for cover thinking we were part of a wild west shootout. But then, bam! The highway serenity exploded like a bad plot twist, and suddenly we were hurled into a red-dirt obstacle course that felt like Mario Kart: East African Edition. One minute we’re gliding on the serenity of smooth asphalt, the next we’re dodging other cars and trucks in the middle of the city, while tuk-tuks zipped past like over-caffeinated hornets with zero regard for lanes, rules, or our blood pressure.
As we inched closer to Watamu, the chaos didn’t fade, it simply got... creative. Roadside huts turned into informal hangout hubs, where locals sat back like unofficial greeters of the coast, sipping sodas, watching the Jeeps filled with tourists roll by, and waiting for something... or maybe nothing at all. Some ramshackle shacks boldly declared themselves “restaurants,” and we passed a tiny, confused building that swore it was a mall. Tuk-tuks buzzed around us like loyal chariots, shuttling sunburned tourists and beach-dreamers toward hidden coastal hideaways.
Watamu wasn’t just a destination—it was an experience before we even parked the car.
💃🏻Arriving at 7 Islands Resort – Jambo, Drinks, and Dance Battles
We pulled up to the 7 Islands Resort in Watamu, where the air smelled like salt, sunscreen, and a suspicious amount of possibility. Before we could even shake the safari dust from our shoes, we were ambushed—in the best way—by a welcome party straight out of a travel fever dream. “Jambo!” echoed from every corner as staff handed us drinks, shook their hips with alarming precision, and broke into song like we’d just walked onto the set of a beachfront Broadway musical. No time to adjust, no time to breathe; just smiles, swaying, and the realization that we were somehow both the audience and the stars of a very enthusiastic Kenyan greeting. Rehearsal? Please. We were freestyling joy now.
The lobby wasn’t so much a lobby as it was a tropical oasis designed by someone who clearly said, “What if Indiana Jones took a beach vacation?” It was gloriously open-air; no doors, just sunlight blasting through like it paid rent and a jungle of palm trees doing the absolute most and Christmas trees hanging around like party guests who didn’t get the memo the holidays were over. Sidewalks snaked off in every direction like some kind of luxurious treasure map: one led to the pool, another to the ocean, and at least one probably to a secret margarita already emotionally ready to meet us. The salty breeze whispered, “Welcome, you dusty explorers,” while our tired safari souls melted into the adventure/holiday version of a bear hug.
🌞Lizards, Lava-Like Heat, and a Room Built for Royalty👸
As we made our way to the room; sweaty, salty, and still slightly dazed from the welcome party; colorful iguanas skittered across the path like they were late for a meeting. Smaller lizards clung to the walls like tiny acrobats, casually judging us as we wheeled our bags past. The January heat clung to our skin like cling wrap; thick, sticky, and impossible to ignore.
Then we opened the door.
BAM. Arctic tundra. Instant body shock. The room was so cold it felt like stepping into a walk-in freezer that served up luxury instead of meat. To the left, a sleek little bathroom; straight ahead, the main event: a bed adorned with tropical flowers, welcoming chocolate, and a mosquito net draped like a royal canopy (or a very glamorous bug trap). There was a cozy couch for lounging and a door that led to a balcony with a view so good it deserved its own Instagram account, overlooking the endless blue of the Indian Ocean.
It was official: we were in paradise… with lizards.
🌊 Low Tide, High Drama: Welcome to the Beach Life in Watamu
When we first stepped onto the beach at 7 Islands Resort, we were hit with a minor existential crisis. The tide was so low it looked like the Indian Ocean had ghosted us. No sparkling waves at our feet. Just endless sand flats and confusion. Had we been catfished by Google Images?
But then we realized we could walk to the islands. Literally. The iconic Seven Islands that float like a dream offshore? At low tide, the islands weren’t just scenic; they were practically neighbors. We could strut barefoot across the sand like beach royalty, as if the Indian Ocean had parted just for us in some salty, sun-drenched miracle. And when the tide rolled back in? Boom—crystal-clear waters lapping at our ankles like nature’s air conditioning, just in time to save us from becoming human rotisserie chickens in the blazing equatorial sun.
Lining the edge of the beach like a pop-up runway of hustle were handmade huts built from sticks, tarps, and sheer entrepreneurial spirit. Inside, local artisans showed off their beaded jewelry, strappy sandals, and fabrics so bright they practically yelled in color. At first, it felt charming, authentic, even. But after the fifth “My sister, come look!” while you’re just trying to nap under the sun like a melted popsicle, it became clear: this beach wasn’t just a paradise, it was a full-time marketplace with no off switch.
