We have to stick it out for nearly three hours by the roadside until we see a cloud of dust in the distance and Tom comes back in a Land Rover with its owner. To our delight, he’s also brought cola and bread. I want to guzzle the drink, but he warns me just to take little sips or I’ll be ill. Like someone brought back from the dead, I swear never again to set out on a journey without drinking water.
Tom has to use a hammer and chisel to loosen the last nut, but then we change the wheel rapidly and, with one nut less on our wheel, set off again. It takes just one and a half hours to reach Lake Baringo finally. The filling station is right next to a grandiose garden restaurant for tourists. After the nightmare we’ve been through, I invite everyone into the restaurant. The girl is astounded to discover this new world but feels uncomfortable. We sit down at a nice table with a view over the lake and thousands of pink flamingos. Looking into the wondering faces of my guests, I’m thrilled to have been able to offer them something more than just trouble.
Two waiters come to the table, but not to take our order. They tell us that we won’t be served because the restaurant’s only for tourists. I tell them I am a tourist and I want to treat my friends. The black waiter tries to calm me down, saying I can stay but the Masai must leave the premises. We get up and go. I sense almost physically how demoralized these otherwise proud people feel.
At least we get the fuel. When the owner sees that I want to fill up the two canisters as well he demands to see my money first. Lketinga inserts the nozzle into the canister, and I retire some distance to smoke a cigarette to calm me down. All of a sudden he shouts out and I see the petrol erupting like a fountain. I rush to the car and pull the trigger back on the pump; the cut-off had got jammed and the fuel kept flowing even when the canister was full. Several quarts have spilled on the ground and inside the vehicle, but when I see how bad Lketinga feels, I try to calm myself down. Tom and his wife are standing off to one side, wishing the earth would swallow them. We’re told to pay and go, without being allowed to fill the other canister. I wish we were back at home in the manyatta, even without the car. Up until now it’s brought only trouble.
We drink tea in the village and set off again. The whole car stinks of petrol, and it’s not long before the girl’s sick. Then she refuses to get back into the car and wants to walk home. Tom gets furious and threatens to send her back to her parents in Maralal and take another wife instead. That would obviously be a great disgrace because she gets back in. Lketinga has said nothing. I feel sorry for him and try to console him. By the time we get back to Maralal it’s dark.
The other pair say goodbye quickly, and we retire to our boarding house. Even though it’s quite cold, I take a quick, inadequate shower to get rid of some of the dust and dirt. Lketinga has a wash too. Then we wolf down a huge portion of meat in our room. This time even I enjoy the meat, and we both wash it down with beer. Afterwards I feel really good, and we make love; and for the first time with him, I reach a climax. Not completely silently of course, which scares Lketinga, who holds me and says: ‘Corinne, what’s the problem?’ When I can breathe normally again, I try to explain my orgasm to him, but he doesn’t understand and laughs disbelievingly. It has to be something that only happens to white people, he reckons. Tired and happy, I fall gently asleep.
Early the next morning we do some serious shopping: rice, potatoes, vegetables, fruit, even pineapples. We even manage to fill the second canister, for ironically the petrol has finally arrived in Maralal. Loaded up, we set off for home. With another couple of Samburu men on board.
Lketinga wants to take the shorter road through the bush. I have my doubts, but with him there they soon disappear. The journey is easy until we get to the steep bit. Because the full canisters make the vehicle less stable and I’m afraid it could tip over, I ask our two passengers to put themselves and all our shopping on the uphill side. Nobody says a word as I tackle the two-hundred-yard stretch. But we manage it, and the conversation in the vehicle resumes. When we get to the scree everybody else gets out, and Lketinga directs me well over the rocks. With that successfully behind us as well, I feel both relieved and proud, and we roll into Barsaloi without further ado.
The Daily Grind
The next few days are pure pleasure. We have enough to eat and more than enough petrol. Every day we use the car to either visit relatives or fetch wood. Occasionally we drive down to the river for our washing ritual and bring back water canisters for half of Barsaloi, sometimes as many as twenty. However, all these little expeditions soon begin to eat into the fuel supply, and I begin to raise objections, which every time ends up in a long debate.
