The next morning I clamber out in a fresh new cotton frock. Mama is amazed and wants to know how many I have. I hold up four fingers, and she suggests that I might care to give her one, as she only has one and has been wearing it for years. That’s not hard to believe, looking at how dirty it is and the holes in it. But mine are far too long and too tight at the waist. I promise to bring her one back on my next expedition. Compared to the average Swiss woman, I have very few clothes, but here four skirts and ten T-shirts are an almost shameful excess.
Today I plan to do my washing in the meagre waters of the river. So we go into a shop and buy Omo. This is the only washing powder to be bought in Kenya and is used not just for clothes but for the body and hair as well. It’s not easy washing clothes with little water and a lot of sand. Lketinga even helps me, although the other women and girls watch and giggle. The fact that he’ll do that for me makes me love him even more. The men here do almost no work at all, certainly not ‘women’s work’, like fetching water, finding firewood or washing clothes, although they usually will wash their own kanga.
In the afternoon I decide to go up to the grandiose-looking Mission and introduce myself. A grumpy but astonished-looking missionary opens the door and says, ‘Yes?’ I muster my best English to tell him that I’m intending to stay here in Barsaloi and live with a Samburu man. He looks at me somewhat dismissively and with an Italian accent says, ‘Yes, and now?’ I ask him if it would be possible to go with him to Maralal from time to time to get foodstuffs. He replies coldly that he never knows in advance when he has to go to Maralal and in any case has to transport sick people rather than help with shopping expeditions. He holds out his hand and bids me a cool goodbye with the words, ‘I’m Father Guiliani, arrivederci.’
I’m left standing in front of the closed door, trying to come to terms with my first encounter with a missionary. I’m angry and ashamed to be white. Slowly I make my way back to the manyatta and my own poor folk who are ready to share with me even though I’m a total stranger.
I tell Lketinga about my experience, and he laughs and says those two missionaries are no good. The other one, Father Roberto, is a bit more approachable, though. Their predecessors had helped the local community more and always distributed maize meal when there was a famine. This pair would wait until it was too late. I’m sad not to be able to count on the priest for a ride, and I’ve no intention of begging.
The days pass by at the same tempo, varied only by the different groups of visitors in the manyatta. Sometimes it’s old people, sometimes warriors all the same age, and then I’m usually left sitting for hours without understanding more than the occasional word.
The Land Rover
After a fortnight it’s clear that I can’t continue to survive on this unbalanced diet, even though I take a European vitamin tablet every day. My skirts are getting too big for me, which only goes to show that I’ve already lost several pounds. I want to stay, there’s no doubt about that, but I don’t want to starve. Also, I’ve no toilet paper left, and I’m running out of paper handkerchiefs too. With the best will in the world, there’s no way I can clean myself with a stone the way the Samburu do, even if it is more environmentally friendly than my bits of white paper left behind the bush.
Eventually I make up my mind: I need a car. Obviously it’ll have to be a Land Rover because nothing else is any use out here. I talk about it to Lketinga, who talks in turn to Mama, who considers the idea absurd. A car is something that belongs to someone from another planet with enormous sums of money. And then, what would people say? No, Mama is not happy with the idea, although she understands my problem, which is the same as everyone else’s: a lack of food.
The idea of having a Land Rover and becoming independent inspires me, however. But because my money is in Mombasa it means undertaking the whole long journey again. I’d have to get my mother to transfer money from my Swiss bank account to Barclays Bank in Mombasa. I dither in the hope that Lketinga will come with me because I haven’t a clue how to get hold of a car. I haven’t seen any car dealerships like we have in Switzerland, and I’ve no idea how to get a number plate or papers, but I know one thing: I’m going to come back in a car.
I force myself to go back to the Mission again. This time it’s Father Roberto who opens the door. I tell him my plans and ask for a ride on the next trip to Maralal. He replies politely that I should come back in two days as he might be going down then.
Just before I leave Lketinga says he won’t be coming with me. He doesn’t want to go back to Mombasa. I’m disappointed but after everything that’s happened I understand. We spend half the night talking, and I feel he’s afraid I won’t come back. Mama thinks so too. Again and again I promise them I’ll be back in a week at most, but the atmosphere in the morning is sombre, and I find it hard to be cheerful.
