Jelly and Eric arrive, covered in sweat. ‘What’s this? You’re cooking sitting on the ground?’ says Jelly in surprise. ‘Yes, did you think we had a kitchen?’ I reply. As we start to extract the spaghetti, strand by strand, from the pot with forks, Lketinga and Priscilla vanish out of the hut. Priscilla’s gone to get her neighbour, who looks at the white spaghetti, then the pot with the red sauce. She points at the pasta and, making a face, says: ‘Worms?’ We have to laugh. All three of them think we’re eating worms with blood and won’t touch it. Somehow, though, I know how they feel because the more I look at the plate and think of worms and blood the less appetite I have.
Washing up is the next problem. There is neither detergent nor a brush. Priscilla deals with the problem by using Omo washing powder and her fingernails. My brother addresses me soberly: ‘My dearest sister, somehow I don’t see you staying here forever. In any case, your pretty long fingernails won’t need a file any longer!’ He’s not wrong.
They have two more days left of their holiday, and then I’ll be on my own with Lketinga. On their last evening in the hotel, there’s a Masai dance, just like last time. Even though I’ve seen it before, Jelly and Eric haven’t, and even Lketinga is going to be there. The three of us sit waiting in eager anticipation. The Masai gather outside the hotel and lay out spears, jewellery, cloth and strings of pearls to sell afterwards.
There are about twenty-five warriors who come in singing. I feel an affinity with these people and am as proud of them as if they were all my brothers. It’s unbelievable how elegant they are in their movements, and what an aura they exude. Tears come to my eyes at this feeling of belonging, something I’ve never known before: as if I’ve found my family, my people. Jelly, a bit wary of so many crazily painted, decorated Masai, turns to me and says: ‘Corinne, are you sure that your future is here?’ I can say only one word: ‘Yes.’
The performance is over by midnight, and the Masai disappear. Lketinga comes and shows us proudly the money he has made selling pieces of jewellery. It doesn’t look like much to us but for him it means survival for another few days. We say our farewells emotionally because we won’t see Eric and Jelly before they leave the hotel early in the morning. My brother has to promise Lketinga he’ll come back: ‘You are my friends now!’ he says in English. Jelly holds me tight, sobbing, and tells me to look after myself, think things through carefully and come back to Switzerland in ten days’ time. I don’t think she trusts me.
We set off home. The night sky is filled with thousands and thousands of stars, but there is no moon. Lketinga could find the way through the bush blindfold, but I have to hold on to his arm for fear of losing him. A yapping dog comes towards us on the outskirts of the village, but Lketinga emits short sharp noises and the hound scampers off. In the hut I reach for my torch. When I finally find it I look for matches to light the paraffin lamp. For a brief moment it occurs to me how simple everything is back in Switzerland. There are street lamps, electric light, it seems as if everything works of its own accord. I’m tired and want to sleep, but Lketinga has been working and is hungry and says I should make him some tea. Up until now I’ve always left that to Priscilla! In the semidarkness I first have to fill up the spirit burner and then when I find the tealeaves, I ask him: ‘How much?’ Lketinga laughs and shakes about a third of the packet into the boiling water. Then sugar, not two or three spoonfuls but a whole cup. I’m shocked and can’t imagine such tea being drinkable, but it tastes almost as good as Priscilla’s. Now I understand that a cup of tea can indeed replace a meal.
I spend the next day with Priscilla. We have washing to do, and Lketinga decides to go up to the north coast to find out which hotels do native dance evenings. He doesn’t think to ask if I’d like to come too.
I go to the well with Priscilla and try to bring back a five-gallon water canister as she does, but it’s not that simple. First of all a half-gallon bucket has to be dropped fifteen feet down and drawn back up again. Then you have to use an empty tin to transfer it via the narrow opening of the canister until the latter is full. It’s all done extremely carefully to make sure not a drop of the precious liquid is lost.
