The White Masai

by Corinne Hofmann

  I thank the Indian for his honesty, and we go back out. Finally Jutta says: ‘Corinne, you really have to find this Masai. Now I believe your whole story, and I suspect there are other people involved.’ I throw my arms around her in happiness. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s go eat like tourists. My treat!’

  Over lunch we plan what to do next. Jutta suggests we head out for the Samburu District in about a week’s time. It’s a long way to Maralal, the administrative centre for the district, where she wants to look out for a Masai she knows from the coast. If she can show him the pictures of Lketinga, then he ought to be able to tell us where to find him: ‘Out there everybody knows everybody.’ My hopes are rising by the minute. We can stay with friends of hers whom she helped to build a house. I agree to everything she says: at last I’ll be doing something and not just sitting around waiting.

  The week with Jutta passes pleasantly. I help her make appointments for sittings, and she does her caricatures. It works well, and I meet a lot of nice people. We spend most evenings in the Bush Baby Disco because Jutta needs a fix of music and entertainment. She has to watch the money, though, or else we’ll spend it as fast as we earn it and in a month’s time we’ll still be here.

  At last it’s time to pack. I take about half my clothes in my bag and leave the rest in the house with Priscilla. She’s not happy about me going and says it’s all but impossible to find a Masai warrior. ‘They move about all the time. Unless they’re married they don’t have a home, and only their mothers at best have a clue where they might be.’ But I’m not going to be put off my plan; I’m certain it’s the right thing to do.

  We start by catching a bus to Nairobi. This time the eight-hour journey doesn’t bother me at all. I can’t wait to see where my Masai comes from, and every hour brings us nearer.

  Jutta has things to do in Nairobi so we spend three days at the Igbol, a backpacker hotel. Backpackers from all over the world come here, and they couldn’t be more different from the tourists in Mombasa. Nairobi itself is completely different too. Everything is chaotic, and there are a lot of cripples and beggars. Because our hotel is right in the middle of the nightlife area I also notice how much prostitution there is. In the evenings one bar after another tempts the customers in with Swahili music and almost every woman in the bars can be bought, either for money or just a few beers. The main customers in places like this are locals. It’s noisy but has a certain fascination. As two white women, we stick out like sore thumbs, and every few minutes someone’s asking if we’re looking for a ‘boyfriend’. Luckily, Jutta can fend them off in Swahili. At night in Nairobi it’s so dangerous she never goes out without a rungu, the traditional Masai club.

  By the third day I’m hassling Jutta for us to move on. She agrees, and around lunchtime we get on a bus heading for Nyahururu. This bus is a lot more dilapidated than the one from Mombasa, and that was hardly a luxury coach. Jutta just laughs: ‘Wait until you see the next one! Then you’ll have a shock. This one’s fine.’ We sit in the bus for an hour because they won’t leave until it’s packed full and there’s not a space to spare. Another six-hour journey lies ahead of us, gently uphill all the way. Every now and then the bus stops, a few people get off and a few more get on. And naturally all of them have masses of household goods, which have to be loaded on or off.

  At long last we reach today’s destination: Nyahururu. We trail along to the nearest boarding house and rent a room then we eat and get to bed. I can’t spend any more time sitting down. Overjoyed to be able to stretch out at last and rest my weary bones, I’m asleep in a second. We have to be up by six a.m. because the only bus to Maralal leaves at seven. By the time we get there it’s already nearly full. But I see a few Masai warriors on the bus and immediately feel more at home. Once again, however, everybody stares at us, as we’re the only whites on the bus.

  This bus really is a disaster. Springs stick out of the seats everywhere, dirty foam rubber protrudes from the upholstery, and several windows are broken. On top of all that, it’s chaos inside. Getting on board requires climbing over all sorts of boxes with chickens in them. On the other hand, it’s the first bus with a genuinely happy atmosphere. Everyone is talking or laughing. Jutta jumps out again to get something to drink from one of the numerous stands. She comes back and hands me a bottle of Coke. ‘Here, take this but don’t drink it all at once. You’ll get very thirsty, particularly on the last stretch, which is dusty because we’ll be travelling along unmade roads. There’s nothing between here and Maralal except wasteland and bush.’ The bus starts, and it’s barely ten minutes before we leave the tarmac road and start bumping along a red potholed track.

