The White Masai (21 page)

Lketinga is with us most of the time and talks to people or sells simple things like soap or Omo. He helps as well as he can. For the first time in ages Mama comes in to the village to see our shop.

On the second day I’ve already learned all my numbers in the Maa language. I’ve put up a board where we can quickly check the price of different amounts of maize or sugar, which makes adding up easier. Today too we work right through and crawl off home, tired and weary. Once again of course we haven’t managed a hot meal. My back is aching from bending over all day. Today alone we weighed out and sold the contents of eight sacks of maize and nearly six hundredweight of sugar.

Mama cooks up some maize meal with a bit of meat for me, and Lketinga and I discuss the situation: it can’t go on like this. Anna and I need time off to eat and wash. We decide that tomorrow we’ll close the shop from noon until two p.m. Anna is also pleased by this new rule, and we fetch nine gallons of water so I can at least wash in the back room.

Gradually our stocks of fruit and vegetables disappear. Even the expensive rice is soon gone. I only brought seven pounds back home for us. Giuliani and Roberto look in for the first time today and say they are amazed, which cheers me up. I ask them if I can lodge the money I’ve taken with them because I can’t think of anywhere to keep such a large sum. Giuliani agrees and so every evening I drop by the Mission and leave an envelope full of money.

The new opening times puzzle people because most of them don’t have watches. Either we have to almost throw them out by force or there are so many we just work through anyway. By the end of nine days, the shop is almost empty. We’ve got five sacks of maize left, but there’s been no sugar for the past two days. So we have to go back to Maralal. With any luck we’ll return with another lorry-load in three days’ time. Anna stays on her own in the shop, as with no sugar there are far fewer customers.

In Maralal, however, there’s a shortage of sugar too. Supplies have not arrived, and there are no one-hundred-kg sacks to be bought, and it’s not worth going back to Barsaloi without sugar. Eventually, after three days, the sugar arrives but the sacks are rationed and instead of twenty we get just eight. On the fifth day we can set out with a lorry again.

During my few days in Maralal I’ve stocked up on a few other things – the much-prized kangas, chewing tobacco for the older folk and even
twenty pairs of car tyre-soled sandals in every size. Unfortunately the money we’ve made doesn’t cover all the new stuff, and I have to draw money from the bank. I decide to put up the price per pound of maize and sugar, even though it’s set by the state. But with the high cost of transport it’s not possible to charge the same prices as in Maralal. We also have to fill up the forty-gallon petrol tank.

This time Lketinga won’t let me go in the Land Rover alone because he’s afraid I’ll run into elephants or buffalo again. But who’s to go with the lorry? Lketinga chooses an acquaintance he thinks he can trust. We set off around noon and get to Barsaloi without incident. It’s really strange: when my husband is with me there are never any problems.

It’s deadly quiet back at the shop. A bored Anna comes to meet us. In the past five days she’s sold the rest of the maize meal. Only occasionally does someone drop by to buy powdered tea or Omo. The till is half full of notes, but I can hardly check it. I trust Anna.

We go back to our
manyatta
to find two warriors sleeping in it. I’m not exactly delighted to find my
manyatta
occupied, but I know that the rules of hospitality demand it. All men of the same age as Lketinga have the right to rest or spend the night in our hut. I even have to offer them
chai
. While I’m lighting the fire, the three men chat amongst themselves. Lketinga translates for me that a warrior in Sitedi has had his thigh cut open by a buffalo and he has to go immediately with the Land Rover to take him to a doctor. I have to stay behind because the lorry should arrive in the next two hours. Reluctantly I hand over the car keys to my husband. It’s the same road on which a year ago he crashed!

I go down to Anna, and we sort out the shop, getting everything ready for unloading the new supplies. As it gets dark we light the two new oil lamps. I’ve also bought a little charcoal grill so that from time to time I can cook or make tea in the back room.

At last the lorry arrives, and soon there’s a crowd around the shop again. Unloading doesn’t take long, and this time I count the sacks to make sure they’re all there, but it turns out my mistrust is misplaced. It’s chaos when everything’s unloaded: cardboard boxes everywhere that have to be cleared away.