When my canister is full I try to drag it the two hundred yards to the huts. I had always considered myself to be sturdy, but I can’t manage it. Priscilla, on the other hand, takes two or three swings with her canister to get it up onto her head, then she walks calmly and unhurriedly back to the huts. She comes back to meet me halfway and takes my canister back for me. My fingers are already aching. We do the whole thing several times because the Omo here is very frothy. Doing washing by hand in cold water, to Swiss standards of cleanliness, soon takes its toll on my knuckles. After a while they’re red raw, and the Omo water burns them. My fingernails are ruined. Exhausted and with an aching back, I give up; Priscilla finishes the rest for me.
It’s gone lunchtime by now, but we haven’t eaten anything. How could we? We don’t keep supplies in the house or we’d be infested with mice and beetles. We buy what we need each day in the shop. So despite the incredible heat we set off on what is at least a half-hour walk as long as Priscilla doesn’t stop to gossip with every single person we meet on the way. It seems to be the local custom to hail everyone we meet with ‘Jambo’ and then stop to exchange half the family history.
At last we get there and buy rice and meat, tomatoes, milk and even some soft bread. Now we have to go all the way back and then start cooking. By evening Lketinga still hasn’t turned up. I ask Priscilla if she knows when he’ll be back, but she just laughs and says: ‘No, I can’t ask this a Masai-man!’ Exhausted by all this unfamiliar exertion in the heat, I go to lie down in the cool of the hut while Priscilla gets on with the cooking. It’s probably just the lack of food that’s made me so listless.
But I miss my Masai. Without him this world is only half as interesting and worth living in. Then at long last, just before darkness falls, he strolls up to the huts with his familiar, ‘Hello, how are you?’ I answer somewhat crossly, ‘Oh, not so good,’ which shocks him and he asks: ‘Why?’ A bit disconcerted by the expression on his face, I decide not to nag him for being away so long; with both of us struggling to makes ourselves understood in English there are too many opportunities for misunderstanding. Instead I point to my belly and say: ‘Stomach!’ He beams at me and says: ‘Maybe baby?’ I laugh and say no. The idea frankly never occurred to me, because I’m on the pill, which is something he doesn’t know and has probably never heard of.
Red Tape
We’re looking for a hotel in which a Masai with a white wife is apparently staying. I can hardly imagine it, but I’m eager to ask her a few questions. But when we meet them I’m disappointed. This Masai looks just like a ‘normal black’ who doesn’t wear jewellery or traditional clothing but a red made-to-measure suit. He’s a few years older than Lketinga and even his wife is already in her late forties. Everyone starts talking at once, but Ursula, who’s German, says: ‘What? You want to come and live here with this Masai?’ I say yes and ask shyly why not. ‘Do you know?’ she says. ‘My husband and I have been together for fifteen years. He is a lawyer, but he still has enormous difficulty with the German way of thinking. Now look at Lketinga: he’s never been to school, can’t read or write and barely speaks English. He has absolutely no idea of European customs and manners, let alone the Swiss obsession with perfection. That’s doomed from the outset!’ But for her there was simply no question of living in Kenya: women here have no rights. Holidays, on the other hand, are another thing entirely. But I ought to buy Lketinga some clothes; I can’t go around with him like that.
She goes on and on, and my heart sinks with her endless list of problems. Even her husband agrees it would be better if Lketinga came to visit me in Switzerland. But that’s something I can’t imagine and all my feelings would be wrong. All the same, we accept their offer of help and the next day set off to Mombasa to see about getting Lketinga a passport. When I mention my doubts, Lketinga asks if I hav
e a husband back in Switzerland, because if not I can just take him with me. Only ten minutes ago he said he had no intention of leaving Kenya because he had no idea where Switzerland even is or what my family is like.
On the way to the passport office I have doubts that later turn out to have been justified. Our peaceful days in Kenya are over from this moment on, and the stress of dealing with bureaucracy has just begun. All four of us go into the passport office together and stand in a queue for an hour before we’re allowed into the right room. The official who deals with applications is sitting behind a huge mahogany desk. He and Ursula’s husband have a discussion of which neither Lketinga or I understand a word. I just notice how every now and then they glance over at Lketinga in his exotic apparel. After five minutes it’s ‘Let’s go’, and we leave the office. I’m confused and annoyed: standing in line for an hour only to have a five-minute interview appals me.
