Africa, My Passion

by Corinne Hofmann

  Napirai owes her life, and I owe my survival, to the doctors and nurses in this hospital. On several occasions it was their last-minute intervention that saved my life. Despite the fact that compared with our modern hospitals everything here was – and still is – a lot more basic, here at the end of the world it was the difference between life and death.

  Napirai writes: Saying goodbye to Shankayon is really hard. But I’m looking forward to seeing where I was born. It’s a bit of a detour but I really want to see Wamba hospital and can’t wait to know if anything has changed. I’ve seen my mother’s photos of it so often.

  The first things I notice when we arrive are the pretty red shrubs with lots of flowers that I was always amazed by on the photos. I’m astonished they’re still here.

  The hospital is very basic. I thought that by now it might have got a bit more modern but it seems very little has changed. It all looks a bit moribund to me. But I’m glad to be here and somehow or other the place has a strangely calming influence on me. I ask my mother to take a few photos of me alongside the shrubs to remember it by.

  We wander round for a bit and even find a room where there are some newborn babies, on the other side of a protective glass window. Once upon a time, I was one of those. I smile to myself.

  After our tour we get back into the car and set off towards the Samburu lodge where we intend to spend the night. The lodge is in a national park, and on the way there we spot a family of elephants and herds of zebra and buffalo. After we book into our excellent room, we take a walk about and pop into the souvenir shop. Among the various literature about Kenya, I come across three copies of my own book in the English translation.

  It amazes me that wherever I go in Africa I find the English translation of my books, not just in Nairobi, but out here in the bush. It makes me terribly proud. Just for the sake of it, I buy two copies of The White Masai to give to our drivers. The girl at the cash desk is astonished that I’m buying two copies of the same book, and asks me if I know it’s a true story. I laugh and tell her, ‘Yes, I know, it’s my story’, and point at the photo of the author. She can hardly believe it.

  By evening the word has got around. The staff start looking at Napirai and me differently. The next day, just as we are about to set off, a Jeep roars up and three armed policemen jump out, followed by a very large gentleman. I think nothing of it and just stand there with our driver waiting for Albert and Klaus. Several minutes go by during which one of the policemen has a chat with our driver. I understand none of it, and then Martin asks me if he might introduce the police chief for northern Kenya. He wants me to sign a copy of The White Masai for him and be photographed alongside him. I’m bemused. Somehow word of our presence has got to the big boss along the bush telegraph from a region where there isn’t even mobile phone reception. It’s a new experience for me to have an important police official ask me to sign a book for him. Before he and his men set off he makes a point of telling us that there are no problems along the road to Nairobi, and wishes us bon voyage.

  It’s still a long road though, driving through the desert dust until eventually, unexpectedly, we come across a broad highway. It seems the Chinese are building new roads everywhere in Kenya. This is the first in the Samburu region and hard by the side of the new asphalt surface stand a few manyattas. But it’s dangerous for people or animals to live this close to a road where instead of 20kph cars rush past at closer to 80kph. The locals can’t judge distance and speeds like that, at least not properly, and there are apparently regular accidents. But they are still proud of their new road, which has brought civilisation closer.

  Hours later we finally reach Nairobi and traffic chaos of a completely different sort. Martin slowly battles through the jams to the Fairview Hotel, where we are to spend the last night before Napirai and Albert leave for home.

  I would have liked to spend a few days with Napirai talking over the whole experience but I realise she has to come to terms with it on her own. She is twenty years old and has just met her father for the first time, as well as her grandmother and the entire African side of her family. For the first time in nearly two decades she is back on African soil and has experienced a part of the culture she comes from, rather than just seeing it on television. And all of that in a short space of time, broken up by long journeys, is both physically and psychologically taxing. Right now she needs some time to take it in and come to terms with it.

  Napirai writes; I’ve been looking forward to this journey for so long and now it’s all over. Not so long ago I wouldn’t have believed it was possible. For ages I wasn’t even sure I wanted to come to Kenya. I was always just a little afraid of the unknown.

  But in the end my own growing interest in it all, backed up by encouragement from people who mean a lot to me, gave me the courage to make the trip, and today I am proud and pleased to have done so.

  I’m really happy that I have such a warm family. The visit exceeded all my expectations. Meeting my father was one of the most important moments in my life, and I am so grateful for it.

  I don’t know what will happen in the future but I know that this trip has given me strength. And I know what loving people I have to rely on.

  I’ve been enchanted by this little part of Africa that I’ve seen and one day I shall definitely return.

  A BIG SURPRISE IN MOMBASA

  After my daughter reluctantly takes her leave, Klaus and I have a week of intensive work to do back here in Nairobi. I want to go back and see the slum-dwellers with their ‘Gardens in a Sack’, as well as the Jamii Bora women, just to find out how they’ve all got on in the five months since I last saw them. After that we’re going to fly down to Mombasa where I hope to find Priscilla. I’ve never been able to forgive myself for not getting back in touch with the woman to whom I owe so much. On the last trip to Kenya I couldn’t get in touch with her. But this time I’m determined to make sure I do. I devote an entire week to finding her. I would really like to meet up with her again, and tie up that loose end.