But the real entertainment? That came courtesy of the beach hustlers: local entrepreneurs with the flair of cruise ship performers and the hustle of New York street vendors. They worked the sand like a runway at Milan Fashion Week, pitching boat tours and snorkeling trips with the confidence of game show hosts. Some sang, some danced, some offered “special price, just for you!”…all while never breaking eye contact. At first, it was fun. By the third lap around, it felt more like a full-court press in paradise.. Some were genuinely entertaining, some were... persistent. Too persistent.
The worst part? The invisible barrier. As long as you stayed on the resort property, the hotel staff gently shooed away over-eager vendors. But the second you dipped a toe in the sea? Game over. You were in international waters…and by that, we mean fair game for being haggled like you were walking through a floating market.
They followed, they hovered, they pitched tours as you tried to float in peace. It was part show, part hustle, and all part of the Watamu beach experience. Magical? Yes. Exhausting? Also yes.
But hey, paradise comes with a sales pitch.
🍽️ The Buffet That Time Forgot 🍝
Let’s just say… the resort meals weren’t exactly a culinary adventure. The buffet showed up every day like a dependable sidekick—same dishes, same flavors, slightly different arrangement. It was decent enough to keep us fueled, but by day three we were playing "guess the mystery meat" and eyeing the pasta bar like it owed us money. (Yes, we still hit it nightly. We’re not proud.)
The real MVPs? The waiters. Ever-smiling and lightning-fast, they somehow always knew when your glass was empty, even before you did. While the food may have lacked spice, the service definitely didn’t.
After days of sand, sea, and seafood buffets that began to feel a little... déjà vu, we decided to treat ourselves. Word on the beach was that an Italian-owned seaside restaurant, owned by folks who, coincidentally, lived in the same valley as us, and was considered a hidden gem of Watamu.
So, we ditched the noise and grabbed a tuk-tuk for a quiet nighttime ride through town. Unlike the daytime chaos of beachgoers and honking tuk-tuks doing ballet in the sand, the streets were eerily calm. A few headlights flickered past, and soon, we pulled up to what can only be described as coastal romance personified.
There was one…yes, one…table set up on the beach just for us, glowing under candlelight like something out of a movie scene that ends with someone getting proposed to. Spoiler: no on from our Kenya group is getting married. We ordered their traditional signature drink (the name escapes us, but the buzz did not), and then came the seafood spectacle: a massive platter with just-caught lobster, crab legs, calamari, shrimp, and more. Even the rice on the side felt bougie.
As we ate, the waves whispered nearby, little crabs peeked in and out of their sandy homes like nosy neighbors, and for once, it was quiet. No sales pitches. No DJs. No volleyballs flying overhead. Just us, the ocean, and the kind of dinner that made us forget every buffet tray that came before it.
It was the calm before the next storm of adventure, and for that moment, it was perfect.
🥥 Coconuts, Familiar Friends, and Daily Adventures
Each day on the beach started with the same soundtrack—literally. The beach DJ, who clearly had a deep emotional connection with a very specific playlist, blasted the same Afro-pop hits on loop like our time in Watamu was sponsored by one very persistent radio station. By day 5, we weren’t even mad, we were humming along and assigning choreography.
We had fully leaned into beach life, or at least gave it our best shot. One afternoon began with the satisfying thwack of a machete slicing into a fresh coconut, handed to us by a beachside vendor with a grin and zero warning about the gigantic spider dangling in the tree above our heads.
The coconut water was lukewarm, slightly earthy, and honestly… not the tropical dream I had imagined. I wanted to love it, truly, but let’s just say it was a one-and-done hydration situation.
However, the real magic was in who we shared it all with. As if by fate (or just great vacation planning), we kept running into our safari crew, now upgraded from fellow travelers to forever beach buddies. Together, we turned daily ocean dips into little adventures: swimming out to the sandbars and Islands, practicing our best synchronized sea flailing, and even squeezing in an impromptu game of beach volleyball.
One golden evening, when the sun was dripping like honey into the Indian Ocean and everything felt like it was running in slow motion, we even said yes to one of those “why not?” vacation moments: sunset yoga on a rock. Not just a rock, mind you—but a rock perched over the sea like we were cast members in some yoga influencer’s dream reel.
The breeze flirted with our hair, the ocean hummed below us, and we struck our best warrior poses while pretending our hips weren’t crying. The view? Unreal. The serenity? Peak Pinterest. The struggle to keep balance while a rogue hermit crab scuttled by? Hilarious.
