The White Masai

by Corinne Hofmann

  There is a place two streets away, but dragging my luggage even that short distance is an enormous effort, and then I have to hump it up three floors to my room. It’s nowhere near as congenial as the Igbol, and I’m the only white. The bed sags, and there are two used condoms underneath it. At least the sheets are clean. I hurry back round to the Igbol because I want to telephone the Mission in Maralal. They can then tell the Mission in Barsaloi in their regular morning radio call that I’ll be back in Maralal in two days, and that way Lketinga will know I’ve arrived. This idea occurred to me on the plane, and I want to try it out, even though I don’t know the missionaries in Maralal. Even after our conversation, I’m not sure if it’ll work. My English has improved, but there are a few misunderstandings during the conversation, and I’m not sure the good missionary got my drift.

  That night I don’t sleep well. This is obviously an hourly-rental hotel for the locals because from the rooms on either side there’s continual squeaking, moaning or laughing, and doors banging. But in the end it’s just one night.

  There are no problems on the bus journey to Nyahururu. I look out of the window and soak in the scenery. I’m getting ever nearer to home. In Nyahururu it’s cold and raining. I have to spend another night there before I can catch the dilapidated bus to Maralal the next morning. The departure is delayed an hour and a half so that the luggage on top of the bus can be covered with plastic sheeting. My big black bag is up there too. I keep the smaller one with me.

  Soon the tarmac road gives way to the dirt track, and the red dust has turned to red mud. The bus goes more slowly than before to avoid falling into the huge potholes, which are now full of water. It weaves its way slowly, sometimes swerving diagonally across the road before getting back on track. It’s going to take twice as long as normal. The track is getting worse all the time, and every now and then the bus gets stuck in the mud and people get out to push it free. In places the surface of the road is twelve inches below the level of the mud, and there is nothing to be seen through the splattered windows.

  About halfway there the bus sways and the rear end swerves, leaving it diagonal with the rear wheels stuck in a ditch. It’s completely immobile with the rear wheels spinning. All the men get out, and initially the bus lurches a couple of yards to one side before getting stuck again. Now everybody has to get out. The instant I leave the bus I’m over my ankles in mud. We find a piece of higher ground and watch the futile attempts to free it. I join in pulling branches from the bushes and sticking them under the wheels, but none of it helps: the bus is still stuck. A handful of people pack their few belongings together and set off on foot. I ask the driver what happens next. He shrugs his shoulders and says we’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Once again I find myself close to despair in the middle of nowhere with no food or drink: just custard powder, which isn’t much use. It quickly gets cold, and I’m freezing in my wet clothes. I go back to my seat; at least I’ve got a warm blanket. Lketinga will be waiting in vain in Maralal, if he did somehow get my message.

  One by one people begin to get out food. Everyone who has anything offers to share. I’m offered bread and fruit, which I accept with embarrassment because I have nothing to offer in return even though I have more luggage than anyone else. Everybody tries to make themselves as comfortable as possible to get to sleep. The few empty seats are given to women with children. During the night a Land Rover passes but doesn’t stop.

  About four in the morning it’s so cold that the driver runs the engine for nearly an hour to warm us up. The time drags but eventually the sky glows red, and the sun hesitantly shows itself. It’s just after six. The first few leave the bus to do what they have to behind the bushes. I climb out and stretch my stiff limbs. It’s still as muddy as yesterday. We’ll have to wait until the sun warms up properly before trying again to get the bus out of the ditch. From ten o’clock until midday we push and shove, but we can’t move it more than a hundred feet. The idea of another night out here is horrific.

  Suddenly I see a white Land Rover ploughing its way through the mire, partly off-road. In despair I run up and stop it. There’s an elderly English couple inside, and I explain my situation and plead with them to take me with them. The wife agrees straight away and delightedly I rush back to the bus and get my stuff down. In the Land Rover I tell my story to the lady who’s horrified and gives me a sandwich, which I wolf down.

