I get the chance to chat to a few of the film crew: the costume mistress, who’s from South Africa originally – the whole adventure out here in the bush has made her feel homesick – and the make-up artist, who’s from Germany. Someone points out the mobile phone mast that’s been erected just for the duration of the film shoot. They have huge generators to provide power for everything. It’s quite incredible how much stuff they’ve had to ship out here into the bush! I can only hope that the rains don’t come early and catch them by surprise!
During the afternoon, life in the camp all but comes to a stop in the intensity of the shimmering heat but with evening it all comes to life again and people pour back from work into the tents. Paraffin lamps are set out to mark the paths and water for the showers is heated up over open fires while people busy themselves in their tents. Most of them were away all day shooting at the recreated Barsaloi. I can hardly wait to see that set tomorrow.
Albert, Klaus and I are already sitting in the dinner tent with the producer, watching them prepare food for well in excess of a hundred people. There are several Kenyan cooks working under the direction of Rolf Schmid, a German who has been living in Kenya, working in the restaurant trade for years. He is an experienced professional when it comes to providing a catering service for film crews in Kenya. Film crews who have benefited from his gastronomic expertise include those who worked on Out of Africa with Robert Redford and Merlyn Streep, as well as the German actress Caroline Links’ film Nowhere in Africa. Most people in the business rate him the best caterer in the whole of Kenya. I’m hugely impressed and amazed by the sheer logistics of what he’s undertaking here, especially taking into account that everything has to be brought in huge trucks all the way from Nairobi.
Little by little the tent fills up. I’m pleased to see the director Hermine Huntgeburth again. I really liked her at our first meeting and got the impression my story was in good hands with her. I’m also pleased that it is a woman directing. At last Nina arrives. Immediately it’s clear to me that at least superficially she fits the bill: tall, thin and blond, just the way I looked eighteen years ago. I can even relate to the aura she gives off, which is a good sign. We say hello, full of curiosity about one another, and sit down to eat together. The situation is a little odd, however, and I feel slightly inhibited and get the impression she does too. Diagonally opposite is an Italian actor who’s playing Father Giuliani. I like him even if he doesn’t look much like the ‘original’. At any rate I can imagine him gesticulating as energetically as Giuliani did.
Then at last I meet Jacky Ido, who is playing Lemalian, the name they have substituted in the script for Lketinga. He’s dressed normally for dinner and seems to me nothing like a Samburu. I try to conceal my initial annoyance and when I say hello to him notice that at least around the eyes there is a certain resemblance to my ex-husband. When he starts talking too I find he gives off a warm, pleasant aura. He’s about the right size too. I’ll be interested to see what he looks like tomorrow after make-up. He tells me that it takes two hours every day to turn him into a traditional Samburu. As he has no objections, I decide to go along and watch this transformation take place.
Listening to people talk, I realize they’re all really exhausted. It’s a long day shooting out there in the heat. The meal makes up for a lot though, with a dessert buffet to rival any four-star hotel even though it’s laid out under the stars in the bush.
Much as I enjoy luxury like this today, back then when I lived out here it would have meant nothing to me. It was my love for Lketinga that gave me such strength and will to survive. I felt it like a living thing within me that gave me the power to move mountains. Here, on the other hand, are people simply struggling to work for three months under difficult conditions. The beauty and romance of this landscape must pale for them when they’re far from home and their loved ones. I can imagine what it’s like and wouldn’t mind asking a few questions, but I get the impression that now is not the time.
The producer makes a little speech, introducing me so everyone knows who I am. Almost immediately after dinner, however, the leading actors turn in for the night. Nina wants to go over her lines for tomorrow, and Jacky has to get up really early for his two hours in the make-up chair. So we have a last glass of wine together and head out of the dinner tent.
Off to one side there’s a campfire burning with a row of chairs in a semicircle around it. I sit down and gaze into the flickering flames. After a little while a Samburu mother and a lively eight-year-old girl come to join me. The woman says hello and starts talking to me in Maa. I do my best to guess what she’s saying from the few phrases I understand. Then all of a sudden it dawns on me that she’s trying to explain that she knows me from way back when. She was in the hospital in Wamba at the same time as I was giving birth to my daughter. She was having her last, that is her fourteenth, child! I can hardly believe the bits of information I’m stringing together out of the avalanche of unfamiliar words pouring over me. When she goes on to tell me that she’s the film-Mama, I can’t cope anymore: I absolutely need an interpreter. I need to know what she’s saying.
Quickly they find someone who knows both Maa and English. It seems I’ve got the right end of the stick. It’s incredible. After auditioning dozens of Samburu women, the one who ends up playing the role of my mother-in-law is someone who knew me back then and even gave birth to a child in Wamba at the same time as me! I’m enchanted by the discovery and convinced it’s fate rather than chance.
The lively little girl is playing the part of Saguna, although in the film she’s called Christine. She’s as bouncy as a rubber ball and in search of security, that’s as plain as pie. I’m told later that she’s being brought up by an aunt, either because her parents are dead, or because they’ve given her away. It’s hard to find out anything else because the Samburu don’t like to talk about the dead.