But that is just the beginning. Ursula’s husband says a few things have to be cleared up straight away. There’s no way that Lketinga can simply get on the plane with me. The earliest opportunity, if there are no problems, would be in a month’s time. First of all we have to get photographs taken, then come back and fill in forms, which at the moment they’ve run out of and will only be available again in five days’ time. I can hardly believe it: ‘What, are you telling me that in a big city like this they have no passport application forms?’ But then it takes us ages to find a photographer, and he tells us that it will take several days before the pictures will be ready. Exhausted by the heat and the perpetual queuing and waiting, we decide to return to the coast. The other couple disappear back into their luxurious hotel, telling us that now we know where the passport office is and if there are problems we also know where to find them.
Because time is running out, we go back to the office three days later with the pictures. Again we have to queue up, for longer than the first time. The closer we come to the door, the more nervous I get, because Lketinga doesn’t feel at all comfortable and I’m self-conscious about my poor English. When finally we get to see the passport officer I explain our case painstakingly. Eventually he looks up from his newspaper and asks what I want to take someone like that – with a dismissive gesture towards Lketinga – to Switzerland for? ‘Holidays,’ I reply. The passport officer laughs and says that until this Masai learns how to put on proper civilized clothes he won’t be getting a passport. And because he has no education and no idea of Europe, I will have to pay a guarantee of one thousand Swiss francs and at the same time buy Lketinga a return ticket. Only when I have done all of that will he even consider giving me an application form.
Annoyed by the arrogance of this lump of lard, I ask him how long it would then take to get the passport, after I’d done all he asked. ‘About two weeks,’ he replies, waving us out of his office and reaching for his newspaper. Such bare-faced cheek leaves me speechless, but instead of giving up all hope, his behaviour makes me want to show him who’s boss. Above all else, I won’t have him denigrate Lketinga, who in any case I’m keen to introduce to my mother.
The whole thing becomes an idée fixe for me, and I make up my mind to take Lketinga, by now impatient and disappointed, into the nearest travel agent’s to sort it all out. We find a friendly Indian who quickly understands the situation and warns me to be careful because a lot of white women have lost their money like this. I agree to deposit the money with him and that he will give me a confirmation of the return ticket and a receipt and promises to return it all if the passport application is rejected.
Somehow or other I understand that this is all reckless but I rely on my instincts for people. The important thing is that Lketinga should know where he has to go when he gets his passport to name the date for his flight. ‘One step further forward,’ I tell myself bravely.
At a nearby market we buy Lketinga trousers, a shirt and shoes, which isn’t easy because we have diametrically opposite tastes. He wants either white or red trousers. I reckon that white is impossible in the bush while red is not exactly a ‘manly’ colour in western clothing. Fate comes to my aid: all the trousers are too short for my six and a half foot man. Eventually we find a pair of jeans that will do. When we get to shoes it’s the same thing again. Up until now he’s only ever worn sandals made of old car tyres. We agree on trainers. Two hours later he’s all dressed up in new clothes, but I don’t like it any better. He, on the other hand, is very proud that for the first time in his life he’s wearing trousers, a shirt and trainers.
Of course, by now it’s too late to go back to the passport office so Lketinga suggests we go over to the north bank. He wants me to meet friends and show me where he lived before he moved in with Priscilla. I’m not sure because it’s already four p.m., and that will mean returning to the south bank in the dark. But once again he says, ‘No problem, Corinne.’ So we wait for a matatu to the north but it’s not until the third bus that we find even a corner to squeeze into, and within seconds I’m dripping sweat.