  We’ve barely gone half a mile when we meet a grey Land Rover coming the other way. The road is narrow, and we have to be careful that neither skids into the other. We’re going slowly, but the other one is getting closer fast when suddenly I think I’ve seen a mirage. ‘Stop, please, stop your car,’ I shout, ‘this is my boyfriend!’ At the wheel of the other car, driving along this nightmare road, is Lketinga.

  I wave like mad out of the window to get him to see me, but Lketinga is totally concentrated on the road. I don’t know which is the greater: my huge joy to see him and pride in his achievement, or my terror as to how he might bring the car to a standstill. Then he spots me and laughs at us proudly through the windscreen. The car comes to a stop twenty yards further on. I charge out and run to him. It’s a magnificent reunion. I can hardly hold back my tears of joy. He has two companions but happily hands over the keys: he’d much rather I drove back. We fetch my luggage and load up. I thank the English couple, and the gentleman says that having seen what a good-looking man I have he now understands why I am here.

  On the way back Lketinga tells me that he was waiting for the bus. Father Giuliani had passed on the message, and he had immediately set off on foot to Maralal. It was nearly ten p.m. when he heard that the bus had become stranded and there was a white woman on board. When the bus didn’t arrive in the morning he went to the garage, picked up our repaired car and had set off, just like that, to save his woman. I can hardly imagine how he managed. The track was fairly straight but seriously muddy. He had gone the whole way in second gear and every now and then had to restart the stalled engine but all in all ‘hakuna matata, no problem.’

  We get to Maralal and go to the boarding house. All three sit on the bed with me facing them. Lketinga obviously wants to know what I’ve brought back, and the two warriors look eager too. I open my bags and first of all get out the blankets. Lketinga beams at the sight of the soft, bright red blanket – I’d got that one spot on. The striped one he wants to give to his friend, but I protest. I want that for myself in the manyatta; the Kenyan ones itch. I have sewn three new kangas, and I don’t mind if he wants to give those away to his friends who’re staring so much. The radio-cassette player with the recordings of my family knocks Lketinga flat because he recognizes the voices of Eric and Jelly. He is immeasurably happy, and so am I because I’ve never seen such genuine pleasure and amazement from everyday European things. My darling rummages around in the luggage to see what else there might be and is delighted when he comes across the cowbell that my mother sent as a wedding present. Now the other pair liven up too, and each one in turn rings the bell which to me sounds louder and better here. The other pair would like one too, but I only have the one so in the end I give them two of the little goat bells, which please them too. When I tell my darling that that’s everything he continues to search and is amazed to find the pudding bowl and medicines.

  At long last we try to catch up with each other’s news. All’s well at home because the rain has come at last, but there are lots of mosquitoes. Saguna, Mama’s little girl, is sick and has stopped eating while I’ve been gone. I’m so pleased to be going home tomorrow.

  First of all we all go for something to eat, tough old meat again of course, plus flat bread and a type of leaf spinach, and before long there are bones all over the floor. The world is a completely different place to three days ago, and already I feel content again. It’s late before the other pair leave, and at last we’re alone together in the room. The continuous rain has meant it’s cold in Maralal now and showering outside is out of the question. Lketinga fetches
me a big basin full of hot water so that at least I can wash in our room. I’m happy to be so close to my darling again. I can hardly sleep, however, because the bed is so narrow and sags so much that it will take me a while to get used to it.

  The next morning we go to the government office to see if there has been any progress with Lketinga’s identity card. Unfortunately there hasn’t! Because we can’t produce his I.D. number everything is held up, the official says. This is depressing news because on entry I only got a two-month visa and getting married in such a short space of time is going to be a problem.

  We decide to go home for now. Because of the rains we can’t use the jungle track and have to take the long way. This has big rocks and branches everywhere, and large ruts run across the road. Even so we do well enough. The scrubland is blooming even with grass growing in some places. It’s incredible how fast that can happen here. Here and there zebras graze peacefully or whole families of ostriches run from the noise of our engine. We have to ford a small river and then a larger one, both with flowing water, but thanks to the four-wheel drive we get through and without getting stuck in quicksand.

