A driver picks us up and takes us to the hotel. This is the first time I’ve been driven along an African road and suddenly I burst out laughing. Obviously I’m tired from the journey but I can’t help staring out of the windows. Everything is so new to me and the chaos on the streets is incredible to see. There are all sorts of people crowding round the car trying to sell us stuff. I buy some nuts from one boy. I’d like to buy something from all of them but that’s not possible and in any case, this is just my first day in Kenya.
It takes about an hour, with various hold-up in traffic jams, to get to the hotel. It looks very pleasant and welcoming. Immediately on entering the lobby I can feel how friendly everybody is, which is really nice. My mother and I are sharing a double room and I’m looking forward to getting some rest. We have a bit of a chat first though as I know how eager she is to find out my reactions to everything. Both of us are just happy that we’ve got here with no problems, and before long I’m drifting off to sleep.
After breakfast we set out in two Land Rovers. Even though there are only four of us I think it’s important to take two cars. The last thing I want is to break down out in the bush somewhere and make a fiasco of my daughter’s first trip back to her roots. She and I take one car while Klaus and Albert go on ahead of us in the other. Martin, our young driver, is a jolly lad who keeps us entertained with his relaxed chatter. Yet again we crawl at a snail’s pace through the streets of Nairobi and then onwards towards Lake Nakuru. The lake is famous for its pink flamingos, which congregate there in thousands. It’s a route I haven’t taken before. Several hours later we make a halt at one of the viewpoints looking out over the vast fertile Rift Valley. There are lots of souvenir sellers here and they immediately crowd round us trying to sell hand-carved figurines and other bits and pieces. It’s Napirai’s first experience of this and she can’t resist buying a little box made of soapstone.
We travel onwards through hilly green countryside, passing through little villages along the way. The fields are full of mainly women workers, their feet spread wide apart and their backs bent double as they toil away. I doubt if we Europeans could manage to work like that for hours on end, hoeing, weeding and sewing seeds. The large number of bicycle and motorbike rickshaws is new to me. I didn’t notice them six years ago. Now there are rows of them, driven by young men, lined up everywhere waiting for customers. With the traffic getting ever heavier, they are clearly a cheaper and quicker alternative means of getting around, although they are also almost certainly more dangerous. Nearly all the bicycles have wooden boards or plastic seats strapped on to the luggage rack at the rear to provide seating. I can’t help wondering where these young people have got the money from to set up a little taxi business, but Martin tells me most of them don’t own the motorbikes but are just hired to drive them. ‘They nearly all belong to a company,’ he says. ‘If one of them has managed to get the money together himself, it’s usually down to a credit union.’ I automatically think back to the women of Jamii Bora, and look forward to going back to see them after the trip to Barsaloi.
We get to our campsite just after midday and sit down to a welcome lunch. We’ve got a nice, roomy big tent which has everything in it you’d find in a hotel room. This is a much more romantic way to travel than using hotels. At night we can hear the cicadas chirping in the trees and the noises of other animals out there too. There’s only a thin canvas wall between us and the natural world.
Next day we set out on a ‘game drive’, which is what they call the safaris through the national park. We sit and wait in the car while Martin goes to get the tickets. We’ve already opened the roof so we can stand up and take photographs, and there are primates of all shapes and sizes clambering around: meerkats and the much larger and more aggressive baboons. I’m standing up to take a photograph when all of a sudden an ape barely a few feet away leaps up on to the car and tries to snatch my camera bag. I wave a hand to scare him away but instead he lunges as if to attack me, and I’m the one who’s scared. I try to sit down again when another, much bigger baboon jumps up on top of the car and tries to climb in through the roof. Thank goodness, Martin comes back at that minute and they all run off.