  Now the entire bus is shrouded in a cloud of dust. Anyone who has a pane of glass in their window shuts it, the others pull caps or scarves over their faces. I cough and screw my eyes up. Now I know why the back seats were the only free ones. The bus is going slowly, but even so I have to hang on so as not to be thrown forwards when it piles into one huge pothole or another. ‘Hey, Jutta, how long does this go on?’ She laughs: ‘Oh, about four or five hours, unless we get a puncture, even though it’s only seventy-five miles.’ I’m horrified, and only the thought of Lketinga allows me to imagine this part of the journey as even remotely romantic.

  Every now and then we catch a distant glimpse of a manyatta, and then once again there’s only scrub, red earth and the very occasional tree. Sometimes a few children with goats or cows, out in search of what passes for pasture, appear and wave at the bus.

  The bus makes its first stop after about an hour and a half. On either side of the road there are a few shacks, a couple of them offering bananas, tomatoes and other bits and pieces of food. Women and children crowd up to the windows of the bus, trying to sell something in the few minutes we’re stopped. A few of the passengers load up with food and then the bus rattles off again. Nobody got off, but three more warriors, all brightly painted, got on. Each of them is carrying two long spears. Looking at the three of them, I feel sure that I’ll soon find Lketinga again. ‘The next stop is Maralal,’ says an obviously tired Jutta. I’m exhausted too from the non-stop pitching and heaving on this bad joke of a road. But in fact we’ve been lucky: we’ve neither had a puncture or a breakdown, both of which happen frequently. And the road is dry; when it rains, the red earth is nothing but mud.

  After another hour and a half we at last arrive in Maralal. The bus hoots its way into town and does what appears to be a victory lap around its single street before stopping at the end. Immediately we’re surrounded by dozens of curious bystanders. We climb out onto the dusty street, covered from head to foot with a fine powder. There’s a regular mêlée around the bus as people of every age crowd around. We wait for our bags, which are buried under the boxes, baskets and even mattresses. But just the sight of this village and its exotic inhabitants awakens a sense of adventure in me.

  There’s a little market just fifty yards from the bus stop, and everywhere there are sheets of coloured cloth flapping in the wind. Mountains of clothing and shoes are laid out on plastic sheets, and behind them, almost exclusively, women sit trying to sell their wares.

  At long last we get our bags. Jutta suggests we get a cup of tea and something to eat before we set out for her house, which is about an hour’s walk away. Hundreds of pairs of eyes follow us. One of the locals – a Kikuyu woman – greets Jutta. People here know her because she has been working on a house nearby for three months and, as the only white in the area, is hardly inconspicuous.

  The teahouse is like the one in Ukunda. We sit at a table, and the food is served – meat with sauce and chapattis, as usual – along with our tea. A bit further along there’s a group of Masai warriors. ‘Jutta, do you by any chance know one of that lot who keep looking over at us?’ I ask. ‘You get stared at all the time here,’ says Jutta calmly. ‘We’ll start looking for your Masai in the morning. We’ve still got a bit of a climb ahead of us today.’

  After a meal that, as far as I can see, c
osts next to nothing, we set off. It’s a dusty, steadily rising trek in scorching heat. After barely a mile my bag seems unbearably heavy. Jutta has an idea. ‘Wait a minute. Let’s take the short cut to the Tourist Lodge. Maybe there’ll be somebody there with a car!’

  Suddenly, on the narrow path, there’s a rustling in the thicket nearby. ‘Corinne, don’t move!’ calls Jutta. ‘If it’s buffalo, stay perfectly still.’ In terror, I try to make some sort of mental image out of the word ‘buffalo’. We stand there motionless, and I recognize something about fifty feet away: pale with black stripes. Jutta spots it too and laughs with relief: ‘Phew, just zebras!’ They gallop away from us in fear. I give Jutta a questioning look. ‘You said “buffalo”. Are there any that close to the village?’ ‘Just wait!’ she replies. ‘When we get to the Lodge there’s a watering hole and with any luck you’ll see buffalos, zebras, apes and gnus.’ ‘Isn’t it dangerous for people using this path?’ I ask in surprise. ‘Of course it is, but normally the only people who use this path are armed Samburu warriors. The women have bodyguards, and other people stick to the main road. It’s safer, but this path is half as long.’

