Lamu Island
Make Way for Donkeys!
Our flight to Lamu from Nairobi was a 45 minute straight shot east, with a slight turn to the north nearer to the coast. I’m not a fan of small planes, but the flight was smooth, albeit a bit noisy with the jet props. There were only a few people on board the 50-seater plane, and we were required to wear masks at all times and had been through several hand washing, temperature taking sessions since arriving at the airport. I watched out the window as we crossed lush green hills, dotted with farms, with red dusty roads snaking between the trees. Before long, the earth flattened out to a light, sandy brown, speckled with brittle bushes and thorny trees and I craned my neck downward to the arid land below hoping to see some wildlife. Of course we were too high at about 14000ft, but I knew they were down there somewhere and couldn’t tear myself away, just in case there was a herd of elephants or a pride of lions on the move. Out of the right-hand side of the plane we passed Mount Kilimanjaro, her flat top peeping up through the clouds. We planned to return to Nairobi via train and I made a mental note to sit on the left-hand side of the train so I could get a good view on the way back.
Soon the turquoise blue of the Indian Ocean came up to meet us as we made our decent on Manda Island. An uninhabited island to the north east of Lamu, it was home to the airport and a few government buildings and warehouses and we would have to take a boat over to Lamu town. The island used to be inhabited, but lack of water had forced those who lived there to move to Lamu or the mainland. Safely on the ground we walked to the terminal, washed our hands, had our temperatures taken and handed over the correct paperwork. Looking back at the plane to see where our luggage might be, I saw a large cart being loaded and a tall, wiry, sand-caked man waiting to pull the cart to the terminal building. When he arrived, he dropped the cart handles and everyone went about unloading their own bags. Once we walked to the main door, we were inundated with offers of a boat to the island, but we were told to look for ‘David’ – he would find a boat for us and make sure we, and our luggage, were safely deposited at the apartment we had rented.
Two more thin, older guys took our bags and we followed them both, plus David to the jetty where we gingerly descended the slippery steps to the wooden speed boat that would carry us across the channel to Lamu Island. The engine revving, the bags on board and everyone sitting on wooden benches, we jostled against other boats and moved away from the pier, the throttle opened up and we were off. Always a thrilling ride, the speedboat banged and bounced and the ocean spray splattered our faces, cooling us down and refreshing us after our flight. We eagerly looked ahead to get our first view of Lamu and saw many boats and dhows bobbing on the ocean and rows of square-looking buildings lined up along the shore. We arrived at another busy stone jetty and once again through the shouts and hand gestures of the boatmen, we made our way alongside other boats and were told to climb over the next two boats to the steps. Holding on to anything that looked solid, we made our way across and our bags followed. Up more slippery steps and we were on solid ground. The guys came up the steps and we followed behind as they marched us through the town to the apartment. Off the jetty and into the street we were greeted by donkeys, motor bikes, men and boys pulling carts, vendors sitting under parasols selling everything from fresh fish to mobile phones. The town was the height of activity and to say we were on sensory overload was an understatement. The road was block paved but the sidewalks were still rubble and dust and where there were donkeys there was also donkey poo! We followed the guys, who were walking at quite a pace considering our heavy bags, and we attempted to dodge the motorbikes, donkeys and the poo, while trying to take in the surroundings, trying to remember where we were going, as we turned left and right into narrow streets, and into the labyrinth which was Lamu Town. We eventually came upon a large portico and David led us through a large double wooden door and into a cool vestibule, with rattan chairs, stone sculptures and sisal rugs. We climbed a couple of flights of stairs, cool limestone soothing our hot feet, and arrived at the apartment. This would be our home for the next two-and-a-half weeks. It was also cool, with large wooden shutters that opened all the way across the apartment allowing the fresh ocean breeze to waft in. We had a view of the turquoise water, although not the open ocean, but the channel we had just crossed. Pleasant enough to sit and look out on while sipping our cocktails. Closer where flat rooftops and we would come to recognize laundry day, when all wet items were laid on the concrete to dry. A large bathroom led into a bedroom with a four-poster bed, mosquito netted, and in the main area was a kitchen, with cooker, fridge and sink. There was another bedroom and bathroom with a huge sunken stone bathtub which I looked forward to using at least once during our stay. With a few words from David about turning the water on and waiting a while for it to get hot – of course, we were now used to that – and his direction to the pool, the nearest restaurant and how he could help with dhow sunset cruises and other trips, we were ready to settle in and unpack.