An hour later I’m sitting beside Roberto travelling a route that’s new to me – to Baragoi in the Turkana District – before we go on to Maralal. The road is not so rocky, and we hardly need the four-wheel drive. On the other hand, it’s littered with small sharp stones that could cause a puncture and the route is twice as long; it will take four hours to get to Maralal. We arrive after two in the afternoon, and I say thanks politely and go to the boarding house to drop off my bag. I’ll be spending the night there because the bus doesn’t leave until six the next morning. I’m wandering around Maralal to kill time when suddenly I hear my name. I turn around in astonishment and recognize with delight my erstwhile saviour, Tom. It’s nice to find a familiar face amongst all the strange ones staring at me.
I tell him my plan and he tells me it won’t be easy because there are never many second-hand cars on the market in Kenya. Two months ago there was someone in Maralal trying to sell a Land Rover. Maybe it is still available. We agree to meet up at the boarding house at seven.
That would be the best thing that could happen for me! And indeed Tom turns up half an hour earlier than planned and says we ought to go and take a look at the Land Rover straight away. I go with him full of anticipation and find that the Land Rover is very old but exactly what I have been looking for. I negotiate with its owner, a fat man from the Kikuyu tribe. After a lot of haggling we settle on a price of 2,500 Swiss francs. I can hardly believe my luck but try to play it cool as we shake on the deal. I tell him the money’s in Mombasa, and I’ll be back with it in four days, but he’s not to sell it at any price because I’m relying on him. I don’t, however, want to put down a deposit because the seller doesn’t look the most trustworthy type. He promises me with a grin he’ll wait four days. My saviour and I leave the Kikuyu and go for dinner. Happy to have one worry less, I promise to take him and his wife on a safari sometime.
The journey to Mombasa passes off without problems. Once there, I get the money from the bank, which is not easy. Business like that takes time. After nearly two hours I’m in possession of a huge amount of paper currency that I now have to conceal on my person. The banker warns me to take care because so much money is a fortune here and people have been murdered for less. Leaving the bank I feel uneasy, imagining that people are outside watching and waiting for me. Over one shoulder I have my travel bag with the rest of my clothes from Mombasa and in the other a sturdy stick. a lesson learned from Jutta in Rambo mode. If I have to, I won’t hesitate to use it.
I keep crossing the street to try to ascertain if anyone’s been following me from the bank, and it’s an hour before I feel secure enough to go to the bus station to get my ticket for the night bus to Nairobi. Then I go back and find a seat in the Hotel Castel, the most expensive in Mombasa, and under Swiss management. At long last I can eat a European meal again, even if costs a fortune, but what the hell: who knows when I’ll next see a salad or chips?
When it’s time to go, the bus departs punctually, and I look forward to getting home again and proving to Lketinga that he can trust me. But after barely an hour and a half, the bus suddenly swerves and comes to a dead stop. All of a sudden everybody starts talking at o
nce. The driver announces that we’ve got a puncture on the right rear tyre. Everybody gets out. A few sit down by the edge of the road and get out sheets or woollen blankets. It’s pitch black, and there’s no sign of life for miles around. I say something in English to a man with glasses, assuming that someone with gold glasses will speak the language. He does indeed and tells me that it’s likely to take a long time before a vehicle passes in the opposite direction to take someone to Mombasa who can ask them to send out a spare tyre.
I don’t believe what I’m hearing! A bus packed full of people sent out at night without a spare tyre on board! Nobody else seems to be bothered; they just sit there or lie down on the edge of the road. It’s cold, and I’m freezing. After three-quarters of an hour a vehicle going in the opposite direction finally appears. The car stops, and a man gets in. Now we have to wait again for at least three hours, since it took us an hour and a half to get here.
The thought of the long journey home starts me panicking. I take my bag and march out into the middle of the road, determined to stop the next passing car. Before long I spot two bright headlights in the distance. I wave like mad. A man hands me a torch, saying they’ll knock me over and kill me otherwise. He recognizes from the lights that it’s a bus and indeed, when screeching tyres bring it to a halt in front of me, it turns out to be a Maraika Safari company bus. I tell them I have to get to Nairobi as quickly as possible and ask for a lift. It appears to be an Indian company as most of the occupants are Asian. They agree to take me, but only if I pay.