  I feel more secure when we get to the Lodge. It’s really rather splendid, not as pompous as the one that Marco and I stayed in on the Masai-Mara. This is more modest but fits in better with the surrounding countryside. Compared with the native dwellings in Maralal, it’s like a mirage appearing in the desert. We stroll in, but it’s as dead as the tomb. We sit on the veranda, and indeed there at the water hole, just a hundred yards away, are herds of zebra. Over to the right a group of female baboons are tumbling around with their little ones. In their midst I spot an occasional huge male. They’re all trying to get at the water.

  Eventually a waiter strolls up and asks what we want. Jutta chats to him in Swahili and orders a couple of Cokes. While we’re waiting she tells me with some satisfaction: ‘The manager of the Lodge will be back in an hour or so. He has a Land Rover and is sure to take us on up, so we may as well sit back and wait.’ Both of us retreat into our private thoughts. I look at the hills all around. I’d give a fortune to know on or behind which of them Lketinga was. And if he could feel my presence.

  We end up waiting nearly two hours before the manager arrives. He’s a pleasant, unassuming, dark black man with no pretensions. He tells us to climb in, and a fifteen-minute shuttle takes us to our destination. We thank him, and Jutta shows me her workplace with pride. The house is a long concrete box divided into different rooms, two of which are nearly finished. We can live in one of them. The room has just one bed and one chair. There are no windows so if you want to see, the doors have to be left wide open all day. I’m amazed that Jutta can feel at home in such a gloomy room. We light candles in order to see anything in the gathering darkness. Then we lie down together on the bed and make ourselves as comfortable as possible. I soon fall asleep from exhaustion.

  We are woken early next morning by people noisily beginning work. First of all we clean ourselves thoroughly at a basin filled with cold water, which takes some courage but then I want to look pretty when I finally see my Masai again.

  Ready and raring for action, I want to head down to Maralal and take a closer look at the town. Given how many Masai warriors were around when we arrived, the one Jutta knows has to be among them. I manage to infect Jutta with my enthusiasm, and after the ritual cup of tea we set off. Every now and then we overtake women or young girls heading in the same direction carrying milk in calabashes to sell in town.

  ‘What we need now are patience and good luck,’ says Jutta. ‘The main thing is to keep wandering around until we’re spotted, or I recognize someone.’ There’s not a lot to wander around. The single street runs in a sort of square with shops on either side. They’re all half empty, and most of them sell the same stuff. In between the shops there are a few boarding houses where you can buy something to eat or drink in the front room. The sleeping quarters are at the back, little compartments next to one another, like rabbit hutches. Then there’s the toilet: an earth closet, usually. If you’re lucky there might be a shower with a dribble of water. The most impressive building is the Commercial Bank, all concrete and fresh paint. Next to the bus stop there’s a petrol pump, but up until now I’ve only seen three cars: two Land Rovers and one pickup.

  Our first tour of the village is rather fun. I look into every shop, and one or other of the shopkeepers tries to talk to us in English. All the time a whole pack of children drags along behind us laughing and talking excitedly. I only understand one word: ‘Mzungu, mzungu – white people, white people’.

  About four o’clock in the afternoon we set off home again. My initial high has evaporated, even though logically I know I was never likely to find Lketinga on the first day. Jutta humours me: ‘Tomorrow there’ll be a whole new set of people in the village. Very few people actually live there, and they’re not who we’re looking for. New faces show up every day. Tomorrow a few more people will know that there are two white women here because the ones who were here today will tell others out there in the bush.’ Jutta thinks it will be three or four days at least before there’s a real chance.

  The days pass, and everything that was new and exciting about Maralal loses its appeal as I get to know every last corner of the place. Jutta showed my photos of Lketinga to a few warriors, but we got nothing more than suspicious looks. By the end of a week nothing’s happened except that we start to feel stupid doing the same thing every day. Jutta says she’ll come with me one more time, and then it’s up to me to show the photos around on my own. I pray that night that something will happen and that the whole long journey won’t have been wasted.