Once our clothes were put away, we explored the kitchen. Once again, we were optimistic looking at the photos, and once again a little disappointed at what really was on offer. The cooker was great, gas and working! No oven, but we didn’t need one. A microwave, adequate, but again something we wouldn’t use. There was a large porcelain sink, with a plug and the water trickled out of the tap, not yet hot, but we were hoping that by later in the day the solar would have kicked in. Just enough cutlery to prepare and eat a meal, along with just enough plates, glasses and cups. Unfortunately the cutting boards were so gross, I refused to use them. There was a kettle, a coffee pot that was broken, a toaster that had the wrong plug for the socket so was useless. Marcel sharpened the one knife so it was useable and there was a corkscrew and the pots and pans were adequate. We asked for tea-towels, a cloth for wiping dishes, and looked in trepidation at the bath towels…again I think they were originally white but the washing water had rendered them to a lovely shade of beige. The sheets were passable, but after a few days, I found others that were newer and changed them. The ceiling fans and stand up fans were a nice addition, adding to the breeze, but really needed a good clean, which I would have done, but feared that once I started dismantling them, they would actually fall apart. We explored the building and went to look at the pool which looked inviting. It was on the ground floor, inside, and resembled a Roman Bath, with large alcoves where you could sit and relax, enjoy a Jacuzzi and swim the long stretch down the middle if you needed some exercise.
We were hungry, so we set off for dinner at the closest restaurant, one which was popular with westerners, selling alcohol and fresh fish. We left one phone in the apartment so we could use google to find our way back, and took a picture of the portico and the barber shop next door in case we became lost and needed to ask directions, there being no actual address. We found this all over Kenya and wondered about the postal system. There is one, although we never saw a mailbox, a postman or a vehicle in all our time here. The restaurant was only a short walk away, down the narrow street, but as we would discover, over the next couple of weeks, walking the streets was exhausting. Not only did we have to try to make a note of landmarks in order to remember our way back, but had to step over the donkey poo, the open drains, which on hot days tested our olfactory system to the limit, other pedestrians, mostly barefoot children, or heavily clothed Muslim women, donkeys wandering the town, or the heavily laden beasts being used to transport all manner of goods, mostly coral bricks and bags of cement for building, with carts and motorbikes transporting goods or people to and fro. Also, as soon as the boatmen or a vendors spotted us, which was almost immediately as we stepped out the door, we would be inundated with offers of boat rides, fresh coconut to drink, invites to enter stores ‘look for free’, the boda boda guys asking if we needed a ride, kids shouting and taunting ‘Mzungu, Mzungu’ – ‘foreigner’. All were very friendly, polite, and as long as we were firm with our ‘No Thank yous’ they would eventually leave us alone, but every venture out was a test of our patience. We learned to plan our trips, heading straight to where we wanted to go, buy what we needed and use one or two regular people with regard to boat taxis so we could move through the streets and throngs of people with intent. It was not the type of town where you could wander aimlessly; if you looked lost or hesitated someone would come forward, offer to take you to places you may or may not want to go, for a fee, offer you goods you may or may not want to buy and so walking with purpose and intent was the best strategy. As the days went by, we became adept at avoiding some of the more persistent vendors and relaxed a little as we walked to Shela, the next town on the coastline, about 2.5 km away.
Our first meal of grilled seafood done, a bottle of wine downed, and our first introduction of a live Swahili band, which we thoroughly enjoyed, we surprisingly managed to find our way back to the apartment. We were looking forward to a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep, ready to explore further the next day. The shower heads were modern and all the taps and fittings were good quality. However, the water was another story. The pressure was so low, it was almost impossible to shower, and neither was the water hot, not even warm, tepid at best, even after a full day of hot sun. The next morning we contacted the management and they promised to have a plumber take a look. We tumbled into bed, cozy in our gossamer net and slept soundly….until 4.50am!
