It was an arduous journey that seemed to span several days. As the bus bounced along the dirt roads north of Malindi, taking on armed security as we creeped closer towards the Somali border, my bum was crammed into the aisle on an upturned Coca Cola crate, the space between the seats either side of me marginally smaller than my seemingly child-bearing hips.
But several hours later, the masses poured out of the bus, and into the boats that ferry visitors over to the main island of Lamu, in the eponymous archipelago. Engine oil is washing about our feet as the lush green mangrove islands sit on the calm edge of the Indian Ocean.
And there began a whole new pace of life. Not a single car runs on the island - donkeys being the only form of transport, aside from the bare-feet that ply the cobbled streets.
Far from the madding crowd.