  It is only a short flight from Nairobi to Mombasa, but immediately the atmosphere is different. The air is sultry and tastes of the sea. It’s a tropical air and it immediately makes me think I’ve come on my holidays. I remember being taken with it the first time I landed here, twenty-four years ago. But Klaus and I soon discover that in the meantime Mombasa has been stuck in perpetual traffic jams. It takes for ever sitting in a jam of cars before we reach Tamarind Village in the city centre. This is a nice hotel complex with a restaurant terrace from where there is a beautiful view over the old harbour.

  Over dinner a gentle breeze from the sea that comes in round the picturesque curved terrace gives everything an almost oriental feel. The harbour lights are reflected in the sea. It would be a wonderful setting for a romantic evening or, in my case, for a chance to reflect on my life story. First thing tomorrow I am going down to the south coast to feel the white sand of Diani Beach beneath my feet. Down there I hope to be able to find some link to Priscilla, even though I know that without any leads it isn’t going to be easy, and might even be impossible.

  Priscilla is a Masai woman with whom I lived for several months when I came to Kenya but initially couldn’t find Lketinga again. She helped me through those hard days. I lived with her in a modest little roundhouse set back a little from Diani Beach. She helped me in any way she could. She even took me on a long journey to see her family in the Narok highlands. That was an experience I’ll never forget. At night it was as cold as it is in the Swiss mountains in autumn. In the mornings there was a mist and dew on the trees and grass. I had to put on every bit of clothing I had before going to bed at night, and even still nearly froze to death in the simple little hut I stayed in. And then there were the little creatures – fleas or something – that crawled all over me at night. I hardly slept a wink all week, and even when we thankfully got back to Mombasa I still had lice.

  But Priscilla was my best African female friend and I was proud of the fact
that she had invited me to go with her to her home and meet her mother, who looked after her four children while she worked in Mombasa to earn money. Her family had never had a white guest before and so they showered Masai jewellery on me, and piled roast goat meat in front of me.

  Even years later, when Lketinga and I with baby Napirai left Barsaloi and came to Mombasa, Priscilla let us stay in her tiny living room in Kamau village until we found a room of our own. She tried to help us all she could, even when things were difficult with Lketinga and he got jealous even of her and wouldn’t let me see her.

  The next day we hire a car and set out slowly through the stop–go traffic to the Likoni ferry, which we need to take to cross the sea inlet to the south coast. There is now a three-lane queue for the ferry. When I first used it there were very few cars and it was easy to drive straight on, even though the ferry itself was smaller. I sit there in the car, people-watching. The passengers haven’t changed much. There are thousands of them standing on the quayside waiting for the cars to load so they too can board. Many of them, particularly the women, are carrying huge burdens on their heads, some of them wooden crates crammed full of chickens, other have sacks of vegetables that are obviously very heavy. In among them are homemade hand carts, each of which several young men struggle to manage. They are clearly used to it, but still find it hard work, with sweat rolling down their foreheads and the veins bulging on their muscular arms. These people don’t need to go to the gym, I think to myself.

  Meanwhile people keep knocking on the car windows, trying to sell things to us. One has a few strings of beads, a child is selling sweets and roasted nuts. It’s hard to say no to all of them.

  Eventually we board the massive ferry. It’s a déjà vu experience for me. This is where I first saw Lketinga back in 1986 and my life’s love story began. Up until then I would never have imagined that from that moment on the entire direction of my life would change and that today my story would be read all over the world. Even today I get letters from tourists who have used the ferry to get to hotels on the south coast, which say things like: ‘Dear Corinne, it was a really strange feeling to stand on that ferry. The whole time I could think of nothing but your incredible love story…’

  The foot passengers are all crowded on to the upper deck, but some even stand between the cars. I’m astonished when I realise that this new ferry was built in Germany, in Laubegast. My readers in the former East Germany will be delighted to know that the famous ferryboats built in their part of the country now carry up to 170,000 people a day here, along with several thousand vehicles.

  Eventually we near the other side, where there are huge posters with pictures of Nelson Mandela, Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King and Mama Caro. But it’s hard to say whether they’re adverts for UNICEF or the Imperial Bank. Then the ferry ramp drops with a resounding crash and gradually the cars start up and drive off. We make a point of driving carefully because already people have pushed past us.

  Not much on this side of the inlet has changed. There are still shacks close together along the roadside where people work or sell things. There are women covered in black chadors grilling sweetcorn on little charcoal stoves. Like everywhere else there are pedlars wandering around trying to sell souvenirs or other knick-knacks to us while the car is still trundling along at walking pace. Eventually we reach a relatively modern road leading towards Ukunda. Everything is very green at the moment and there are tall palms growing between the little wooden huts along the shore. A few goats are tied to the trees on long leads that allow them room to roam and graze.

  Shortly before we reach Ukunda it starts raining so heavily that visibility is reduced to a minimum. Before long the pools of water by the side of the road have turned into lakes and I start to give up hope of finding Priscilla today. I don’t even know where to start. My original idea was to visit the hotels I know along the beach and ask some of the kanga-sellers if they knew her. But with rain like this that’s not going to be any good as both the tourists and the pedlars will all have deserted the beaches.