For one blissful hour, the world melted into sun-kissed waves and deep breaths: it felt like the universe whispered, “You’re doing great, sweetie.”
And honestly? We believed it.
Between the thump of familiar beats, the splash of Indian Ocean waves, and the joy of spontaneous friendships, it all felt like the beach had turned into our own low-budget, sun-soaked sequel to Survivor: Watamu Edition, minus the drama, but with significantly more sunscreen.
Forget following the yellow brick road, we were full on headed to a place like Oz, magical and with its own little secrets.
Scuba, Sea Sickness, and Some Seriously Epic Underwater Moments
Feeling adventurous (and perhaps delusionally optimistic after one too many lukewarm coconuts), we signed up for a series of scuba dives that promised close encounters with the Indian Ocean’s finest. For three days straight, the diving company swept us up from the resort like VIPs who'd accidentally booked an action film instead of a beach vacation. No need to haggle with tuk-tuk drivers or dodge rogue mopeds; we were chauffeured with ease, fins and nerves in tow. We imagined ourselves as majestic underwater explorers. In reality? We bonded with a French couple who became forever friends over shared motion sickness and took turns dramatically dry-heaving over the side of the boat like a dysfunctional synchronized swimming team.
I was the ocean’s first victim: green as seaweed before the wetsuit was even zipped. By dive two, the nausea crown had been passed. By dive six, we were all humbled, salty, and slightly traumatized, but also completely awestruck. The underwater world of Watamu didn’t just deliver… it slayed.
Sea turtles cruised by like they owned the place (they do), rays fluttered beneath us like underwater ballerinas in slow motion, and the fish? A technicolor explosion straight out of a Pixar fever dream.There were coral reefs pulsing with color, bulbous starfish lounging like underwater art, and one truly cinematic moment where we were caught in the middle of a spinning school of barracudas. Picture being inside a glittering silver tornado, only the tornado has teeth and a bad attitude.
And then came the moray eels.
Lurking inside coral crevices, they watched us with glassy, unblinking eyes, their snakelike heads slowly emerging like villains in a nature documentary. Their jaws opened just enough to flash rows of tiny dagger-teeth, as if to say, “I dare you.” They were the kind of creatures that looked like they were plotting a coup, somewhere between sea serpents and mafia underlings. You don’t just swim past a moray eel. You survive it.
Between dives, as we floated on the surface like sunburnt sea otters catching our breath, they appeared; an ENTIRE POD of dolphins, slicing through the waves in a choreographed spectacle that made SeaWorld look like amateur hour. They leapt, twirled, and splashed so close we could feel the spray on our faces, like they’d been hired for a private performance and were absolutely nailing it. It was cinematic. It was spiritual. It was borderline flirtatious.
Just as we were busy falling in love with the dolphins, we spotted something far less Disney: the shredded remains of a lobster drifting eerily below. A not-so-subtle reminder that the Indian Ocean, while stunning, is also basically a seafood crime scene. Somewhere, a shark was belching contentedly and refusing to compost.
And yes, we waited, goggled and hopeful, for the elusive whale sharks. Did they show? Of course not. In true dramatic fashion, they waited until the literal day after we left to make their grand entrance. Because apparently, even marine life enjoys being fashionably late.
But when it came time to pay for our underwater escapades, things got... interesting. We needed cash, which meant a detour to a local ATM that looked more like a scene from a Jason Bourne movie than a beach town errand. The machine was tucked in a concrete corner, heavily guarded, with a small crowd loitering outside, not exactly the backdrop for financial peace of mind.
As we stepped up to the ATM, people started asking for money; some gently, some less so. Our response? A group-wide performance of “We Don’t Speak English,” starring our flawless Italian and blank stares. (Bravo to us, honestly. Oscar-worthy.) It worked like a charm, and we escaped with our shillings and limbs intact.
Then, back to the sea we went because nothing gets you excited to dive with moray eels like surviving a mildly terrifying cash withdrawal.
It was chaotic, magical, and slightly nauseating, but easily one of the most unforgettable parts of the trip. If you’re diving in Watamu, pack your sense of humor, your sea legs, and enough ginger chews to keep your insides where they belong. You’ll leave with salt in your hair, sand in your bag, and stories no one back home will believe.
Unless they’ve met a moray eel.
