In Jambiani there’s a famous reggae joint (no pun) right on the beach. The food’s hot, the beer’s cold, and the weed is kinda average. You can score a smoke for free, though, if you play your cards right, so it all evens out. Next to the bar there’s a sign saying “Who Jah bless, no man curse”. Can’t argue with that.

My woman and I were feeling rather blessed ourselves on this fine eve as we sank into two lounge chairs with our tootsies in the sand. Not only have we managed to finally break out of the technocratic clusterfuck that China has proven to be over the last two years, but, having arrived on the island relatively unscathed only a few hours earlier, it started to dawn on us that we’ve managed to survive a twenty-seven-hour journey spanning five international airports during a Gestapo-style global lockdown. This, by Jah and all the rest of ‘em, was no mean feat. Still high on jet lag, Valium and the last dregs of adrenaline we could rustle up between us, we cackled like crazies as we raised two frosty bottles of Kilimanjaro in celebration.