So we knew that Lamu was a 90% Muslim town, with a mosque close to the apartment, and had been informed that the call to morning prayer only lasted a minute. We were aware of the Arab influence and realized we would be seeing a different side of Kenya. But at 4.50am, when the call to prayer is coming from a loud speaker less than 20 feet from your bedroom window, it is a shock to the system. We were abruptly woken by the crackle of the speaker, and then the whiney, nasal mantra of the imam. This lasted for about 5 minutes and as each morning passed, we recognized some of the words, or sounds and knew when it was almost finished. Unfortunately, we learned that there were another 23 mosques in the town! As soon as our guy had finished, another started up, further away this time, with others joining in around the town. As the days passed we came to realize that ‘our guy’ had the best voice. It was quite soothing and he had a depth and warble that we didn’t hear from the others. We started ranking them all out of ten, ours being 10 and the remainder all falling well below that…it was like our own version of “The Voice” every morning at 4.50am! Many of them were very bad, or so it sounded to our ears. Unfortunately, in order to improve their voices, it seemed they thought the solution would be to turn the speaker up louder. This did not improve the voice one iota, and made the old and poorly maintained equipment crackle and pop even more, the static just adding to the cacophony bellowing across the rooftops.
We became used to the timely calls, which also took place in the evenings and sometimes throughout the day, and when we were out and the calls came, we would see the men make their way to the mosques to attend to their prayers. But these weren’t the only sounds that became part of our daily routine. After the early morning call to prayer, the thump of speed boats could be heard, ferrying people to work and school, and over to the airport to collect cargo, which would be coming in that day. Then there was the ever present cockerel, squawking to the arrival of a new day. Shortly after, we would hear the donkeys, one in particular seemed to have a problem heeawing, starting off on a strong note, but gradually becoming hoarse, and sounding like he was really miserable, nobody taking heed to his complaints. The noise echoed through the streets and we were never sure from which direction it came, otherwise we would have gone looking for poor old Eyeore to see if he needed help. There was a donkey sanctuary on the island, which cared for the many wandering ailing donkeys in the town and thought he might need a visit. Once the mosques, boats and animals had woken everyone, then there would be the clanging of pots and pans from close-by houses where mothers prepared breakfasts of maize and milk, babies crying, kids shouting and laughing in the streets, the mothers scolding them to get to school. As the day wore on we would hear the rumble of propellers bringing more tourists to the island, the motorbikes revving their engines and sounding their horns at anything that was in their way, and as the wind picked up in the afternoon the constant banging of doors and windows throughout the building. Early evening brought the kids to the mosque to recite the Quran and we chuckled at the sound of one particular little boy who seemed to think that the louder you shouted the more pious you would be, his voice stretched to the limit to be the loudest and the best in class! Then, especially at the weekend, the TVs would start with football games playing at full throttle. It was weird for us to hear the very English commentators blaring out across the rooftops, the scores and moves of players, threads of British humor woven throughout the commentary, which we laughed at but were probably lost on the avid watchers. Every day brought a new event to the town. On several days there were weddings. Very loud music playing out over the town; women screeching and hollering, all dressed in gawdy nylon dresses, and hundreds of people running in and out of the mosque, delivering food and good wishes. There were promotions for Safaricom, the national telephone service and visitors from Senators, promising new policies and reform to the crumbling town, for a fee of course. All these events were accompanied by very loud music, all day long. Some of it was nice; a good African beat, but always way too loud!
The next morning, we awoke and decided to explore the town. We needed supplies and decided to find the local market. The water situation would hopefully improve, so a quick wash and splash and we were off. Once again, our senses were on high alert, dodging the donkey poo and the open drains that criss-crossed the streets. The narrow streets were lined with doors to private houses, shops, workshops and eating places and it was difficult to see what was being sold unless you poked your head into the doorway. Browsing was almost impossible as the vendor would constantly banter, showing you his wares, advising of the best price, good quality and how business was slow and we were his ‘first customers today’. Funny, we were always the first customers of the day – even at 5pm. It was difficult to say no to many of them, knowing that the tourist industry was down 90% and their livelihood depended on it, but we couldn’t save everyone’s business. The streets were congested with people going about their day, motorbikes and donkeys and I was reminded of the time I visited Tangier as a teenager, losing myself and my friends in the Kasbah. Barefooted children played in the streets with plastic bottles cut in half, with the tops as wheels, attached to a stick, their only toy. Another had a bicycle tire and a stick with a hook and ran up and down pushing the tire with his stick, until it hit the wall and fell into the drain. There was no hierarchy in the streets, pedestrians, boda bodas, donkeys and men pulling carts all juggled for their spot, no-one having right of way, although the donkeys probably succeeded in moving furthest and quickest; no-one wants a donkey stepping on their toes or pushing them up against the sharp coral walls! On one occasion we walked further back into the town, away from the seafront and the main street. We found a hotel that baked bread, the liquor store, and a lovely bead shop. As we turned left and right, north and south, we often came upon derelict areas and areas where houses were being constructed. However, it was sometimes difficult to tell one from the other. Was this a house under construction or a house that had been abandoned and left to crumble? Other areas were just piles of rubble with trash thrown on top, sometimes donkeys munching on the left-over vegetation, and sometimes a small fire burning to keep stench down. Seeing this and small semi-naked children, with women clad in their black niqabs and flowing black dresses I thought this is what it must have been like in Aleppo, without the bombs and obviously not as dangerous of course, but the landscape certainly resembled those newsreels I’d seen on the TV.