  We’re still an hour or more from Barsaloi when I hear a soft hissing and shortly afterwards the car tilts over. I take a look: a flat! First of all we have to unload everything to get at the spare, then I crawl under the filthy vehicle to get the jack into place. Lketinga helps and after half an hour we manage to get going again and eventually get back to the manyattas.

  Mama is standing laughing in front of the hut, and Saguna throws herself into my arms, a fabulous reunion; Mama even kisses me on the cheek. We drag everything into the manyatta, almost filling it. Mama makes chai, and I give her and Saguna the skirts I made. Everyone is happy. Lketinga plays the cassette, and that sets everyone off talking. But when I give Saguna the brown doll that my mother bought for me everyone’s jaw drops, and Saguna runs screaming out of the hut. I have no idea what’s happened, but even Mama has recoiled from the doll. Lketinga asks me in all earnestness if it really is a dead baby. After my initial astonishment I burst out laughing and say, ‘No, this is only plastic.’ But the doll with its hair – and above all its eyelids which open and close – disconcerts them for some time. Other children come to stare at it, and it’s only when another girl goes to lift the doll that Saguna pushes in and grabs it for herself. From then on nobody else is allowed to touch the doll, not even Mama. From now on Saguna will only sleep with her ‘Baby’.

  At sunset the mosquitoes descend on us. Everything is so damp, they seem perfectly at home and, even though there’s a fire burning in the hut, they swarm around our heads. I’m forever waving my hand in front of my face. How can I sleep in this? They’re even attacking my feet through my socks. My joy at being home is distinctly diminished. I sleep in my cloths and pull my new blanket over me, but unlike the others I can’t cover my head. I’m almost hysterical by the time I get to sleep, just before dawn. In the morning I’m so bitten that I can hardly open my eyes. I don’t want to catch malaria so I’m going to have to buy a mosquito net, even though that could be dangerous with the open fire.

  Up at the Mission I ask the Father if there’s any chance he could repair my tyre. He says he has no time but gives me a spare and advises me to travel with two, because it’s not unknown to get two punctures at once. I take the opportunity to ask him what he does about the mosquitoes. He has fewer problems in his well-built house and makes do with a spray. He says the best thing would be to build a house: it wouldn’t cost much and the local government man could allocate us a piece of land which we’d then have to register in Maralal.

  I can’t get the idea out of my head: it would be tremendous to have a properly built hut. Taken with the idea I go back to the manyatta and tell Lketinga, but he’s not so sure. He doesn’t know if he’d feel at home in a house. We can think about it. Even so I want to go to Maralal, because I’m not spending another night without a mosquito net.

  Within a short time there’s a crowd around the Land Rover again: everybody wants to go to Maralal. A few of them I know by sight but others are complete strangers. Lketinga decides who can come. Once again it takes nearly five hours until, late in the afternoon, we reach our destination, although without punctures. First of all we have the tyre repaired, which turns out to be a lengthy business. While it’s being done I take a closer look at the other tyres and notice that hardly any of them have any tread left. I ask at the garage about new tyres and am horrified by the price. For a set of four new tyres they want one thousand Swiss francs. That’s the same price as in Switzerland. Here it represents three months’ wages, but I’ll have to get them if I’m not going to keep having accidents.

  While we’re waiting I find a mosquito net in the shops and also buy boxes full of repellent coils. That evening in the boarding-house bar I get to know the chief government official for the Samburu District. He’s an amiable character and speaks good English. He’d already heard of my existence and had planned to drop in on us one of these days. He congratulates my Masai on finding such a brave woman. I tell him about my plans to build a house, our wedding and the identity card problem. He promises to do what he can to help but says the house could be a problem as there’s very little wood available.

