The White Masai (18 page)

I ask how much longer we’re staying here. Two or three days, comes the reply, and then each family goes back to where they were living. I’m horrified at having to stick it out here for so long with no water to wash with and all the cowpats and flies. The thought of Switzerland comes
creeping back, and once again I feel weak. I don’t dare venture any further than a couple of yards into the bush to answer the call of nature. I would prefer to live a more normal life again with my boyfriend.

That afternoon Father Giuliani looks in and brings me some bananas and a letter from my mother. The letter cheers me up, even though my mother is very worried because she hasn’t heard from me for so long. The priest and I exchange a few words, and then he’s off again. I take the opportunity to write a letter back, mentioning my illness only briefly and playing it down so as not to worry my mother. Nonetheless I hint that I might be back in Switzerland soon. I intend to post the letter when we get back to the Mission. My mother will have to wait three weeks to receive it.

Eventually we depart. We pack up quickly, piling as much as possible into the Land Rover and the rest loaded on to two donkeys. Naturally we get to Barsaloi long before Mama, and so I drive directly to the river. Because Lketinga won’t leave the car unattended, we drive along the dried up riverbed until we get to an isolated spot. I get out of my smoky clothing, and we wash each other thoroughly. The soap suds run black off my body, and there’s a layer of soot on my skin. Lketinga washes my hair in several goes.

I haven’t seen myself naked for some time, and I notice how skinny my legs are. After washing I feel like I’ve been reborn. I wrap myself in a kanga and begin washing the clothes. It’s as hard work as ever getting the dirt out with cold water, but with enough Omo it eventually works. Lketinga helps me and shows how much he loves me by helping wash my skirts, T-shirts and even underwear. No other man would wash the clothes of a woman.

I really enjoy this togetherness. We hang our wet clothing over bushes or on the hot rocks and sit down in the sunshine, me in the kanga, Lketinga completely naked. He gets his little mirror out and starts painting his clean face artistically with orange-coloured ochre and a little stick. His long elegant fingers do this so exactly that it’s a joy to watch. He looks fantastic. He turns to me and laughs: ‘Why you look always to me, Corinne?’ ‘Beautiful, it’s very nice,’ I reply. But Lketinga shakes his head and says you shouldn’t say such things, it’s bad luck.

Our clothes dry quickly, and we pack everything up and set off. We stop in the village and go to the
chai
-house, where there’s not only
chai
but also
mandazi
, little sweet spiced pastries. The building is a mishmash between a big
manyatta
and a wooden shed. There are two fires on the
ground with
chai
boiling on each. Along the walls planks serve as benches for three old men and two morans. ‘Hey,
Supa Moran
,’ they greet us. ‘
Supa
,’ Lketinga replies. We order
chai
, and the two
morans
look at me as Lketinga takes up the conversation with the same habitual phrases which by now I understand. People start by asking a stranger the name of their tribe, where they live, how their family and animals are, where they’ve just come from and where they’re going. Then they talk about recent events. That’s how the work of the newspaper or telephone gets done out in the bush. When we’re walking somewhere we have this conversation with everyone we meet. These two
morans
also want to know who the
mzungu
is. Then that’s the conversation over and we leave the teahouse.

Mama is back by now and busy cleaning and renovating our old
manyatta
. The roof has to be repaired with cardboard or sisal matting; there’s no cow dung to be had for the moment. Lketinga and James go off into the bush to chop down some more thorn bushes to repair and raise our fencing. Some of the people who stayed in Barsaloi were followed home a few days ago by two lions that ripped apart their goats. They came in the night and leaped over the thorn-bush fencing, seized the goats and disappeared into the night. Because there were no warriors, there was no one to pursue them. So all the fences have been built higher. Everyone is talking about the event and saying we have to watch out because they’ll be back. Our corral would be more difficult because we have the Land Rover parked in front of the hut, taking up half the space.

In the evening our animals come back. We can hear them from miles off, thanks to their Swiss cowbells. Lketinga and I go to meet them. It’s a pretty sight watching the animals driven back home: the goats in front, the cows behind.

Our evening meal consists of
ugali
, which Lketinga will only eat late at night when everyone is asleep. At last we can make love, even though it has to be quietly because Mama and Saguna are sleeping just five feet away. Even so it’s good to feel his silky skin and touch again. After this lovemaking, Lketinga whispers: ‘Now you get a baby!’ I have to laugh because he sounds so convinced. At the same time I suddenly realize I haven’t had a period for ages. But I put it down to my poor health rather than a pregnancy, though the thought of a baby sends me to sleep happy.