The narrow streets, while cool and shady, were airless and claustrophobic, and also easy to get lost in, so we usually only ventured to the main street and the main seafront. As we walked from the apartment to one of these streets on our daily jaunt, our noses were treated to some highly pungent smells. From the donkey poo, the open drains, especially on washing day, with the sweet and sour smell of washing detergent, to the fishy odors on the seafront where the vendors were hacking and filleting large tuna, kingfish and octopus, and the choking fumes of the taxi boats and boda bodas. Not all the smells were unpleasant though. In the early evenings we would smell the lovely odors of spices, ginger and garlic being fried ready for dinner. The ‘Choma’ which is grilled meat, wafted through the town for most of the day along with the tempting smell of deep fried dough, which is one of their sweet street offerings. Mangoes and pineapples scented the markets along with the rosewater perfume that the lady vendors wore daily, and incense sticks burned inside stores and in our apartment. Along with the briny seaside smells as the tides came and went, our noses were on overdrive for most of the time we were in Lamu.
We scouted out a couple of young boys who were selling fish and we bought 1 kilo of medium sized yellow tail fish for dinner, $4, and asked if they could get some squid for us in a couple of days. Glad to have a job, they agreed and cleaned and wrapped the fish for us and we promised to be back. The seafront was much breezier and open, and as we exited the small streets we would have to run the gauntlet of hustlers desperate for business, from boat taxis, boda bodas, coconuts, sandals and roadside snacks. We would smile politely and decline, sometimes having to be firmer. It was annoying and sometimes we would take the inner street first, just to avoid having to continually turn them down. We found the market and selected a stall whose produce looked fresh and filled our bags with spinach, onions, carrots, cilantro, garlic, ginger, tomatoes, peppers, and sweet potatoes. All for $6…We would be back for more!
Walking back to the apartment, along the seafront, we were glad of the sea breeze, our skin feeling grimy from the heat and dust. We were looking forward a nice cleansing shower when we got back. Alas, this was not to be. The water did appear to be coming out of the tap with a little more urgency, but was still only tepid. We agreed to wait for another 24-48 hours so that the sun could heat up the solar and the water and decided to go for a plunge in the pool. It was refreshing to say the least. With no sun on the water at all, it was downright icy, not quite comfortable enough to enjoy, and unfortunately the jets were not working, with just a light pump to move the water around. As the days went on, it appeared that the pool seemed to be used by other guests to wash off the sand after they returned from the beach, and I suspect they did not have water pressure either. It spoiled what was a beautiful place to relax, beautifully designed, but not maintained to the high standard of the architecture and décor.
