TOURIST PARADISES ARE not quite the same when you live in them rather than stay for a few days and return to the Big Smoke.

You don't notice it when you're put up in a hotel, but in this part of the world, the process of rotting and ripening is greatly hastened. Nothing lasts for long and decay is swift and unrelenting.

Buy a banana and it's rotten by the time you get home. Leave a knife on the kitchen table, and the ants are swarming around it in seconds. You can't help wondering what all this does to the inside of your body!

But the Coast is also a place where morals are often lax and where all kinds of shady characters get away with murder, quite literally. Early in April, Father Thorp was beaten to death by a gang on nearby Lamu - some reports attest that his vociferousness on behalf of Aids sufferers was spoiling the beautiful image of the place. The latest news suggests that the culprits may have been a few women

It's a sign of the island's rapid decline that gangs are even there, when it has always been famous for its safety, but the steady penetration (in more ways than one) into Lamu of dubious characters who buy up not only smart Swahili houses but the young boys who go with them is bound to take its toll. One gay British property owner is known to have infected at least three young men who have died of Aids but no-one has thought to prosecute him. He has now (if you'll excuse the pun) buggered off home.

Serious drug addiction also afflicts young men at the coast with no source of income or education but none of these things are taken into account by tourist officials anxious to bring in even more visitors (even if they are paedophiles). They are busy "rebranding" a part of the country where foreigners have been allowed to take over to such an extent that Africans must speak Italian if they want jobs, but there is no reciprocal agreement for Italians to understand and respect local languages and traditions.

There is no sign either of the taxes they should be paying to help clean up the town, or of inspectors who check whether minimal salaries are paid and health regulations obeyed. I wonder why.

But such hazards don't only affect foreigners: Last month, one of the most beautiful of the town's many Italian hotels burned down in a flash - fortunately, no-one was hurt. A naïve visitor expressed surprise that there was no fire brigade, given that so many quaint buildings are thatched by the plentiful "makuti" - leaves of the coconut palm.

Conspiracy theories quickly arose: The fire, said one, was started by the last lot of workers who were displaced with the coming of the new management and not paid - just a hint of the smouldering discontent that lies beneath the surface of this paradise destination. There is visible evidence of it in the half finished concrete structures that blight the coastline - either the money ran out, or trouble reared its ugly head and the owners ran for cover.

NOW THAT IT IS LOW SEAson on top of the general slowdown, the visitors are gone and the fancy shops have closed: There is hunger, begging, and despair. A tourist resort without tourists is a dismal place, though I for one am happy to have the beaches and the cafes to myself, and to be spared the sight of young women being lured to tables where foreign men talk to one another in strange languages ignoring their female companions and treating them as so much meat.

Their vulnerability is terrifying - there is no-one to protect them and they have little other choice in life than to sell their bodies while they are still young. The children of such unions don't fare well either, and after the novelty is over, abuse, violence and drugs set in.

Malindi is shocking for another reason: it is the only town I have visited in Kenya where old women beg - Mamas who are supposed to be revered by all African culture! A local pastor informed me that this was because they didn't want to stay at home and perform the traditional role of wife, mother and general dogsbody.

But the physical beauty remains undeniable. It is also a place where you are never alone. Reach into a cupboard and your hand will land on a frog or a scorpion. Look up into your makuti roof and you'll see that many bats made it their home long before you came along.

My unthinking bourgeois hand is about to brush away a spider's web when I am transfixed by the maker - a striking creature cut in two by black and white. I stop mid-way, nurture giving way instantaneously to nature. Lift out a pair of shoes and the straps have rotted; go to the piano to practise Beethoven and half the notes have stuck.

"Kazi iendelee." Work goes on whoever is in power. There is a myth that the Giriama are simply lazy and prefer to sit under coconut trees drinking palm wine all day, but the people I employ (it will soon look like a factory) won't even stop for a break. They are so delighted to have work, to be respected and paid fairly. Not a lot to ask, especially when the town boasts such wealthy residents.

My plumber is glad that the political situation has been resolved. As things stand, anyone lucky to have a job can expect to be paid 100 shillings a day, or two if it's construction. I don't know about the famous trickle-down economic theory; the only thing that trickles down with monotonous regularity here is sweat, forcing you to wash innumerable times a day and creating a mountain of laundry.