Watching this ‘film-Mama’ for a while, I decide I really like her. However, in comparison with my mother-in-law, she strikes me as somewhat too young and lacking the older woman’s mystic aura. But sitting here around the campfire and having just heard her story I find myself bonding with her. She tells me she knows some of the members of my family from Barsaloi. I’m delighted to hear it and interested to see how she plays her role. Mama obviously was an important figure for me. She kept me from a lot of distress and gave me a lot of inner strength. If they manage to get any of that across in the film, I’ll be more than pleased.
By now all the chairs around the fire have been taken and, as usual amongst Africans, everybody’s nattering away. They always have some story or other to tell and most of the time the atmosphere’s always jovial. The film-Mama, however, gets up to go to bed as tomorrow will be another long day on the set. I take my leave of the campfire too and after saying a few goodnights make my way to my tent.
Lemalian Alias Lketinga
Early next morning a loud dawn chorus of birdsong wakes me. I clamber out of the tent just in time to catch the sunrise. A few yards away there’s a thorn tree with bird’s nests, little round balls stuck to the branches with a little narrow round entrance from beneath. It’s funny to watch the birds popping up into their nests from below. There must be at least three dozen of the things on this tree with their inhabitants flitting to and fro.
After making myself ready for the day I stroll over to the caravan where the make-up artist has set up shop to watch Jacky undergo his transformation into Lketinga, otherwise known as Lemalian. There’s no way I want to miss this. He’s already in the chair and greets me with a beaming smile.
The make-up man tells me Jacky is always good-humoured, even though he’s the first into the chair in the morning and the last to leave each evening. On the wall hangs a long red wig plaited Masai-style. It looks remarkably like the real thing. I settle down to observe the transformation.
First comes the laborious task of fitting Jacky’s ears with larger artificial pierced lobes to hold the ivory earrings. To my unacc
ustomed eyes, this soft brown thing looks absolutely macabre, like a real piece of human ear. I’m so fascinated by it that the make-up man gives me the piece they used yesterday. The first thing that comes into my head is: I must show this to Lketinga. But I soon drop that idea, realizing the sort of difficult conversation it could lead to. If I find it disturbingly realistic, how can I explain to him that there are materials that can be made to look like anything and that there are even people who do that for a living?
With extreme precision the false ear extension is fixed to the real thing and glued on behind. Imagine having to go through this same process every day. Then the heavy wig is fixed on his head. The more Jacky comes to look like a Samburu, the more I like the look of him. But as the whole process has already taken over an hour, I dash off to the breakfast table to make sure I don’t miss out. When I get back half an hour later Jacky is almost finished. A traditional Samburu helps him with the body paint and makes sure that everything looks right.
Yes, I think, now this Lemalian looks a lot more like Lketinga than Jacky did last night. With his shining naked torso decorated Samburu-style, he looks magnificent and fascinating. His soft eyes and enticing smile only add to the positive aura he projects and I’m convinced now that the public will take to him. My cynicism has finally been overcome. Perhaps it’s also better for me if he doesn’t look exactly like Lketinga. It will make it easier for me to keep some distance between the film and the reality of my own past.
Time’s getting on, however, so we have a few photos taken together before Jacky has to be driven off to shoot today’s scenes, which are set in our shop. They’re doing a scene in which Carola – the name given to my screen persona – is six months’ pregnant. I’m interested to see how Nina will look with a ‘baby bump’, but also how they’ve reconstructed our old shop, the village of Barsaloi and the Mission building. They don’t, however, want to be disturbed while shooting, and despite my curiosity I can understand that.
Barsaloi Resurrected
Before long we’re on our way to the film-set village. We crest a hill and suddenly I’m struck dumb by the sight that meets my eyes. The entire village has been recreated almost perfectly. On either side of the street stand a few wooden huts with rusty tin roofs and paint peeling from the walls that makes them look as if they’ve been here a dozen years at least. The village sits on an area of raised ground with a magnificent view over the plain while the reconstructed Mission building stands on a slope off to one side.
As they’re shooting over in the shop, we start our visit at the Mission. Even from the outside there’s a certain resemblance to the one in Barsaloi, primarily because of the little vegetable garden. Father Giuliani loved his garden and had to use all his cunning and imagination to protect it from the wild animals. Here too they’ve planted vegetables and maize to be correct down to the last detail. The inside has been done up in colonial style and even the great fireplace dominating the room looks as if it’s been used countless times. A pair of old chairs alongside an antique table, shelves full of books and paintings of saints on the walls all come together to create the harmonious impression of a room in a Mission. Outside there’s the church with a superb view over the village. The producer, who’s obviously enjoying showing off, tells us they’ll be filming up here this afternoon.
There are people everywhere. Before they start shooting, a megaphone orders silence everywhere, even three hundred yards away from the action. That makes it virtually impossible to have any sort of sensible conversation. It’s all go, outside the shop over in the village. All of a sudden someone calls to us that they’ve stopped for a break and we can come over to the village.