Over the next few days we found some more restaurants, one just down the street with a rooftop eating area, where I had a lovely lobster and chips. It was a local restaurant and was frequented by many of the vendors at lunchtime. We also found another local fish restaurant on the seafront, where we would sit and drink fruit juices, watching the chaos on the quay. We had an amazing biryani at another local hotel restaurant, a huge plate each, with two juices, all for $6. We found a very nice shop selling beads, artifacts and textiles and found out it had a lovely coffee shop in the back courtyard. We would visit there often for a coffee, or a smoothie and had breakfast there on a couple of mornings. The owner was English and had been there for 33 years! I couldn’t imagine being on that small island for such a long time. She was very pleasant and her employee showed us where the ‘supermarket’ was; along the narrow street, across the square and up a set of steps and the room opened up into a small convenience store which sold all we needed; soap, toothpaste, yogurt etc. We would never have found it by ourselves! Our favorite restaurant was in a small guest house in Shela, the next town along the coast. We would walk there, about 2.5km, dodging the boda bodas and donkeys, the path coming to an end halfway, so we had to walk on the beach, at low tide though, and sit in the open air restaurant sipping decadent iced coffee, watching the dhows and taxi boat going back and forth to the resorts and airport. We ate grilled calamari, prawns and a creamy fish curry, going back several times. We enjoyed the fresh sharp taste of limes, in our juices, our G&Ts and in the food, but one of our favorite fruits that was in abundance here was the passion fruit. We put it on our yogurt, sucked the juice and flesh out of them for a quick pick-me-up, and had them mixed in our juice drinks with mango and orange juice. They were cheap and we couldn’t get enough of them. We enjoyed the spicy smoky fish served in most restaurants, the creamy curries with hot spicy chilies and the sweet creamy mangoes which we had daily for breakfast. We did visit a couple of expensive western resorts too – Peponis in Shela and the Majlis Resort on Manda Island, along with the eco Diamond Resort. At Majlis we were able to use the pool and had a wonderful seafood lunch, wine and a fantastic view of the Indian Ocean. The resorts were lovely, and geared towards the western palate and service, expensive, and full on weekends for those rich Kenyans fleeing the cities of Nairobi and Mombasa. As we lay on the sun bed looking up at the cerulean sky through the wafting palm fronds, we could have been on any tropical island in the world, and I remember thinking the same thing when we were in Malaysia and Thailand. To really see the country and culture you have to visit the cities, the smaller towns and get off the tourist trails, even if the sights and smells are unfamiliar and sometimes unpleasant. Still, it was a peaceful day away from the town and a delicious lunch with a good bottle of wine!
One day we walked to Shela to watch the Dhow race. David, our contact at the apartment, was part of a team with a Dhow and so we stood on the shoreline, cheering him on as he sailed past us, along with his crew mates. There seemed to be an overabundance of crew members and in all the 20 dhows or so, it seemed everyone who could, piled onto the boat to be part of the race. These wooden wide bottomed boats originally came from Zanzibar and are still used for fishing by many local fishermen. The mast is not fixed, only wedged to the bottom of the boat and to the cross beam which holds the sail and is moved by hand when the boat needs to tack. Some days after the boat race, where David came second to last, we went out on a Sunset cruise with him and a couple of crew members and sat in awe as they maneuvered the sail and mast to catch the wind. We were provided local snacks of potato fritters and samosas, and took a bottle of wine. We were so engrossed in the mechanics of the boat, or lack thereof, and our refreshments, that we almost missed the beautiful sunset! We enjoyed being on the water and although we walked to Shela most days, we always took a taxi boat back. Being on the turquoise water looking out over to the golden sandy beaches was always calming. We would see the white alabaster buildings of the town, uneven and crowded together along the quayside, like teenagers teeth before the orthodontist. The beige dust from the rubble ridden streets would swirl in the sea breeze, and brightly colored boats bobbed along the quayside waiting for the next fare. Boats carrying plastic bottles for water, sacks of grain and cement, crates full of bread or booze jostled for their spot along the quayside waiting to offload. Many people would gather to see what goods were coming, and whoops and shouts of joy could be heard when something had arrived that had been ‘out of stock’ for some time. The items would be loaded onto carts which were pulled by wiry old men, or onto the backs of donkeys, which would then be herded to their destination, back in the narrow streets of the town. Fish arrived at the quayside at 3pm most days. Huge tuna and marlin, which would be gutted and filleted right there on the wall of the quay, the cats prowling for the unwanted innards. As I took all this in, I imagined that this was how the ports would have looked like in Victorian times in England, and how many ports around the world still operated in this way. We went back to get our squid from the young boys as arranged, but alas they had not been able to get any. Not sure they had the money to purchase for us, but we bought another large fish from another vendor. He offered to clean and gut it for an extra $1, and we carried it home and pan fried it for dinner.
