IRIS - HER EARLY YEARS.Air Kenya

Laura McDermid continues her stories about Iris McCallum in East Africa.

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From my veranda in Watamu the serene Indian ocean stretched out to meet the horizon in an endless embrace. Without the puffy white clouds that dotted the azure sky, their meeting point was almost imperceptible. The susurration of the breeze through the palm leaves and the soothing lapping of the waves cast a mesmerizing spell, lulling me into a peaceful trance.

“IRIS… IRIS, WHERE ARE YOU?” I jolted awake, unintentionally spilling some of the precious amber liquid from the bottle I clutched in my hand.

Over the preceding days, I had made a few repairs to the cottage and had packed my scant belongings into my VW Beetle in preparation for my move to Nairobi.

The owner of the cottage, Jack Irwin, had come to fetch the keys from me. “I’m on the porch, Jack. Grab yourself a Tusker.”

Jack rounded the corner of the cottage, followed by Gigis, the trusty stray dog who had adopted me at Ocean Sports Resort.

Whenever I flew back to Malindi airport, I would play a little game with Gigis. I’d buzz the beach, and like clockwork, Gigis would emerge from the cottage, racing toward Ocean Sports as fast as his stocky legs could carry him. He’d arrive like a bat out of hell, his breath coming in jagged gasps, his tongue lolling from his cavernous jaws like a wet pink sea serpent.