In the night I feel a stomach cramp and suddenly realize that the diarrhoea is starting again. I panic and gently nudge Lketinga, but he’s
sound asleep. Oh my God, I’ll never find the gate in the fence! And then there might be lions around! I crawl silently out of the
manyatta
and look around to see if there is anyone about. Then I squat behind the Land Rover and let go. It seems endless, and I’m ashamed because I know it’s a serious misdemeanour to answer a call of nature like this inside the corral. On no account can I use paper, so I clean myself with my underwear and hide it in the undercarriage of the Land Rover. I cover up the mess I’ve made with sand and hope that in the morning there’ll be no evidence of this nightmare. Worried, I crawl back into the
manyatta
, but nobody wakes. Lketinga just grunts.

As long as it doesn’t happen again. I last until the morning and then have to rush off into the bush. The diarrhoea keeps coming, and my legs start shaking again. Back inside the corral I glance around the Land Rover and am relieved to see that there is no sign of my accident in the night. A stray dog has probably dealt with the rest. I tell Lketinga that I still have problems and go to the Mission to ask for some medicine. But despite the charcoal pills, the diarrhoea lasts all day. Mama brings me home-brewed beer and tells me to drink a pint or so of it. It looks disgusting and tastes that way too, but after a couple of cups the alcohol has its effect, and I doze on and off all day.

At some stage the boys come by. Lketinga is in the village, and I can enjoy an unhindered conversation. We talk about God, the world, Switzerland, my family and about the wedding, which I hope will take place soon. James is amazed at me and is proud that his brother, whom he sees as difficult, is going to get a good wife, and a white one at that. They tell me lots about the strict school and how life can be completely different when you have the chance to go to school. There are lots of things at home they don’t understand anymore. They give me examples, and we all laugh.

During the conversation James asks me why I don’t do business with my car. I could fetch maize or bags of sugar for the Somalis, transport people, etc. I’m not keen on the idea because of the state of the roads but mention that after the wedding I’d like to do something to bring in money. I’d most like to open a shop to sell all sorts of food. The boys are fascinated by the idea of a shop. James promises that when he’s finished school in a year’s time he’ll help. The idea is attractive, but a year is a long time.

Lketinga comes back, and shortly afterwards the boys bid a respectful farewell. He wants to know what we talked about. I tell him of my vague idea of opening a shop. To my surprise he’s enthusiastic too. It would be the only Masai shop for miles, and the Somalis would have no customers anymore because everyone would use the shop of a fellow tribesman. Then he looks at me and says this would cost a lot of money and do I have that much? I reassure him that there is still some in Switzerland. We’ll have to think it all through.

F
or some time now I've been dealing with injured people. Since I used some antiseptic ointment to cure a festering sore on the leg of a neighbour's child, mothers have been bringing children to me with sometimes horrifying abscesses. I clean them, put ointment on them and bandage them up as best I can. But so many keep coming that I've run out of ointment and can't help them anymore. I send them to the hospital or the Mission, but the women go away silently and don't take my advice.

In two days' time the children return to school. I'm sorry to see them go because they've been good company. In the meantime we've worked on the shop idea, and one day I make up my mind to go back to Switzerland for a bit, to gain some energy and put on a few pounds. The opportunity of a lift to Maralal with either Father Roberto or Giuliani is tempting. I can leave our Land Rover here and won't have the problem of driving myself in my weakened condition. Shortly beforehand I tell Lketinga. He is very annoyed by my intention to leave him in two days' time. I promise him I'll think about the shop and bring more money back. He can find out how we should build it and where. Even as we discuss it the idea of running a shop together reinforces itself in my mind. All I need is time to prepare everything and build up my strength.

Naturally Lketinga is worried once again that I'm going to leave him, but this time the boys are on my side and can translate for him, word for word, my promise that I'll be back in good health in three or four weeks' time. I'll tell him the exact day as soon as I've got my ticket. I'm going to set off for Nairobi in the hope of getting a flight to Switzerland as soon
as possible. With a heavy heart he gives his agreement. I leave him some money, about three hundred Swiss francs.

With as little baggage as possible I wait outside the Mission with several schoolchildren. Just when we'll be off nobody knows, but anyone who isn't there will have to go on foot. Mama and my darling have come too, and while Mama gives her final instructions to James, I console Lketinga. He says a month without me is a long, long time. Then Father Giuliani comes. I get to sit next to him while the boys squeeze into the back. Lketinga waves and shouts after me: ‘Take care of our baby!' I have to smile at how convinced he is that I'm pregnant.

Father Giuliani roars along at speed, and I have to hold on tight. We don't talk much, except when I tell him that I'll be back in a month and he says I'll need at least three months to recover. But for me that is out of the question.

There's chaos in Maralal. The little town is filled with departing schoolchildren, being sent all over Kenya so that the different tribes are thrown together. James is lucky and can stay in Maralal. One boy from our village has to go to Nakuru, so he and I can share part of the journey. But first of all we have to get a bus ticket, and that seems impossible for the next two days. All the seats are full. A few folk from far away have even driven in to Maralal with open-backed pick-ups to make money offering overpriced rides, but even these are booked up. Maybe tomorrow morning at five, somebody offers. We make the reservation but don't hand over any money.