But thank God my money and I are off the dark empty road. I nod off and must have actually been asleep when suddenly a commotion breaks out in the hitherto quiet bus. I peer sleepily out into the darkness and realize that our bus too has come to a halt on the roadside. A lot of the passengers have already got out and are standing around. I clamber out and inspect the tyres, which all seem okay. Only then do I notice the bonnet is up and someone tells me the drive belt has snapped. ‘What do we do now?’ I ask. It’s a problem: we’re two hours from Nairobi and the garages, which are the only place we’ll find a replacement, don’t open until seven in the morning. I turn away to hide my welling tears.
Twice in the same night with two separate buses I’ve ended up stranded on this same bloody road! This is the third day I’ve been travelling, and I have to get the seven a.m. bus from Nairobi tomorrow morning to Nyahururu in order to catch the only bus to Maralal the following morning, otherwise my Kikuyu’s likely to have sold my car. I despair at so much bad luck when every hour counts. The thought that I must be in Nairobi by morning is hammering in my head.
Two cars pass, but I’m wary of a small number of strangers. After two and a half hours once again I spot the large headlights of a bus. With a lit cigarette lighter in each hand I park myself in the middle of the road and hope the driver sees me. He stops. It’s the first bus I was on. Laughing, the driver opens the door, and I climb on board in embarrassment.
When we reach Nairobi, I have just time to down some chai and a piece of cake before getting on the next bus to Nyahururu. My back, neck and arms all ache. But I’m consoled by the fact that with all this money on me, I’m still alive and still on time.
Back in Maralal I hurry into the Kikuyu’s shop with my heart pounding. There’s a woman behind the counter who doesn’t speak any English. From her Swahili I gather that her husband isn’t there and I should come back tomorrow. The stress and uncertainty aren’t over yet.
It’s nearly noon the next day before I finally see his fat face again. And the Land Rover too, standing fully laden outside the shop. He gives me a brusque welcome and empties the car. I stand there like something ordered but not collected. When he finally takes out the last package I suggest we get down to business. With a show of embarrassment he rubs his hands together and says he has to ask for another one thousand Swiss francs or he could sell the car to someone else.
I just about manage to hold myself back and tell him I have the amount of money we agreed with me but no more. He shrugs his shoulders and says he can wait until I get the rest. It’s impossible, I tell myself: it will take days for the money to get here from Switzerland and I’m not repeating the journey to Mombasa. He leaves me standing there and goes off to serve other people. I charge off to the boarding house. The stinking bastard! I could murder him!
The Land Rover belonging to the manager of the Tourist Lodge is standing in front of the boarding house. I have to go through the bar to get to the bedrooms at the rear of the house, and the manager recognizes me and invites me to have a beer with him. He introduces me to his companion who works in their Maralal office. We make small talk for a bit, but I’m obviously interested to know whether or not Jutta is still around, but unfortunately not; she’s gone to Nairobi for a bit to make some more money painting.
Eventually I get round to mentioning the episode with my Land Rover. The manager laughs and says that car isn’t worth even two thousand Swiss francs; if it were, it would have been sold long ago. There are so few vehicles here everybody knows each one of them. I’m still prepared to pay my 2,500 providing I get it. He promises to help me, and we drive back to the Kikuyu’s place in his car. They argue back and forth until in the end I get the car.
The manager tells me that I have to get the logbook from the Kikuyu and go to the local government office to do the transfer because here the car number and insurance are transferred along with the vehicle. The manager insists that we do the deal on paper with him as a witness. We find the office just before it closes and at last, with another hundred francs less in my pocket, I finally have the logbook in my name. The Kikuyu hands me the keys and wishes me luck.