All of a sudden my husband’s in the shop. I want to know if everything’s all right. ‘No problem, Corinne, but this man has a big problem,’ he replies. He’s taken the wounded man to the bush doctor,
who’s cleaned the eight-inch wound and stitched it up without anaesthetic. But now he’s in our
manyatta
because he has to go for a check-up every day.

Lketinga bought
miraa
by the pound in Maralal and is selling it at good prices. Everybody from the town comes in for the plant, and even two Somalis come in for the first time. They’re after the
miraa
too. My husband gives them a dirty look and asks them dismissively what they want. His attitude annoys me because they’re friendly enough and we’ve done their business enough damage. They get their
miraa
and go. By nine p.m. the shop is ready for us to resume business as usual next day.

When I crawl into my hut there’s a stocky warrior with a heavily bandaged leg lying there, groaning softly. I ask him how he is. Okay, he says. But that means nothing here. No Samburu would ever say anything else even if he were about to breathe his last. He’s sweating heavily, and there’s a smell of sweat mixed with iodine. When Lketinga comes in a little later he’s got two bunches of
miraa
with him. He says something to the injured man, but only gets a halting response. It looks as though he’s running a fever. After a bit of argument I’m allowed to take his temperature. The thermometer shows 40.5 degrees C. I give the warrior some medicine to bring his fever down. That night I don’t sleep well. My husband spends the whole night chewing
miraa
while the wounded warrior groans and sometimes calls out.

The next morning I leave Lketinga with his companion and go to the shop. Business is hectic – news that more meal and sugar have arrived has spread like wildfire. Today Anna doesn’t look well. She keeps sitting down and has to run out a couple of times to be sick. I ask her worriedly what’s wrong. But she says it’s fine, maybe just a touch of malaria. I send her home, and her husband, the one who accompanied our lorry, offers to work in her place. I’m glad of his help because he really gets stuck in. After a couple of hours, my back is aching terribly again but whether it’s on account of the pregnancy or just bending over all the time I don’t know. I reckon I must be at about three months, but apart from a small bump there’s not much to see. In the meantime my husband has started to doubt that I’m pregnant and thinks I might just have a stomach ulcer.

Eventually Lketinga turns up in the shop. Right away he starts at the sight of the man behind the counter and asks him what he’s doing there. I keep serving. The man tells him about Anna’s illness and says she’s had
to go home. We work on while my husband sits there still chewing his
miraa
, which starts to get me annoyed. I send him to the vet to find out if a goat’s been slaughtered today because I’d like to make a good meal with meat and potatoes. I want to close at midday so that I can wash and cook in the back room. But Lketinga and my new helper want to work through. So I use my charcoal burner to cook up a tasty stew and enjoy a nice meal on my own. I keep half for Lketinga, but I can work better on a full stomach.

We set off home after seven p.m. The injured man is hobbling around our hut; he seems a bit better. But what a mess! There are chewed
miraa
stems and lumps of chewing gum everywhere, the cooking pot is next to the fire with maize stuck inside it, and there are bits of food all around with ants climbing all over them. There’s also a foul smell in the hut. I take a sharp intake of breath: here I am just back from work and now I have to clean the hut, not to mention the pot to make
chai
, which I have to scrape clean with my fingernails.

When I complain to my husband he doesn’t understand. On his
miraa
-high
, he thinks I’m getting at him and don’t want to help his friend who barely escaped with his life. All I’m asking for is a bit of tidiness. My husband and the warrior leave the hut grumpily and say they’re going off to Mama. I hear them talking loudly and feel lonely and excluded. To keep my composure I get out my radio-cassette player and put some German music on. After a while Lketinga sticks his head in and looks at me mistrustfully. ‘Corinne, what’s the problem? Why you hear this music? What’s the meaning?’ Oh God, how am I to tell him that I feel misunderstood and taken advantage of and am just looking for a bit of comfort? He wouldn’t understand.