  Next day we’re on our third circuit of the village when a man comes up and speaks to Jutta. The big holes in his earlobes lead me to recognize him as a former Samburu warrior. A lively conversation ensues, and I get the happy impression that Jutta knows him. His name is Tom, and when Jutta shows him the photos of Lketinga he looks at them long and hard before saying: ‘Yes, I know him.’

  I feel like I’ve had an electric shock. But because the two are mostly speaking Swahili, I understand next to nothing. I keep asking Jutta: ‘What is it? What does he know about Lketinga?’ We go into a restaurant and sit down for Jutta to translate. Yes, he knows him, not very well, but he knows that this man lives at home with his mother and takes the cattle out every day. ‘Where does he live?’ I ask in excitement. It’s a long way, he says, about seven hours on foot for a fit man. There’s thick jungle on the way, which can be dangerous because of elephants and buffalo. Even then, he can’t be absolutely sure that the mother still lives at the same place – Barsaloi – because people move about with their animals, depending on the water supply.

  Hearing this makes Lketinga seem as distant as ever once again, and I’m at my wits’ end. ‘Jutta, ask him if there’s any way to get a message to him. I’m ready to pay.’ Tom has a think and says he can take a letter from me tomorrow evening, but first he’d have to tell his new wife, who’s still new to Maralal and doesn’t know anyone. We settle on a fee, giving him half now and the other half when he comes back with some news. I dictate a letter for Jutta to write in Swahili. The Samburu says we should be back in Maralal in four days’ time because if he finds Lketinga and he wants to come with him, they would be back during that day.

  Four long days, during which I pray every evening. By the last days my nerves are at breaking point. On the one hand, I’m really excited; but on the other, I know that if it hasn’t worked, I’ll have to go back to Mombasa and try to forget the love of my life. I take my bag with me because I’ve decided to spend the night in the village rather than Jutta’s house. One way or the other, with or without Lketinga, I’m leaving Maralal tomorrow.

  Jutta and I traipse around the town like before. After three hours we split up and go in opposite directions to give ourselves more chance of being spotted. On one circuit I fail to bump into Jutta at the usual halfway point. I stroll on, howe
ver, until all of a sudden a little boy runs up to me calling, ‘Mzungu, mzungu, come, come.’ He’s grabbing at my arm and pulling my skirt. At first I think something’s happened to Jutta. The boy pulls me towards the first set of boarding houses, where I’ve left my bag, speaking in Swahili all the time. Then he points behind the house.

  Magical Maralal

  With my heart hammering, I follow the direction he’s pointing and peer around the corner of the houses. And there he is! My Masai! Standing there next to Tom and laughing at me. I’m speechless. Still laughing, he holds out his arms and says: ‘Hey, Corinne, no kiss for me?’ Only then do I shake myself out of a stupor and rush towards him. We fall into each other’s arms, and it is as if the world stops turning. Then he holds me at arm’s length and says: ‘No problem, Corinne.’ The same old words that right now make me want to weep with happiness.

  Then Jutta appears from behind me to share our delight. ‘There you are, then, together again! I recognized him straight away and brought him here so that the two of you could greet each other without the whole village looking on.’ I thank Tom with all my heart and tell him we’re all going for tea, and then the two men can eat as much meat as they want, all on my tab! We go into the room I’ve taken, sit on the bed and take a look at the menu. Jutta has spoken to Lketinga and told him that there’s no problem for him to eat with us because we’re not Samburu women. He consults with Tom and in the end agrees.

  There he is at last! I can’t take my eyes off him, and he keeps his big beautiful eyes on me. I want to know why he didn’t come to Mombasa. It turns out he really didn’t get any of my letters. Twice he went to see about the passport, but the official just laughed at him and teased him. The other warriors took against him too and wouldn’t let him join in their dances for the tourists. If he couldn’t dance he couldn’t make any money and saw no reason to stay any longer down by the coast. So after about a month he decided to go home. He didn’t believe anymore that I was coming back. Once he tried to telephone me from the Africa Sea Lodge, but nobody would help him, and the manager told him the phone was for tourists only.