Over the nine days we were in Lamu we visited the Fort in the town and also the Museum where we learned the history of Lamu, how the sultan of Oman had great influence, how it was a well known fishing town, and where the Arab culture influenced the African culture. We learned about some of their marriage rituals and also what the carvings meant on those lovely wooden doors that graced the front of many of the larger, more affluent homes in the town. We enjoyed the beaches, the boat rides and the resorts but we found it difficult to fill the days, not being ones to lounge around for too long! The water situation did not improve throughout our stay. While we were resigned to the fact that the water would never be hot, we were getting tired of not having enough to really shower in. Washing my thick hair took forever! Marcel contacted the management company, the company that promoted the apartment (similar to AirBnB), and was continually told that the water was good and it was hot! Nobody ever came to the apartment to check. No plumber came, although we were told he had been twice. We went up to the roof area where we could see the solar panels, and also a large water heater which was not working. The sheets and towels were changed again, but the sheets were in such a bad state I had to rip them off and hunt for alternatives in cupboards in the other bedroom. Gone were my plans to soak in a large bubble bath – even if the water was flowing, it would probably drain the whole tank to fill the bath! We decided it was time to move to another apartment, as it appeared nothing was going to be done about the lack of water. Marcel did some research and we found a house about 5 minutes from our location. It had a master bedroom and bathroom and large balcony on the top floor, a sitting room, dining room, bedroom and bathroom on the middle floor and a kitchen, and courtyard on the ground floor. I really needed a good shower so we booked, packed and moved out.
The house came with a couple of ‘houseboys’ who would clean, take care of us with regard to shopping, excursions etc and even cook for us if needed. They were very pleasant and couldn’t do enough for us, carrying our bags, showing us around and offering their services. They lived with their families right next door. We settled in again, enjoying the view across the town, no laundry laying on roofs this time, and it seemed quieter with the nearest loud speaker being about 200 yards away, and no wailing donkey. We asked Dixon if he would shop for us the next day, and pick up some fresh bread from the hotel bakery, which was just around the corner. We had plans to go to one of the resorts for the day for lunch and a dip in the pool. The next morning we left a list, money and we set off to get our taxi boat to Manda island and Majli resort.
We had a perfect day, lunch, wine swimming, lovely boat ride there and back, but on arriving at the house we found chaos. The door had been broken down, actually split in two, and the two houseboys were frantically trying to explain that while they were out getting the bread, someone had broken down the door and they came home to find our passports in the kitchen sink! Someone had broken in and been through our things…Marcel’s rucksack was gone, a pair of his shorts?? A couple of Kikois (the cloths that guys where around their waists like skirts) and $200 which we had hidden as an emergency fund. No other things were taken…our camera, binoculars, iPads and Kenyan shillings were all still there. The rucksack was empty as Marcel had cleared it out that morning, except the passports and we assume that the thief did not want to have those in his possession. A little shocked, we met the manager of the apartment, another English lady who had been there for 22 years, who took us and Dixon to the police station to report the incident. This was an experience in itself. A young policeman took a statement from Dixon; then we were ushered into a room with who we think was the head policeman where he questioned Dixon, with the manager, who thankfully spoke Swahili, clarifying some points. The policeman took a long look at Marcel and myself and then asked ‘does she belong to you?’ Marcel explained that I was his wife! He asked Dixon about the door, scolding him for not taking care of our things and that the door was obviously of poor quality! Not once did he ask for a description of the items stolen, although he did ask how much cash had gone. After half an hour, we were dismissed and he advised that he would have a report for us the next day. The owner of the apartment had been contacted, was apologetic and hired an ‘Askari’ – an armed guard, to sit outside the door for the rest of our stay. We went to bed that night, a little apprehensive, wondering who could have done this. Was it someone we knew? Whoever it was had been watching the house, noticing we had gone for the day and watching to see when the guys left and the place would be empty. We slept lightly and in the morning, decided that we had had enough of Lamu, feeling a little unsettled, wondering if they would come back, now they knew what we had and so we decided to fly out.
We contacted our friend who had helped us with flights before and she changed our arranged flight to one that would be leaving that morning at 11.30am! We downed our coffee, packed our bags, gave the food and supplies to the houseboys and their families and took a boat to the airport. We weren’t sure where we were going, only to Mombasa, but would find somewhere before our house sit started in a weeks’ time. As we crossed the estuary towards the airport I looked back at the town…all the wonderful experiences we had had were now tainted and because of my bad mood all I could think was….F**k you Lamu!
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