We drive through the park past little herds of zebra and buffalo until we come to the edge of Lake Nakuru. Here there are flamingos as far as the eye can see. It’s hilarious to see how nearly all their movements seem to be synchronised. One minute they all have their heads in the lake, the next they’re all standing staring in the same direction. One minute several thousand of them all take a few steps to the left, the next they all take a few steps to the right. It’s as if they’ve been choreographed. The whole thing is one endless photo shoot. Then to crown the experience a magnificent rainbow comes out, framing the whole picture. Clearly a good omen!
On the way back we come across a small family of rhinoceroses grazing happily in the evening sun and hardly even bothering to look up as we pass.
The next day we start out early, driving past native houses all beautifully painted, some with pictures of giraffes, others decorated with pictures of flamingos or lions or even famous people, such as former president Jomo Kenyatta, or the Nobel Peace Prize winner Wangari Mathai. Some of the houses even have Masai warriors painted on them.
After three hours’ drive we reach Nyahururu, the highest city in Kenya, 2,303 metres above sea level, where we are taken to see the spectacular Thompson Waterfall. It’s not all that remarkable for us Swiss, though, as we have waterfalls enough back home. What is far more interesting to me is that people here talk to my daughter in Kiswahili, clearly recognising her as at least part Kenyan. But then it’s not that far – as the crow flies at least – from here to her Samburu homeland.
But the final stretch of our journey towards Maralal is going to require some patience: from Rumuruti onwards the roads are only dirt tracks and we have just heard that heavy rain a few days ago has turned the red earth into mud. The few cars that use this stretch of road nearly didn’t make it through. I know from personal experience what it can be like to get bogged down and stranded. On several occasions I had to spend the night on the bus with nothing to eat or drink. I will never forget the extraordinary experience of being the only white person on the bus, spoiled and looked after by the locals even though I couldn’t speak their language. But it turns out we’re lucky and there are just some pools of water along the road. When I see the red earth and the savannah landscape I immediately feel as if I’m coming home.
But it’s not long before I’m horrified to see that the same thing has happened here as in Namibia. Everywhere landowners have erected fences, closing in vast tracts of land and building huge farmhouses. Six years ago all this land was still open to everyone. It’s unbelievable how quickly it has all changed. Where can the semi-nomadic Samburu go with their cattle now? It’s only later that I really recognise the problem here: children are forced to graze their little herds of goats or cattle on a few patches of dried grass, while only a few hundred metres away a huge herd of wild buffalo are grazing right alongside the road. That never used to happen before. Buffalo are extremely aggressive. But with the land that used to be open now fenced in, they can no longer wander where they will but have to share the small area of free land with the domestic animals of the locals. And the same thing obviously applies to the other wild animals – elephants, lions and zebras – which makes things much more dangerous for the nomads.
I’m mulling over this rather depressing discovery when suddenly I’m cheered up by the sight of a few Samburu warriors strolling along with their long braided hair. With them are a lot of women in blue and yellow kangas wearing jewellery made of multi-coloured glass beads. That cheers me up a lot as I had feared my daughter might not see any of the traditional clothing because so many children aren’t allowed to wear their traditional clothes and jewellery at school. All along the way Napirai is staring out of the window, both interested and amused by what she is seeing.
After five hours’ j
ourney along the dirt track we finally reach Maralal, the main town in the Samburu country. We’re intending to spend the night in the Maralal Safari Lodge, some distance outside the town, but I can’t resist going into the little town centre to see what has changed since my last visit six years ago. Obviously I also want to show Napirai the place where I stopped over so often. For me back then, coming from Barsaloi, Maralal was the start of civilisation. Even now it still reminds me of some Wild West frontier town. Maralal is still the last place in the district where you can get good food and fill up on petrol before setting out for Barsaloi, Lake Turkana or Wamba.
What I really want to do is head for the little tearoom, have a proper chai and triangular mandazi doughnut and soak up the atmosphere, but all the others are tired and dusty, and in any case we’ve arranged to meet my brother-in-law James at the Safari Lodge. So for now I have to make do with a short drive through town in the car. The centre of Maralal hasn’t really changed at all. There are more cars and more people in Western-style clothes but there are still the same rows of little wooden shops, all selling more or less the same sort of stuff.