As I’ve never driven a car like this before, I let him explain everything to me and drive him back to his shop. The street is full of potholes and before I’ve gone five yards I discover there’s a lot of play in the steering. Changing gear is hard work, and the brakes kick in late. So of course I immediately go into the first pothole. My passenger grabs the dashboard in terror and turns to me in doubt: ‘You have a driver-licence?’ ‘Yes,’ I snap, struggling again to change gear and eventually managing it. He breaks my concentration again to insist I’m driving on the wrong side of the road. Oh shit! They drive on the left here! When we reach his shop the Kikuyu gets out with relief. I drive on down to the school to get used to the Land Rover where he can’t see me, and after a few bends I’ve got the hang of it, more or less.
Next I head for the petrol station because the indicator shows only a quarter of a tank. The Somali who runs it says he’s sorry there’s no fuel at the moment. ‘Well, when will it arrive?’ I ask optimistically. This evening or tomorrow, it’s been promised for ages, but nobody’s quite certain when it’s coming. Already I’ve run into my next problem: now I’ve got a car but no fuel.
It’s the supreme irony! I go back to the Kikuyu and ask him to sell me some. He says he hasn’t got any but gives me a tip as to where there’s always some to be had on the black market. In the end I get four gallons at four Swiss francs per gallon, but that isn’t enough to get to Barsaloi and back. I drive out to the Tourist Lodge, and the manager comes up with another four gallons. At last I’m happy and plan to head off directly to Barsaloi after doing some shopping the next morning.
Braving The Bush
Early the next morning I go to the nearest bank and open an account in Maralal, which is not easy, given that I can provide neither a street nor postal address. When I tell them I live in one of the manyattas in Barsaloi, they simply don’t believe it. How on earth do I get there? they ask. I tell them about the car, and in the end they let me open an account. I write to my mother, telling her now to send any money to Maralal.
I load up with food and set off. Obviously I take the shortest route, through the bush, otherwise I wouldn’t have enough fuel to get there and come back later. I can’t wait to see Lketinga’s face when I arrive at the village in the car.
The Land Rover copes with the steep dusty
track, although I have to engage the four-wheel drive just before I get to the forest to avoid getting stuck. I’m proud of myself for having got to grips with the car so well. The trees are enormous, and I can tell from the overgrown path that the route has not been used for a long time. Then it goes downhill again, and I’m motoring along happily until suddenly I see a great herd of animals across the path. I break sharply. Didn’t Lketinga tell me there were no herds of cows around here? But one hundred and fifty feet closer to the herd I realize that what I thought were cows are in fact fully-grown buffalo.
What was it Lketinga said? The most dangerous animal in the bush isn’t the lion but the buffalo. And here are at least thirty of them, with young ones, great giants with broad noses and sharp horns. A few of them continue to graze peacefully, but some others have turned to look at my car. There’s steam coming from the herd, or is it rising dust? I stare frozen at them. Should I hoot or not? Do they recognize a car? I wait and wait, but they don’t move from the track, and eventually I hoot at them. At once they all raise their heads in my direction. Gingerly I engage reverse and parp again at short intervals. That is the end of their peaceful grazing. A few of the huge beasts start to lower their horns and cast around them. I watch in frozen terror hoping they’ll disappear into the thick forest rather than come up the path towards me. But before I can take in exactly what’s happening, the track is suddenly clear. The ghosts have vanished, leaving only a cloud of dust behind.
Even so, I wait cautiously for a few minutes before putting my foot down. The Land Rover rattles like it’s falling apart, but the only thought in my head is to get out of here as fast as possible. When I reach the spot where the animals were, I risk a quick glance into the forest but can see nothing, even though I can smell their freshly dropped dung. I have to hold on tight to the steering wheel to stop it being wrenched from my hands. After five minutes at top speed I slow down a bit, because the track is getting steeper and steeper. I stop and engage the four-wheel drive. I hope that will get me across this patch without tipping over because everywhere I look now I can see huge potholes and ravines. Feverishly I pray that the car will keep all four wheels on the ground. I don’t dare use the clutch for fear of falling out of gear! I make progress yard by yard with every imaginable disaster going through my head. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, but I don’t dare wipe it away because I need both hands to hang on to the steering wheel. After two or three hundred yards the worst of it is behind me, the forest is thinning out, and I’m happy to have a bit more light and air around me. Shortly afterwards I reach the scree slope. Even that looks different now. The last time I was sitting in the back, thinking only about Lketinga.