This morning one of the morans tells us one of his cows has given birth. This is something we have to see, so we drive to Sitedi. This is not officially a road, so I have to be careful not to drive over thorn bushes. We drop in on his half-brother in the corral where the cows are kept at night, which means ploughing our way through endless cowpats swarming with flies. Lketinga’s half-brother shows us the newborn calf. The mother cow is kept in the corral on the first day after the birth. Lketinga beams while I battle the flies. My plastic sandals are sinking into the cow dung. Now I see the difference between our corral, which doesn’t have cows, and this one, and I know which I prefer.
We’re invited to chai, and Lketinga leads me into the hut belonging to his half-brother and his young wife who has a two-week-old baby. She seems pleased to see us, and the conversation is lively, although I don’t understand a word. The swarms of flies are driving me mad. I keep one hand continuously over my cup to make sure I don’t swallow any. The baby is naked, lying in his mother’s kanga, and when I point out that nobody has noticed it’s doing its business in it, the wife laughs and takes the child out, cleaning his backside by spitting on it and rubbing the mess off. She shakes the kanga and her skirt and rubs sand into both to dry them. I feel sick at the idea that this happens several times a day with the same lack of hygiene. I mention it to Lketinga, but he says it’s normal. In any case the flies deal with what’s left.
I decide it’s time to go home, but Lketinga says that won’t do: ‘Tonight we’re sleeping here.’ He wants to stay with the cow, and his half-brother wants to slaughter a goat for us because his wife could do with the meat after giving birth herself. The thought of spending the night here almost sends me into a panic. On the one hand, I don’t want to offend their hospitality; on the other, I really feel uncomfortable.
Most of the time Lketinga is with the other warriors looking at the cows, and I’m left sitting in the dark hut with three women to whom I can’t say a word. They talk amongst themselves, quite obviously about me, or giggle. One of them touches the white skin of my arm; another puts her hand in my hair. The long, fair hair disconcerts them; they all have shaved skulls, although they’re wearing pearl headbands and long earrings.
The wife has quietened her baby down and hands it over to me. I take it in my arms but can’t feel quite comfortable because I keep expecting the same thing to happen as before. Obviously, I know that they don’t have nappies here, but I still can’t quite get used to it. After looking at it for a while I’m relieved to hand it back.
Lketinga sticks his head into the hut, and I ask him where he’s been all this time. Laughing, he tells me that he’s been drinking milk with the other warriors. After that they’re going to kill the goat and bring some good bits back for us. He’s going off to eat in the bush again. I want to go too, but this time it’s not on: the settlement is enormous, and there are too many women and warriors. So we have to wait for some two hours before our share of the meat is brought back.
In the meantime it has grown dark. The wife cooks the meat for us: three women and four children to share half a goat. Lketinga and his half-brother have eaten the other half. When I’ve had my fill I crawl out of the hut and stroll over to my Masai and the other warriors who’re hanging around amongst the cows. I ask Lketinga when he’s coming to bed. He laughs: ‘Oh no, Corinne, here I ca
nnot sleep in this house together with ladies. I sleep here with friends and the cows.’ There’s nothing for me to do but to crawl back in with these strange women. It’s my first night out here without Lketinga, and I miss his warmth. Inside the hut there are three little newborn goats tethered by my head, and they bleat all night. I don’t sleep a wink.
Early next morning it’s much busier than back in Barsaloi. Here they don’t just have the goats to milk but the cows as well. There’s an impatient mooing and bleating everywhere. The milking is done by women or girls. After our chai we finally set off. I’m almost on a high thinking of our clean manyatta with lots to eat and the river. Our Land Rover is full of women who want to sell their milk in Barsaloi and are happy that for once they don’t have to walk all the way. It’s not long before Lketinga says he wants to have a go at steering. I do everything I can to dissuade him, but there’s not a lot I can say because obviously the women are all teasing him. He keeps grabbing the steering wheel until eventually I get angry and stop. He climbs proudly into the driver’s seat, and all the women clap. I’m miserable and try at the very least to explain to him about accelerating and braking, but he dismisses me with ‘I know, I know,’ and starts up, beaming with happiness. I’m able to share his happiness for just a few seconds because within a couple of hundred yards I’m shouting: ‘Slowly, slowly!’ But Lketinga accelerates instead of braking and is heading straight for a tree. He seems to get it all the wrong way round. I shout out, ‘Slowly, more to the left!’ Just before we hit the tree I grab the steering wheel in panic but one wing crashes into it, and the motor conks out.