Outside the houses a few native extras are sitting on the ground and I wonder what on earth they think of us mzungus! One day a lorry-load of mzungus drives up and within a couple of weeks they’ve built an entire village and even a Mission building in the middle of the scrubland. Then they do everything they can to make it all look as old as possible. A bit later I watch as, for one scene, a group of native warriors and women run from one end of the street to the other, ten times over, the same thing repeated over and over again. I would give anything to know what they’re thinking. One thing, however, I’m sure of: they’ll be talking about this for years. Even the generations to come will almost certainly hear all sorts of versions of the story.
We’re almost at the shop when we see Lemalian and Carola coming out. They both look terrific. Nina has got her hair tied back for the role, just like I used to do. With her pregnant belly, brightly coloured flowery dress and Masai jewellery she looks very like the Corinne of those days. I tell her so with absolute conviction. We have a few photos taken and then they have to get back to work. Just before they do I take the opportunity to have a look round the reconstructed shop. Yet again they’ve got everything just right, even the old set of scales with the stone weights. Seeing this after all these years reminds me what bone-breaking work it was lugging hundreds of pounds of cornmeal, sugar or rice every day. Sometimes my back was so bad, I could hardly move in the evenings. The best payment, however, was the smiles on the faces of my customers, just pleased they had somewhere to buy food. But my reminiscences have to give way to the work of the moment as the filming recommences.
Outside, Klaus and I go off looking for photo opportunities. I’m struck by one in particular: two very old men in traditional dress, one of them with a very unique piece of ‘jewellery’ – glasses with lenses half the size of his head – and a funny floppy hat with a picture of a tiger on it. I sit down for a chat with them and we have our photo taken together. The face behind the giant glasses beams at me with good-natured pride. I find the old people here fascinating for you can see their whole lives in their faces.
Then we sit down in the shade and watch the shooting from a distance for a couple of hours, but it’s the same thing over and over: a few lines, then silence, then they wait a bit, then they say a few more lines, then they go silent and wait again. It’s fascinating at first but soon gets monotonous if you’re not up close and involved, so I’m pleased that after lunch when they’re shooting up at the Mission they ask me to come onto the set.
The director offers me a seat next to the camera. I have no idea what scene they’re shooting and sit there in anticipation. All of a sudden Lemalian runs up the steps of the Mission and the priest hurries over to him. It seems Lemalian is telling him that Carola and the baby in hospital are okay.
Watching this scene, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the most appalling feeling of desolation. I had simply not anticipated this as I was feeling relaxed and comfortable with it all, but the moment Lemalian opens his mouth it’s not him I see but Lketinga, and the desperate situation I was in then comes flooding back to me. I’m in such a state that I have to leave the set in tears, ashamed and embarrassed in front of the whole crew. One tiny little episode like that and I completely lose control of my emotions. What on earth will I be like when Carola comes on? There are going to be tears for sure.
Luckily it’s coffee break and nobody outside notices the state I’m in. I put my sunglasses on and have a cup of hot tea. My hands are shaking so much I spill it all over one of them, but at least the pain’s a distraction.
After my experience on the set close up, I decide I’ve seen enough of the shooting and feel I’m in any case redundant. I’ve seen everything, got to meet most of the actors and actresses and seen how successfully they’ve recreated the setting. There’s nothing more I can do here to help the film along and it makes no sense for me to hang around on the set any longer. Clearly the emotional excitement of the past few days has upset my internal equilibrium. The trip to see Father Giuliani is just what I need. I always felt safe and sound in his reassuring presence. Even now seeing him is bound to restore a bit of emotional stability before I have to go back to Barsaloi to face the painful farewells with my family there.
We spend the rest of the afternoon chatting in a relaxed atmosphere with the prod
ucer and his wife. Over a splendid evening meal I thank them all for their kindness and above all for the chance of a glimpse behind the scenes of ‘my’ film, and tell them I have no fears and am convinced the film will appeal to a wide audience.
Father Giuliani
We set off after breakfast from the film location for the three-hour journey back to Barsaloi where we’re due to meet Father Giuliani at midday. We arrive exactly on time to find Father Giuliani waiting for us. He’s hardly changed. Only his white hair and a few more wrinkles in his tanned face betray the passing of the years. He is dressed – as always – in shorts, a polo shirt and beach sandals. He comes up to say hello with a broad smile on his face. Grinning he looks me up and down and says: ‘What? Is this supposed to be the Corinne who was forever knocking on my door?’ I have to laugh. When he knew me of course I was at my thinnest. These days I eat healthily and don’t consider myself fat but I’m no longer a beanpole. He says hello to Albert and Klaus with an enthusiasm that shows how much he enjoys the break in routine that visitors bring.
Then he takes a look at our four-wheel drive vehicles and reckons we can get away with just using one. But, as our drivers refuse to let their vehicles out of their sight, that would mean leaving one of them behind and we don’t want to do that. We have no idea yet how cramped things are at Giuliani’s place. All he says is that his new Mission isn’t as big as the one here. When I tell him that the thing I miss most of all is his pretty little garden with its banana trees, he says dryly: ‘These new priests aren’t interested in gardens or vegetables. They can’t fix their own cars either, which is pretty essential around here. Still I suppose that’s why there’s a nunnery!’