I take his hand and ask him to sit beside me. We listen to the music together, staring into the fire, and slowly I feel an erotic charge building between us and relish it. Lketinga looks fantastic in the firelight. I put my hand on his dark naked thigh and feel his excitement too. He turns and looks at me wildly, and suddenly we’re in each other’s arms, kissing, and for the first time I get the feeling that he likes it. Although I keep trying, Lketinga has up until now never really enjoyed it, and my attempts usually are given up pretty quickly. But now he’s kissing me more and more passionately. Eventually we make love, magnificently. When his passion subsides he strokes my stomach tenderly and asks: ‘Corinne, you are sure,
you have now a baby?’ I laugh happily: ‘Yes.’ ‘Corinne, if you have a baby, why you want love? Now it’s okay. I have given you a baby, now I wait for it.’ This is a fairly sobering line of reasoning, but I don’t take it too seriously. We fall asleep contentedly.

The next day is Sunday. Our shop is closed, and we decide to hear Father Giuliani say mass. The little church is packed, almost exclusively with women and children, just a few men – the vet with his family, the doctor and the bush teacher, sitting on one side. Giuliani reads the mass in Swahili, and the teacher translates into Samburu. In between the women and children sing and drum their fingers. By and large everything is very jolly. Lketinga is the only warrior, and this visit to the church is his first and last.

We spend the afternoon together down by the river. I wash clothes, and he cleans the car. Eventually we have time for our ritual of washing each other, just like before, and I think back nostalgically. Of course, I like the shop, and we have more variety in our meals, but we don’t have as much time for ourselves. Everything is much more hectic. Even so, after each Sunday I’m pleased about the shop; I’ve made friends with some of the town women and a few of their husbands who speak English. Gradually I’m getting to know who belongs to whom.

I’ve also really taken a shine to Anna. Her husband is on holiday and has been helping out in the shop for a few days. I don’t mind, but Lketinga does and every time Anna’s husband has a soft drink he asks me if Anna is charging for it.

It’s time to sort out some more sugar. For a couple of days now the sacks have been empty, and as a result we’ve had fewer customers. Also the school holidays are about to start so I can go to Maralal, get sugar and bring James home. Lketinga will stay in the shop and help Anna as we’ve still got twenty sacks of maize meal left to sell to get enough money to pay for the use of the lorry.

I take our trusty helper with me. He’s a good worker and can stow the heavy sacks in the Land Rover for me. As ever, another twenty people want to come with us. Because there’s always an argument I decide to ask for some money to help meet the cost of the petrol. That way only the ones who really need to come will want to. When I tell them, the crowd quickly disappears except for five people who are ready to pay my price. The Land Rover can cope with that. We set off early because I want to
get back the same evening. The game warden is one of the group, but he has to pay too.

In Maralal everyone gets out, and I drive down to the school. The headmaster tells me the boys don’t get out until four. I agree with him to take three or four boys back to Barsaloi. Meanwhile my helper and I get hold of three sacks of sugar and some fruit and vegetables. I can’t take anymore. That leaves a couple of hours to kill so I go to see Sophia.

Sophia is delighted to see me. Unlike me, she’s put on several pounds, and she looks well. She makes some spaghetti for me: a real treat after so long without any pasta. No wonder she’s putting on weight so quickly! Her Rasta friend drops by with a couple of friends and takes off again. Sophia grumbles that since she became pregnant she hardly ever sees him. He has no intention of working and just spends her money on beer and his friends. Despite all the comforts she has, I don’t envy her. Sophia’s case makes me appreciate how much Lketinga does.

I say goodbye, promising to drop by every time I’m in Maralal. I pick up my helper and the game warden at our agreed rendezvous and drive down to the school, where three boys are waiting for us. James is pleased to be collected, and we set off immediately because we want to be home before dark.

T
he car snakes its way up the dusty red track and just before the S-bend the game warden and I break into laughter thinking of our experience with the elephant. The boys in the back are chatting and laughing too. Just before we get to the steep descent I brake, ready to engage four-wheel drive, and brake again, but nothing happens as the car rolls ever forward towards the deadly drop. I scream out in horror ‘No brakes!’ and at the same time I see there’s no way of turning right because, masked by the trees, the steep ravine has already begun. Without a second thought I throw the steering wheel to the left – the game warden’s already struggling to open the door.