I’ve had enough now. I climb out, inspect the damage and kick the damn car. The women are all shrieking, not because of the damage to car, but because I’m shouting at a man. Lketinga stands next to me, totally dejected. He hadn’t meant it. Distraught, he grabs his spears and sets off to go home on foot. He’ll never get into the car again. When I look at him, so miserable when a few minutes earlier he’d been so happy, I feel sorry for him. I reverse the Land Rover and, seeing as everything still works, persuade Lketinga to get back in. The rest of the journey passes in silence, and I can already imagine my disgrace in Maralal next time the mzungu turns up with a dent in her car.
In Barsaloi Mama is waiting for us happily, and even Saguna greets me enthusiastically. Lketinga goes and lies down in the hut. He’s not feeling well and is worried about the police because he shouldn’t have been driving. He’s in such a bad state that I fear he could go mad again and calm him down by promising to say nothing to anybody. We’ll say it happened to me and get it repaired in Maralal.
I want to go down to the river to wash. Lketinga won’t come with me; he won’t leave the hut. So I go on my own, even though Mama grumbles, afraid to let me go down to the river without a chaperone. She hasn’t been there herself for years. Nonetheless, I head off, taking the water canister with me. I wash where we usually do, but I don’t feel quite so comfortable on my own and don’t dare take all my clothes off. I waste no time but when I get back and crawl into the hut, he asks me what took me so long at the river and who I ran into. I answer in surprise that I don’t really know anybody and in any case I was as quick as I could be. He says nothing.
I discuss my journey home with him and Mama, for my visa runs out soon and I have to leave Kenya within two weeks. Neither are very happy. Lketinga asks worriedly what will happen if I don’t come back, seeing as we’ve already told the government office about our marriage plans. ‘I come back, no problem!’ I tell him. But because I don’t have a valid ticket and no flight reservation I plan to set off in a week’s time. The days themselves fly by. With the exception of our daily washing ritual we spend the time at home discussing our future.
On the day before my departure, as we’re loafing around in the hut, a lot of women start screaming outside. ‘What’s that?’ I ask in astonishment. Lketinga listens carefully to the noise outside, and a dark shadow falls across his face. ‘What’s the problem?’ I ask again and feel that there’s something wrong. Suddenly Mama appears in the hut, all hot and bothered. She exchanges a couple of sentences with Lketinga, giving him angry looks. He goes out, and I hear a loud argument. I want to go out too, but Mama holds me back, shaking her head. My heart is pounding as I lie there. It has to be something dreadful. Eventually Lketinga comes back and sits down beside me, extremely worked up. The noise outside has abated, and I want to know what’s going on. After a long silence I’m told that the mother of his old steady girlfriend is standing outside the hut with two friends.
I feel sick with worry. This is the first I’ve heard of a girlfriend. In two days I’ll be leaving. I want to know for sure what’s going on, right now: ‘Lketinga, you have a girlfriend, maybe you must marry this girl?’ Lketinga gives a tortuous laugh and says: ‘Yes, many years I have a little girlfriend, but I cannot marry this girl!’ I don’t understand. ‘Why?’ Now I’m told that virtually every warrior has a girlfriend to whom he gives pearls, and over the years he’s obliged to give her lots of jewellery so that she looks as pretty as possible when she gets married. But a warrior is never supposed to marry this girlfriend. They can make love as often as they want up to the day before her marriage, but then she is sold by her parents to someone else. It’s only on her wedding day that the girl learns who is to be her husband.