The more I stare through the dusty windows at the people, the more excited I get. Maybe I’ll spot James. He’s out there somewhere waiting for us, almost certainly as nervous and excited as I am. He’s the only one in the family who has had an education and so has a lot of responsibility as the point of contact between Kenya and Switzerland. My God! It suddenly occurs to me that in a few minutes I shall be introducing my daughter to one of her African blood relatives for the first time since she was barely two years old. I shoot a glance at her and notice a slight flickering in her eyes indicating a certain timorous nervousness. I take her hand and we both suddenly feel very close to one another.
Our vehicles bump along the dirt track up and down a few hills until we get to the simple little lodge. There’s nobody in sight, not any other tourists, or any sign of service personnel. Eventually an old Samburu man appears who eventually gets round to serving us drinks. But somehow that too fits in. Nothing has much has changed here since I first came to this lodge twenty-four years ago. Then, just as now, I sat here on this terrace with a few photographs of a handsome Samburu warrior in my hand. I loved that man with all my heart and on his behalf I had sold or given up all I owned back in Switzerland. We had been separated against our will and it was my faith in our indestructible love for one another that had brought me all the way here from Mombasa. I sat there exhausted, drinking a lemonade, staring at the distant mountain range and praying that against all the odds I’d find him again. My strength of will and the strength of our love made it possible, and even to this day I believe it was fate.
And now here I am back again to reintroduce him to his wonderful daughter. Napirai too is very excited about seeing her father and has no idea how she’ll react when she does.
There are a few zebra down by the watering hole and some apes playing around behind them, but apart from that everything is very peaceful. Shortly after our arrival a small group of Italian tourists turns up to look at the zebra and then they’re gone again.
Before long I hear the sound of a motorbike and realise straight away that it must be James. Napirai and I are still sitting on the terrace when we hear Albert and Klaus welcoming him. We’re just about to go and see him, when all of a sudden there he is, a little tubbier than before and clearly a bit tense about the meeting. But he holds out his arms to me, clad in a thick down jacket, and hugs me tight: ‘Ay, ay, ay Corinne, you came back!’ he exclaims happily. I’m every bit as happy as he is. Then he looks past me at Napirai, laughs loudly and gives her a big hug.
James stands there just looking at her, saying ‘Ay, ay, ay, she’s grown up. It’s not that long ago I was playing with you as a little girl, when I was still at school myself, and now here’s a young woman standing in front of me.’ He shakes his head as if he still can’t believe it. ‘And here you are, Corinne, and Albert and Klaus, you’ve all come back again. I could hardly believe it when I got your letter. We wait for years to see Napirai again and then we get a letter to say you’re on your way! The letter was delayed, and I only got it a month before you set off, so I thought it would be better to reply via the priest as he told me the computer would be a lot quicker,’ he babbles happily. We all chat and exchange gossip, Napirai clearly struggling with her emotions as she takes James in.
Suddenly James gets serious and says, ‘Corinne, Lketinga is here in Maralal too and would like to see his daughter today. There was no way he could wait back home for you to arrive. Is it okay if I go and fetch him?’
‘Of course, I didn’t think he’d be sitting at home twiddling his thumbs when his daughter was coming to see him,’ I tell him.
But one look at Napirai and I can see from the expression on her face that everything is going a bit fast for her.
James takes out his mobile – Maralal is the only place it works – and calls Lketinga, who it would seem also has a mobile phone! They exchange a few sentences and then James is off. I can hardly imagine Lketinga sitting on a motorbike and can’t wait for them to get back.
It takes nearly an hour. Napirai can hardly control herself but apart from being here with her, there’s nothing for me to do. I only wish I could read her mind.
Outside the zebras are still standing around the watering hole, glancing over at us disinterestedly from time to time. Two of the apes are screeching and squabbling with one another.