As if by a miracle the car bangs over the edge of the wall of rock falling away evermore sharply. Where I’ve gone over, the drop is barely a foot, but if we’d gone just a bit further there would have been no choice but to plunge down the slope headfirst. I pray that the car will get stuck in the undergrowth here where there’s a platform of fifty feet or so, after which it falls away steeply into the jungle.

The boys are on an adrenaline rush, and the game warden has gone grey. At last the car stops, barely a yard from the end of the plateau. I’m shaking so much all over that I can’t get out.

The boys climb out through the windows as we don’t dare move forwards and the rear doors are locked. With weak knees I manage to get out too and go to inspect the damage, and at that very moment the car starts to slowly roll forward. With presence of mind I grab the nearest large stone and shove it in front of a wheel. The boys have discovered that the brake cable has been ripped out. Shocked and stunned, we stand next to the vehicle, less than three yards from a fatal plunge.

The game warden says there’s no way we can stay out here in the bush, even though he’s got his gun this time. Apart from anything else, it’ll be bloody cold when it gets dark. There’s also no way we can drive on to Barsaloi with no brakes. The only option is to go back to Maralal, which I can manage without brakes, in four-wheel drive all the way if needs be. First of all we have to turn the long vehicle around on this narrow plateau. We get some big rocks, and I start the engine carefully. I can’t go more than a couple of feet forwards so the boys have to use the stones to stop each wheel. Then we do the same thing in reverse gear, where I can see next to nothing. The sweat is running down my face, and I pray to God for help. After this experience, when we could all have died, I’m quite certain of His existence. It takes more than an hour to complete the second miracle, but at last the car faces the other way.

It’s already dark in the jungle by the time we can set off, in four-wheel drive and first gear all the way. When we start downhill the car is going far too fast and the engine screams horribly but I don’t dare change gear. At critical moments I automatically step on the non-functioning brakes. At the end of an hour with great relief we arrive back in Maralal. Here there are people ambling across the road in the blithe assumption that the few cars will brake for them. I can only sound my horn, and people leap aside with a curse. As we approach the garage I turn off the ignition and let us roll up to it. The Somali boss is about to close, but I explain my problem and tell him the car is full of goods that I can’t leave out on the street. He opens up his iron door, and a few men push the car in.

We go off for
chai
, still in shock, to discuss what to do. First we have to find somewhere to stay. The game warden can sort himself out, but I obviously offer to pay for my helper and the boys. We take two rooms, the lads saying they can easily share one bed. I want to be on my own. After we eat I retire, miserable for my husband who won’t know what’s happening and will be worried about me.

Early next morning I head to the garage, where the workers are already repairing our vehicle. Even the Somali boss is puzzled as to how it could have happened. By eleven we’re ready to leave, but this time I don’t dare take the jungle route. I have a deep terror of it now and in any case I’m four months’ pregnant. We take the detour via Baragoi, which takes nearly four and a half hours, thinking all the time about how worried my husband must be.

We get on well, though. Despite the strewn rubble, this road is a lot less demanding. We’re at least half way there when, just as we’re crossing a dried-up riverbed, a hissing noise I had already noticed suddenly becomes louder. Of all the bad luck, now we’ve got a flat! Everyone gets out, and the boys dig the spare out from under the sacks of sugar. My helper puts the jack in position, and within half an hour it’s all done. For once I had nothing to do and could sit in the warm sun and smoke a cigarette. We set off again and get to Barsaloi during the afternoon.

We park next to the shop, and I’m just about to get out when my husband comes up with a nasty frown on his face and stands in front of the car door shaking his head: ‘Corinne, what is wrong with you? Why you come late?’ I explain, but he turns away without listening and demands to know who I spent the night with in Maralal. That gets me mad: we’ve barely escaped with our lives and my husband thinks I’ve been unfaithful. I had never imagined he might react like that.