The boy stands there helplessly because he doesn't know where he can spend the night, as he has no money. He is very shy and helpful. He keeps carrying my bag, and I suggest we go into my usual boarding house to get something to drink and ask about rooms. The landlady greets me cheerily, but when I ask if she has any rooms she shakes her head sorrowfully. But she says that as I'm a regular customer she can make one free by the evening. We drink
chai
and trawl round the other boarding houses. I'm prepared to pay the relatively tiny sum for the boy. But they are all full. Meanwhile it's grown dark and colder. I wonder whether I should offer to let the boy sleep in the second bed in my room. I wouldn't find it a problem, but I don't know what other people might think. I ask him what he's thinking of doing. He tells me he'll have to look for some
manyattas
outside Maralal and if he finds a Mama with a son his age, she'll be obliged to take him in.

That seems to me to be leaving too much to chance, especially as we have to leave at five. On the spur of the moment I offer him the second bed, against the opposite wall. His first reaction is to give me an embarrassed look and say thanks but no. He says that he couldn't possibly sleep in the same room as a warrior's bride: it would cause problems. I laugh, not taking it too seriously, and tell him he should just keep quiet about it. I go into the boarding house first, giving the watchman a few shillings and asking him to waken me at four-thirty the next morning. The boy turns up half an hour later. I'm already in bed, fully clothed, even though it's only eight o'clock. There's nothing going on after dark except in a few bars, which I avoid.

The naked light bulb shows the whole horrid little room for what it is. The blue paint is peeling from the walls, and everywhere there are brown patches with thin trickle lines beneath them: disgusting remnants of spat-out tobacco. Back home in the
manyatta
Mama and all our visitors used to do the same thing until I complained about it. Since then Mama spits under one of the flints. I find the boarding-house room particularly nauseating. The boy lies down on the bed with his clothes on and immediately turns to face the wall. We turn off the light and don't speak.

There's a thunderous knocking at the door. I start in shock from a deep sleep and ask what's happening. But before anyone can answer, the boy says it's nearly five a.m. We have to go! If the pick-up is full it'll simply leave. We grab our stuff together and run to the rendezvous spot. There are little groups of schoolchildren everywhere. Some are getting into a vehicle, the rest waiting in the cold and dark. I'm absolutely freezing. The dew at this hour of the morning makes Maralal cold and damp. We can't even drink
chai
because none of the boarding houses have opened up.

At six a.m. the overcrowded regular bus trundles by blaring its horn. Our driver hasn't even turned up yet. He seems to be in no hurry as we're captive passengers. It's getting light, and we're still waiting, and I'm getting angry. I want out of here, to get to Nairobi today. The boy despairingly asks around for a lift but the few cars are crammed full, and our only possibility is a truck laden with cabbages. I jump at the chance, as it's the only one we've got. But after the first few yards I'm already wondering if I made the right choice. It's absolute torture sitting on the things because they're hard and keep moving. I can only hang on by grabbing the side rail, and that keeps hitting me in the ribs. Every pothole throws us into
the air and then we fall back down onto the hard cabbages. There's no way to talk, it's much too noisy and too dangerous – the bumps are so hard you could easily bite through your lip. But somehow or other I survive the four and a half hours to Nyahururu.

Completely wrecked, I climb out of the lorry and say goodbye to my young travelling companion. I want to go into a restaurant to find a toilet. When I pull down my jeans I see big violet bruises on my thighs. My God, before I get to Switzerland the whole of my skinny legs will have turned blue. It's going to be a shock for my mother because, since my last visit just two months ago, I've changed enormously physically. She still doesn't know that I'm coming home, still unmarried and in a bad state.

In the restaurant I order cola and a proper meal. There's chicken, and I wolf down a whole half bird with some floury chips. It's too early to think of spending the night here so I drag my bag to the bus station, which is still busy. I'm in luck: a bus for Nairobi is about to go. The road is tarmac, which is a blessing, and I fall asleep in my seat. When I next look out of the window we're only an hour from my destination. If I'm lucky, we'll reach the metropolis before dark. The Igbol isn't exactly in the safest part of town, and it's already turning to dusk as we drive through the suburbs.