🌅 Sunset, Soulmates & Slight Public Humiliation at Watamu’s Best Restaurant
Just when we thought our luck (and digestive systems) had evened out, we reunited with our French diving soulmates, Amalie and Aurélien, for our next to last evening of laughter, grilled seafood, and picturesque views at Lichtaus, aka the most Instagrammable restaurant in Watamu. Picture this: hammocks suspended over the water, the golden hour casting a filter-worthy glow on everything, and the scent of sizzling barbecue in the salty air with playful monkeys suspended above us in trees.
We chose the cozy floor cushions, of course, because we’re cultured like that. Drinks flowed, stories were swapped, and for a moment, life felt like a travel documentary hosted by four effortlessly chic expats.
And then… disaster struck. (Because, obviously.)
Just as we were all bonding over grilled prawns and sunset philosophies, my stomach betrayed me with the subtlety of a marching band. I stood up, attempting grace, but halfway to the bathroom I projectile-vomited my entire dinner like a seafood confetti cannon. But wait! There’s more! I barely made it to the outdoor stall before my body decided to fully commit to the purge. I’m 99% sure the people at Table 6 heard everything. Including the sobs.
The real plot twist? While I was doubled over, contemplating the meaning of life and grilled squid, a girl entered a stall a few doors down… and launched into full-blown phone sex. Loudly. Passionately. Like she was being paid by the minute. Meanwhile, I was trying not to die or make eye contact with the gecko on the wall witnessing all of this.
I finally staggered out of the bathroom stall like a ghost of dinners past, only to find my friends packing up with quiet panic and concern for my insides. We made our way to the tuk-tuk just in time for me to dramatically throw up into the bushes like the grand finale I never wanted. That’s when we noticed a very large crowd of security personnel gathering around the infamous bathroom stall. We don’t know what happened to that girl, but we’ll always remember her… mostly because we were both making very questionable sounds that night.
Naturally, we joked with Amalie and Aurélien: “Every time we meet, someone throws up.” It's tradition now. A disgusting, oddly heartwarming, cross-cultural tradition.
Ah, friendship. 💕
🔴 One Last Dance in Red: The Grand Finale
For our final night in Watamu, we ditched the swimsuits, shook off the sand, and turned formal fabulous for the resort’s Red Party, a sunset sendoff that felt like prom, vacation edition. Everyone showed up looking like tropical royalty, dressed to impress with sun-kissed skin and a farewell buzz in the air.
We danced with local Kenyans under twinkle lights and island stars, the beat of African drums mixing with the DJ’s best crowd-pleasers. Our drinks were poured generously, as always, by the resort’s undisputed cocktail king, the bartender who knew our orders before we did (a dangerous and beautiful talent).
Dinner was set poolside, all elegance and laughter, served by none other than Elvis; yes, the Elvis; the waiter who felt more like family than staff by now. We swapped stories, toasted to new friendships, and promised to meet again somewhere on this big, ridiculous planet (He’s a father now! Congratulate him in the comments!)
And as the night deepened, we wandered down to the beach in our formal wear, shoes in hand, the sea breeze tugging at our clothes and our hearts. With the moonlight silvering the waves, we said our goodbyes the only way we knew how: dancing in the sand, salty, sun-kissed, and completely content.
It wasn’t just an ending, it was a whole mood. A memory. A mic drop.
🌍 What Kenya Taught Us (Besides How to Run from Baboons and Dodge Eels)
As the dust settled, literally and metaphorically, we found ourselves reflecting on more than just the wildlife sightings, beach cocktails, or surprise food poisoning episodes. Kenya gave us more than stories for Instagram or a passport stamp. It handed us a mirror.
We met people living with modest means, earning salaries that wouldn’t even cover a single tourist dinner and yet, they radiated joy. They laughed hard, danced often, and welcomed us like old friends. It was humbling to see how little it takes to be rich in spirit. While we chase convenience, they create community. Where we fill silence with noise, they fill it with connection.
We learned that a slower pace doesn't mean a lesser life. That kindness isn't reserved for convenience. That culture is more than tradition; it's heartbeat, it’s pride, it’s song.
From the vast wilderness of Tsavo to the salty breeze in Watamu, from sharing stories with new friends to being serenaded upon arrival, from learning to haggle at beach huts to sitting in stunned silence at the beauty of a pod of dolphins, Kenya peeled us back. It showed us how small we are, and how big life can be when you let it move you.
So no, we didn’t just go on a trip. We got perspective. We got grit. We got a giant, unexpected hug from the universe disguised as a giraffe’s head in our jeep window.
Kenya changed us. And we’re better for it.
Ready for your own transformation?
Let’s plan your trip.
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