The boys come to my aid, describing the journey. He crawls under the car and examines the cable. When he discovers the traces of brake oil, he declares himself satisfied. But I’m deeply disappointed in him and decide to stomp off to my hut. They can sort themselves out. At least James is there. I say a brief hello to Mama and Saguna and then hide myself away, exhausted and disillusioned.

By evening I’m freezing, but I don’t worry about it and make
chai
. Lketinga comes in and has a cup. We don’t talk much, and late in the evening he sets off to visit a distant encampment to collect the rest of our wedding-present goats. He’ll be back in two days. He wraps his red blanket around his shoulders, grabs his two spears and, saying little, leaves the
manyatta
. I hear him exchange a few brief words with Mama, and then all is silence save for the cries of a baby in a neighbouring hut.

My own condition is getting worse, however. During the night I panic: is this another malaria attack? I get out my Fansidar anti-malaria pills and read the instructions carefully. Three pills to be taken on suspicion of an attack, but in case of pregnancy consult a doctor. Oh God, the last thing I want is to lose my baby, which is something that up to the sixth month malaria can easily cause. I decide to take the three tablets and put wood on the fire to warm up.

The next morning I only waken when I hear voices outside. I crawl out of the hut into blinding sunlight. It’s nearly eight-thirty a.m. Mama’s sitting
outside her hut and laughs at me, ‘
Supa
Corinne’ comes the call. ‘
Supa
Mama.’ I reply and head off into the bush to deal with my morning needs.

I feel weak and worn out. When I get back to the
manyatta
there are already four women there asking about the shop. ‘Corinne,
tuka
!’ I hear Mama call. She wants me to open the shop. ‘
Ndjo, ja
, – later!’ I reply. Understandably they all want the sugar we brought back yesterday, and half an hour later I drag myself to the shop.

There are already twenty people waiting, but Anna isn’t there. I open up and immediately the bedlam breaks loose. Everybody wants to be first. I serve them mechanically. Where’s Anna? My helper hasn’t turned up either, and there’s no sign of the boys. While I’m serving I suddenly have an urgent need for the toilet. I grab the toilet paper and rush for the
WC-hut
. I’ve already got diarrhoea. I’m completely worked up now. The shop is full of people. The till is just a box, open to anybody who goes behind the counter. With no strength I still force myself to go back to the nattering women, but again and again the diarrhoea forces me back to the toilet.

Anna has left me in the lurch; she hasn’t turned up. So far there hasn’t been a single familiar face to whom I could even half explain the situation in English and ask for help. After lunch I can’t stand on my feet any longer.

At last the teacher’s wife turns up, and I send her to Mama to see if the boys are at home. Luckily James turns up with the boy who’d spent the night in the boarding house with me. They’re both prepared to run the shop so I can go home. Mama looks at me in surprise and asks what’s wrong. What am I to tell her? I shrug my shoulders and say, ‘Maybe malaria.’ She looks at me in shock and grabs her stomach. I take her meaning but am worried enough myself and don’t know what to do. She comes into my
manyatta
and makes black tea for me, because milk would be dangerous. While she’s waiting for the water to boil she talks quietly to Enkai. Mama is praying for me in her own way. I’m really fond of her sitting there with her long breasts and dirty skirt. At a time like this I’m pleased my husband has such a loving, caring mother and don’t want to let her down.

When our goats come home the older brother looks in on me and tries to start a conversation in Swahili. But I’m too tired and keep falling asleep. In the middle of the night I wake up bathed in sweat, hearing footsteps and the spears being thrust into the ground outside our hut. My
heart is pounding madly when I hear the familiar grunting noise and shortly afterwards a shape appears in the hut. ‘Darling?’ I ask hopefully in the darkness. ‘Yes, Corinne, no problem,’ replies the familiar voice of my husband. I explain what’s wrong with me, and he’s very worried. As I haven’t had the shivering fit yet I still hope that taking the Fansidar straight away may have done the trick.