People start piling out with their possessions while I'm still sitting with my face against the window trying to get used to the sea of lights. I still don't recognize anything. There are just five people left on the bus, and I'm wondering if I shouldn't just get out because I don't want to go all the way to the bus station, which is too dangerous for me at this time of day. The driver keeps looking back at me in his mirror wondering why the
mzungu
doesn't get out. Eventually he asks me where I want to get to. ‘To Igbol-Hotel'. He shrugs his shoulders. Then I remember the name of a huge cinema very close to the Igbol. ‘Mister, you know Odeon Cinema?' I ask hopefully. ‘Odeon Cinema? This place is no good for
mzungu
-lady,' he lectures me. ‘It's no problem for me. I only go into the Igbol-Hotel. There are some more white people,' I reply. He changes lanes a couple of times, takes a left, a right and stops right in front of the hotel. Thankful for his help, I tip him a few shillings. In my exhaustion I'm pleased for every few feet I don't have to walk.

It's mad busy in the Igbol. All the tables are laid, and there are rucksacks everywhere. The man at reception, who's got to know me by now, greets me with ‘
Jambo
, Masai-lady!' He still has one bed free in a three-bed room.
In the room I find two English girls studying a guidebook. I go straight out again to have a shower, taking my passport and money purse with me. I strip off and am horrified to see the state my body is in. My legs, lower back and underarms are covered in bruises. But the shower makes me feel human again. Then I find a table in the restaurant to get something to eat at last and watch the tourists, but the more I look at the Europeans, in particular the men, the more I long for my handsome warrior. It's not long before I retire to bed to rest my weary bones.

After breakfast I make my way to the Swissair office, but to my disappointment they don't have a free seat for five days. That's too long. With Kenya Airways the wait would be even longer. Five days in Nairobi, that would depress me deeply. So I try round the other airlines until I find an Alitalia flight in two days' time, although it involves a four-hour stopover in Rome. I check the price and book it. Then I go to the nearby Kenya Commercial Bank to draw out money.

There's a queue at the bank. Two policemen armed with machine pistols are guarding the door. I join the queue and within half an hour reach the counter. I have written a cheque for the sum, but it's going to be a huge bundle of cash to carry through the streets to the Alitalia office. The man at the counter turns the cheque over and asks me whereabouts Maralal is. Then he goes off and comes back to ask me if I'm sure I want to withdraw so much cash. ‘Yes,' I answer with annoyance. I'm worried myself about it. After I've filled out various forms I'm handed heaps of banknotes, which I immediately conceal in my rucksack. Luckily there's next to nobody about. The bank clerk asks me what I want to do with so much money and whether I need a boyfriend. I say thanks but no thanks and leave.

I reach the Alitalia office without incident. Once again I have to fill out forms, and my passport is checked. One of the staff asks why I don't have a return ticket to Switzerland. I explain to her that I live in Kenya and am just going back to Switzerland for two and a half months' holiday. The woman says politely that surely I am a tourist, however, because it doesn't say anywhere on my passport that I live in Kenya. All these questions confuse me. I simply want a ticket and to pay for it in cash. But it turns out that's the problem. I have a form that says I've withdrawn the money from a Kenyan bank. As a tourist, I'm not allowed to have a bank account and must be able to prove that the money has
been brought in from Switzerland, otherwise she'd have to assume that it's illegal earnings; tourists are not allowed to work in Kenya. I'm speechless. My mother did the transfers, and the paperwork is all in Barsaloi. I'm standing in front of this woman with a heap of money, and she won't take it. The African woman at the counter tells me that regrettably, unless I can prove where the money came from, they can't issue the ticket. I burst into tears of fury and say I'm not leaving the office with all this money because it would be suicide.

The African woman stares at me in shock and drops her arrogance at the sight of my tears. ‘Wait a moment,' she says kindly and disappears. A few minutes later a second lady appears, tells me the same thing and assures me she's just doing her duty. I ask her to call the bank in Maralal where the manager knows me well. The two of them talk it over. Then they simply make a photocopy of my exchange slip and my passport and ten minutes later I leave the office with my ticket. Now I have to find an international telephone to tell my mother to expect a surprise visit.

On the flight my feelings keep swinging between happy anticipation of the comforts of civilization and homesickness for my African family. At Zurich Airport my mother can hardly conceal her horror at my appearance, but I'm grateful that she doesn't mention it. I'm not hungry because I've eaten on the plane, but I'd love to drink some good Swiss coffee before we drive back to the mountains. Over the next few days I'm spoiled by my mother's cooking and gradually become a bit more presentable. We talk a lot about my future, and I tell her about my plans for a shop. She understands that I need a job and an income.

On the tenth day I have an appointment with a gynaecologist for an examination. Unfortunately the results are negative: I'm not pregnant. I'm far too anaemic and undernourished for that. Afterwards I realize how disappointed Lketinga will be, but I console myself with the thought that we've got plenty of time to have children. Every day I walk through the green landscape, thinking of Africa. After two weeks I'm already planning my departure and book my flight for ten days' time. Once again I buy lots of medicines, various herbs and packets of pasta. I send a telegram to Lketinga via the Mission to tell him I'm on my way back.