I can see Napirai getting more nervous with every minute, but then I’m not exactly calm myself. Then, just as dusk is falling, we hear the motorbike arriving in the quiet night air. A motorbike followed by a car. Surely Lketinga can’t own a car, can he? I’m about to go and see, when Napirai grabs me by the arm and holds me back.
Napirai writes: We’ve been sitting in this lodge for quite a while now, waiting for my father. The surroundings are beautiful and the atmosphere delightful but it seems to me like an eternity passing. I’m not at all sure what will happen when we meet for the first time, whether or not he’ll accept me as his daughter. I hope he does. I’m really happy to be here, to be about to meet my father. I keep listening to the distant noise of the traffic in Maralal. Every time I hear the slightest sound, I think, could that be him? It feels as if time has stopped and I’m getting more and more nervous. I’m almost sick to my stomach with the endless waiting.
Then suddenly, after a whole three hours, I hear James’s motorbike. I could burst into tears of happiness and excitement, but I manage not to. I just can’t believe that in a few seconds I shall see him. I need my mother with me when I meet him for the first time, and thank God, she stays out here on the terrace with me.
A tall, lean figure in a white hat is strolling slowly, elegantly, through the trees towards the lodge. ‘Napirai,’ I can’t hold myself back, ‘look, that’s your father walking towards us so grandly.’
My own heart is hammering away and I can’t think clearly. I feel as if I’m sharing every iota of my daughter’s excitement. The only thing I worry about is that it will all go well, and her father will not behave strangely.
Lketinga comes into the room through the terrace door, hesitates for a few moments looking expectantly in our direction. He’s got himself specially dressed up for the occasion, I can see that straight away. He’s wearing a dark grey jacket that is slightly too large for him but matches his grey-and-white checked trousers perfectly. His white shirt matches his light-coloured, broad-brimmed hat which itself is decorated with orangey brown pearls and small coins. Hanging from his neck is a little wooden flask, also decorated with coloured pearls, which he obviously uses for his snuff. His dark face looks tense at first but as soon as he claps eyes on his daughter it is immediately transformed. I want to rush over to him but he is already making a beeline for his daughter. He passes me, saying in a dark smoky voice, ‘Not you, I don’t want you, I want my child.’ He marches straight over to Napirai, throws his arms round her and hugs her so hard I worry sh
e won’t be able to breathe. And then he gives me a warm hug too. He is obviously totally smitten by his daughter and for the next half-hour can’t keep his eyes off her, sitting silently and occasionally shaking his head and running his hands over his face. I find it hard too to see just how hard he’s struggling to keep his feelings under control. In his culture people keep their emotions to themselves and he’s very obviously finding that hard to do right now. Napirai just stands there beaming. I think the tension she had been struggling with too was simply washed away by the great big hug her father gave her, and now any remaining concerns have been shrugged happily aside.
Napirai writes: My heart was hammering in my chest when I caught sight of my father out on the terrace. He looked just like I imagined and I’m so happy that finally I’m going to meet him. His faces lights up when he sees me, and he rushes over towards me. He throws his arms around me and I can fell the emotion well up in him. All the tension I had been experiencing evaporates in an instant and I just stand there and savour the moment. I cannot imagine a better first meeting. I’m even happier still when I realise he’s going to spend the whole evening with us.
We all sit down around the fireplace, waiting for dinner to be served, Lketinga between me and his daughter. Every now and then he takes her hand or puts his arm around her, looks her in the face and says, ‘Yes, my child!’
A friend of James’s has come along too. He works in Maralal, in the government offices, and has a small car. It was him who brought Lketinga out to the lodge. Gradually, sitting there around the cosy fire, we all begin to relax. Lketinga lights a cigarette with his long, thin fingers, laughs and tells us, ‘Yes, I’ve been here in Maralal for three days, waiting for you. I wanted it to be me who introduces my child to Barsaloi. I want to show you everything. Why not, I am your father after all.’ Then he puts his arms around her again and squeezes her. Napirai laughs and I realise that she is enjoying his sheer spontaneity.