Shocked by what I’ve just learned, I say that must be awful. ‘Why?’ says Lketinga. ‘This is normal for everybody.’ He tells me the girl ripped off all her jewellery when she heard I was living with him before she was married. That’s what was awful for her. I’m slowly starting to get jealous, and I ask him when he last saw her and where she lives. Far away, towards Baragoi, he says and swears he hasn’t seen her since I arrived. I think things over and suggest that while I’m away he goes to see her to clear things up. If necessary he should buy jewellery for her, but when I get back the business has to be over. He doesn’t answer and so on the day I’m due to leave I still don’t know what he’s going to do. But I trust in our love.
I say farewell to Mama and Saguna, who’ve both clearly become very fond of me. ‘Hakuna matata, no problem,’ I laugh with them, and then we drive to Maralal in our Land Rover, as I intend to get it fixed in the garage while I’m away. Lketinga will go back home on foot. In the bush we come across a small group of buffalo but as soon as they hear the engine they flee. Even so, Lketinga immediately grabs for his spear and grunts at them. I look at him, laughing, and he settles down again.
We park directly in the garage so that as few people as possible see the dented wing. The Somali manager comes out and looks at the damage. He reckons it’ll cost six hundred Swiss francs to fix. I’m horrified: that’s a quarter of what it cost to buy. I do some serious haggling and in the end the price comes down to three hundred and fifty francs, which is still far too much. We spend the night in our usual boarding house but don’t sleep much, partly because of my impending departure and partly because of the mosquitoes. Saying goodbye is hard, and I leave Lketinga looking lost behind the bus. I cover my face, so as not to arrive in Nairobi covered in dust.
A Stranger In My Own Country
In the Igbol backpackers’ hotel I find a room and have a really good meal. I check through all the airlines until at last I find a flight with Alitalia. For the first time in months I call home. My mother is very excited when I tell her I’m coming home for a short while. The two days in Nairobi before I fly out are an absolute curse. I wander through the streets to kill time, giving change to the cripples and beggars who stand on every corner. In the evenings back at the Igbol I chat with lifelong backpackers and avoid the Indians and Africans offering to be my boyfriend.
At long last I’m in the taxi to the airport but when the plane takes off I can’t properly look forward to ‘going home’ because I know Lketinga and the rest of the family are worrying about whether I’ll come back.
After the initial joyful reunion with my mother, I can’t quite feel at home in Meiringen,
the little town in the Alps near Bern where she and her husband live. Everything follows a European timetable again. In the shops I almost feel sick at the sight of the excess of food, and even things out of the fridge no longer agree with me. I keep getting stomach cramps.
I get a certificate from the local council to confirm my single status so that at least my paperwork will be in order. As a special wedding present my mother buys ‘my warrior’ a magnificent cowbell. I buy a few smaller bells too for my goats. For Mama and Saguna I sit down and sew two new skirts and buy wonderful woollen blankets for Lketinga and me: a bright red one for him and a striped one to cover us both.
Packing again is no easy job. Right at the bottom of my bag goes the long white wedding dress that I was given as a present from a supplier when I closed down the shop. I promised him that when I got married I would wear it, so it has to go in, including the headdress and veil. On top of the wedding dress go pudding bowls, sauces and soups. Then come the presents. The spaces get filled with medicines, sticking plasters, bandages, antiseptic ointment and vitamin tablets. The blankets go over everything. Both bags are absolutely stuffed.
The departure day comes closer. My whole family has recorded wedding greetings for Lketinga, so a small radio-cassette player has to be squeezed into the luggage too. I turn up at Zurich’s Kloten Airport with seventy pounds of luggage. I’m delighted to be going home. Yes, when I listen to my inner self, I have no doubts where my real home now is. Of course, leaving my mother again is hard, but my heart already belongs to Africa. I have no idea when I’ll be back.
African Homeland
In Nairobi I take a taxi to the Igbol. The driver notices the Masai jewellery on my arms and asks me if I know the Masai well. ‘Yes, I go to marry a Samburu-man,’ I reply. The driver shakes his head and says he cannot imagine why a white woman of all people should want to marry a man from what he calls ‘a primitive race’. I leave off the conversation and am glad to get to the Igbol. But I’m not so lucky – all the rooms are taken, and I have to find somewhere else that’s cheap and cheerful.