Luckily we soon come to a big Masai village where for the first time I see women wearing jewellery. They welcome me cheerfully, and there’s a great commotion between the huts. I’m not sure which amazes them more: me or Lketinga’s new outfit. They all finger the material of the shirt, the trousers and are even amazed by the shoes. Slowly but surely the shirt gets darker. Two or three women try to talk to me at once, and I sit there smiling but speechless, understanding nothing.
In the meantime lots of children have come into the huts, and they all either stare at me or giggle. I notice how dirty they all are. Suddenly Lketinga says ‘Wait here,’ and is gone. I’m not very comfortable. A woman offers me milk but, looking at the flies, I decline. Another gives me a Masai armband, which I put on with glee. It would seem they all make jewellery of some sort.
A little later Lketinga comes back and says: ‘You hungry?’ This time I honestly say yes because I really am. We go into the nearest bush restaurant, a bit like the one in Ukunda only bigger. Here there is one area reserved for women and, further away, a separate one for men. Of course I have to go with the women, and Lketinga goes off with the other warriors. I’m not very happy with the situation; I would have preferred to be in my little hut on the south bank. A plate, in which meat and even a few tomatoes swim in a liquid that could almost be a sauce, is put in front of me. On a second plate there is a type of flat bread. I watch another woman with the same ‘menu’ breaking up the bread, dipping it into the sauce, taking a piece of meat and putting the whole lot into her mouth with her hand. I copy her, although I need two hands. All of a sudden it goes quiet; everybody is watching me eat, which irritates me. There are even a dozen or so children gathered around me watching me with big eyes. Then everybody starts talking again all at once, but even so I have the feeling of being watched. I swallow it all down as quickly as possible and hope Lketinga turns up again soon. When there’s nothing left but bones I go to a sort of barrel from which people get water to run over their hands and wash the fat off, although it obviously doesn’t work.
I wait and wait. At last Lketinga turns up. What I really want to do is throw my arms around his neck but he gives me a funny look, almost angry, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done. I can see he’s eaten too, by the state of his shirt. ‘Come,’ he says to me, ‘Come.’ As we walk towards the road I ask him, ‘Lketinga, what’s the problem?’ The expression on his face scares me. It becomes clear that I’m the reason for his displeasure when he takes my left hand and says: ‘This hand no good for food! No eat with this one!’ I understand the words, but why it makes him so angry I have no idea. I ask him why, but he doesn’t answer.
Tired out by all our efforts and disconcerted by this new puzzle, I feel nobody understands me and wish we were back home in our little house on the south bank. I try to tell Lketinga this, saying ‘Let’s go home.’ He gives me a look, but of what sort I have no idea because once again all I can see is the gleaming mother-of-pearl button and the whites of
his eyes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘All Masai go to Malindi tonight.’ My heart skips a beat. If I’ve understood him properly, he really intends to go to Malindi tonight for a tourist dance. ‘It’s good business in Malindi,’ I hear him say. He notices that I am less than enthusiastic and in a concerned voice asks me: ‘You are tired?’ Yes, I’m tired. I don’t even know exactly where Malindi is, and I’ve no clean clothes. He says it’s no problem, I can sleep here with the ‘Masai ladies’ and he’ll be back tomorrow. To stay here, alone without him, without being able to talk to anyone, just the idea fills me with panic. ‘No, we go to Malindi together,’ I decide. Lketinga laughs again – at long last – and once again there’s the familiar ‘No problem.’ Along with some other Masai, we get into a public bus, which is a lot more comfortable than the dangerously overcrowded matatus. When I wake again we’re in Malindi.
The first thing we do is find a Native Lodging House, because after the show it’s likely everything will be booked out. There’s not much choice. We find one where other Masai have already booked in and get the last empty room. It’s barely ten feet by twelve. In each corner between two concrete walls stands an iron bed with thin sagging mattresses and two wool blankets. A naked bulb hangs from the ceiling, and there are two chairs sitting as if they were lost in the middle of the room. At least it costs next to nothing, about four Swiss francs a night, roughly. We still have half an hour before the Masai dancers’ performance begins. I go to get a Coke.