The next few days I stay home, and Lketinga and the boys run the shop. Gradually I get on my feet again as after three days even the diarrhoea has stopped. After a week of lying around I’ve had enough, and that afternoon I go back to work. But the shop is in a state: there’s been next to no cleaning done, everything is covered with maize meal dust, and the shelves are almost empty. The four sugar sacks have long since been emptied, and there are barely one and a half sacks of meal left. That means another trip to Maralal. We plan to make it next week, because the boys’ short holidays will be over then and I can take a few of them with me.

The shop is quiet. As soon as the basic foodstuffs are sold the customers from far away stop coming. I go to see Anna. When I get to her house I find her lying in bed. When I ask what’s wrong she initially won’t say anything, but eventually I get out of her that she’s pregnant too. She’s only in her third month but a while ago had some bleeding and that’s why she stayed away from work. We agree that she’ll come back when the boys have gone.

The start of school is getting closer, and it’s time for us to go. This time we’ll leave the shop shut. Three days later we send a whole lorry-load back to Barsaloi with our helper on board. Lketinga and I take the jungle road, and luckily nothing goes wrong. Just before dark we’re standing waiting for the lorry, but instead two warriors arrive to tell us it’s got stuck in the last riverbed. We drive the short distance in our car to see what can be done. The lorry has got one left wheel stuck in the sand just before it could reach the riverbank, and spinning the wheel has only caused it to sink deeper.

There are already a few people at the scene and some stones and branches have already been pushed under the wheel. But the lorry’s heavy load keeps tipping it further over and the driver says there’s nothing for it but to unload here. I’m not very happy about this idea and go to ask Father Giuliani what he thinks. He’s not particularly delighted to see me as he’s already heard what’s happened but nonetheless he gets into his car and comes with me.

He uses a towrope but our two four-wheel drive vehicles together fail to pull the lorry out. So the one hundred sacks, each weighing two hundredweight, have to be transferred to our vehicles. We can take eight at a time. Father Giuliani makes five trips before he’s had enough and goes back to the Mission. I do another seven before we’ve got everything to the shop. It’s night now, and I’m exhausted. The shop is an unimaginable mess, but we close up and leave sorting it out to the next morning.

Frequently people offer to sells us goatskins or cowhides but up until now I’ve always declined, and the women get upset and leave the shop cursing to sell their fleeces to the Somalis. Recently, however, the Somalis have only been buying from those who get their maize or sugar from them. This gives us something else to think about, and so I decide that I’ll buy skins too and store them in the back of the shop.

Barely two days pass before the sly little local boss man turns up and asks for our licence to trade in animal skins. Of course we don’t have one because we didn’t know it was necessary. Then he announces he could close the shop because it’s forbidden to store skins in the same building as foodstuffs. There has to be a distance of at least one hundred and fifty feet between them. I throw back that the Somalis up until now have kept their fleeces in the same room, but the boss man says this isn’t so, and now I know who’s put him on to us. As I’ve accumulated some eighty skins in the meantime, with the intention of selling them next time we’re in Maralal, I need to win time to find a lockable storage place. I offer the boss man a couple of fizzy drinks and ask him to give me until tomorrow.

After a long discussion with my husband it’s agreed that by tomorrow we’ll have the hides out of the shop. But where? Hides like these are effectively cash. I go up to the Mission for advice. Only Father Roberto is there, and he says he has no room and we’ll have to wait for Giuliani. That evening he comes by on his motorbike and delights me by offering us his old water pumping shed where he keeps old machinery. There’s not much room but it’s better than nothing, because we can fit the lot in, and once again I have to realize how much I owe to Father Giuliani.

Business in the shop is going well, and Anna is better and now turns up on time. Then one ordinary afternoon there’s complete pandemonium. The boy from next door rushes into the shop and starts talking excitedly to Lketinga. ‘Darling, what happened?’ I ask. He tells me that two goats from our herd have gone missing and he’ll have to set out straight away
to find them before it gets dark and the wild animals take them. He’s just about to set off armed with his two long spears when the bush teacher’s servant girl turns up with a pale face and says something to him. I gather that it’s to do with our car and Maralal. Worried I ask Anna, ‘What’s the problem?’ and she replies hesitantly that the teacher’s wife is expecting a baby and urgently needs to be taken to hospital, but there’s no one at the Mission to help.