  We stop at a simple little tearoom to watch the people go by. A few elderly men in white kaftans and white headdresses are sitting at a table watching a television hung from the wall, which is showing some big parade in Nairobi. At another table are two young couples, apparently Englishmen doting on new Kenyan girlfriends. I smile to myself, wondering how these love stories will pan out.

  After a couple of hours the rain dies down and we set off again to the mission in Ukunda to visit a famous missionary there. He doesn’t recognise me immediately, but when I tell him I’m the ‘White Masai’ he catches on and invites us in for tea. He tells Klaus, to his astonishment, that he turned up in his Land Rover in Barsaloi by chance on his way to visit Father Giuliani on the very day I was getting married in my white European wedding dress. Giuliani told him what was happening and he could hardly believe that a young white woman had voluntarily decamped to the wilderness of Barsaloi. I can still hear the amazement in his voice as he recounts what he considered to be an extraordinary decision to take. Before we leave he shows us round his little school. Every class we enter has the children leaping to their feet to sing songs for us.

  We drive back to Mombasa and hope the weather will be better tomorrow. Yet again we have to queue in a traffic jam for an hour to catch the ferry. On the other side Klaus manages to negotiate our way through the traffic chaos, which I’m grateful for because I wouldn’t trust myself to manage it. Under the circumstances it seems even more incredible that twenty years ago even Lketinga managed to drive around here.

  The weather the next day is no better, however, so we decide to postpone things again rather than go through the same difficult journey down the coast. Instead we spend our time wandering around Mombasa’s old city centre. We park next to the famous Fort Jesus by the old harbour. I wander down the narrow little lanes where the oriental atmosphere is most concentrated. The houses are narrow and tall with twisting balconies and long flights of steps. Most of them are painted white and have heavy wooden doors either decorated with metal or elaborately carved. At first I come across mainly tourist shops with remarkable wooden masks and carvings, but as soon as I turn into a little alleyway, I’m in another world. Here the old, crumbling houses are covered with washing hung out to dry. Women are wandering around in their chadors or sitting on the bare earth together chatting. Some of the alleyways are so small that you could lean out of one door and shake hands with your neighbour across the street. There are pots steaming away on charcoal stoves outside most of the doors. Every bit of flat wall space is used, either to display vegetables for sale, or to take a little nap on. In one backyard I spot a little Muslim girl looking after a turkey poking around in the dust. Everything here in the back streets is a lot more relaxed and laid back than the hectic chaos of the main market streets I eventually find myself back in.

  Here there are big crowds of people and I get shoved along so fast that there’s hardly time to look at all the wares spread out on the ground. Some people are selling fish or vegetables, other plastic plates and cutlery. The main market hall smells of meat, fish and spices. Here and there are sacks filled to overflowing with yellow or red spice powders. Everybody is fighting for attention, trying to sell their goods. Hustlers try to drag me over to one stall or another in the hope of getting a tip from the merchant. Before long I wish I was back in the calm of the backstreet. I push past sacks of rice and beans to make my way along the street to find the way back to the fort. But all of a sudden I find myself in another calm little alleyway, standing in amazement in front of a narrow blue-painted building covered with iron bars, with just a little sign saying ‘Jewellery’. Obviously there are valuables inside. Next to it are three men sitting in the shade making leather sandals.

  An elaborately carved door decorated with brass opens and a horde of school children pile out, the boys in their long white kaftans with little white skull caps, the girls with white headdresses and long tunics. The mo
dern schoolbags on their backs seem somehow an anachronism.

  I pass the large white-painted mosque and end up on the square by Fort Jesus. There are lots of little fishing boats bobbing in the water and it feels as if I’ve stumbled on to some scene from long ago. Everything here is totally different from increasingly modern Nairobi.

  Next morning, thankfully, the sun comes out. In fact it is one of those picture postcard days when Mombasa’s coast looks like it does in holiday brochures. We set out immediately after breakfast but it still takes us two hours to get to the south coast. When we get past Ukunda I start looking for the retail complex where Lketinga and I had our souvenir shop. But when we find the building, which is now showing its age, there are no longer any shops in it. The whole building has been turned into apartments. It has a much bigger effect on me than it did six years ago. This is where we tried to make a new start. The shop was doing well and everything had been just great until Lketinga became consumed with jealousy and flipped out.

  I was pleased to discover on our visit to Barsaloi that he has changed dramatically in this respect. He is extremely loving and has a lot of respect for his third wife and their children. There was no sign of him torturing her with his jealousy. Quite on the contrary. In fact she seemed relatively happy and very self-confident. And he himself seemed very content and at peace with the world, a respected village elder. I was relieved to see that.

  I drag myself away from those painful memories and we head off again, past several supermarkets, although I am happy to see that the little native shops along the beach are back. More than twenty years ago, when the first supermarket opened, they were all torn down. Obviously people have since realised that competition is good and that lots of tourists would rather see the native artists and watch them at work.