  At least he will look into the identity card problem. The next day he comes with us to the government office. There’s a lot of discussion, forms filled out and various names mentioned. If he knows everything about Lketinga’s family the card can be issued in Maralal within two to three weeks. We fill in the wedding pre-registration document at the same time. If no one objects, we can get married in three weeks, but we have to have two literate witnesses. I don’t know how to thank the man enough, I’m so happy. There’s money to be handed over for this and that, but within a couple of hours everything has been put in motion. We have to drop in again in two weeks and bring all our documents. In good humour, I invite the government man to join us for dinner. He’s the first person who’s helped us out of the goodness of his heart. Even Lketinga generously pushes some money in his direction.

  After the one night in Maralal we set off home again. Just before we leave the town I bump into Jutta. Obviously we have to have chai together and swap news. She wants to come to our wedding. She’s currently living with Sophia, another white woman who’s recently moved to Maralal with her Rasta boyfriend. She tells me to call in. We whites need to stick together, she says jokingly. Lketinga’s in a bad mood because we’re laughing a lot and he doesn’t understand anything as we’re speaking German. He wants to go home so we say goodbye. This time I risk the jungle track, but the surface is appalling and when we get to the steep – and now slippery – slope, I scarcely dare breathe. But this time my prayers are heeded, and we get to Barsaloi without incident.

  The next few days pass quietly in measured routine. People have enough milk, and there’s cornflower and rice to be had in the run-down shops. Mama is busy with preparations for the big Samburu festival. They will celebrate the end of the warrior stage for my darling’s age group; after the festival – in a month’s time – the warriors will officially be able to look for wives and marry. One year later, the next generation – today’s boys – will be officially elevated to ‘warriors’ in a big festival marked by circumcision.

  The coming festival, which happens at a particular place attended by all the mothers with warrior sons, is very important for Lketinga. In two or three weeks Mama and we will leave the manyatta and move to the festival site where the women will build new huts just for the event. The exact date for the commencement of the three-day festival we’ll only find out closer to the time because the phase of the moon plays an important part. I reckon that we should contact the government office about a fortnight before because if anything should go wrong, I won’t have much time left before my visa runs out.

  Lketinga is on the road a lot now because he has to find a black bull of a specific size. That means visiting lots of relations and doing barter deals. Som
etimes I go with him, but I sleep at home under my mosquito net, which protects me well. During the day I do the usual chores. Each morning, with or without Lketinga, I go down to the river. Sometimes I take Saguna along who thinks it’s great fun to bathe; it’s her first time! While we’re there I wash our smoky clothes, which once again hurts my knuckles. Then we drag our water containers back home and go and look for firewood.

  More Red Tape

  Time passes quickly, and soon we must go to Maralal to get married. Mama is unhappy about Lketinga going away so soon before the ceremony, but we think that a week should really be more than enough. Mama herself leaves the same day, heading off with all the other mothers and some heavily laden donkeys. There’s no way she wants to come with us: she’s never been in a car and has no intention of trying the experience. So I just pack my things into the car and leave the rest to Mama.

  Lketinga brings Jomo along, an older man who speaks some English. I don’t particularly like him, and he keeps pestering us to be a witness to the wedding or help in some way. Then they talk about the upcoming festival. Mothers are coming from all over to be there, between forty and fifty manyattas will be built, and there’ll be lots of dancing. I’m looking forward immensely to this big festival which I’m allowed to attend. Looking at the moon, our passenger reckons it’ll be in two weeks’ time.

  In Maralal we first of all go to the identity card office, but the official on duty isn’t there, and we’re told to come back tomorrow morning. Without the card we can’t set a date for the wedding. We search Maralal for two potential witnesses, but it’s not that easy; the people Lketinga knows either can’t write or don’t understand English or Swahili. His brother is too young, and some people are in any case afraid to go near the government office because they don’t understand what it’s all about. Only on the second day do we run into two morans who’ve lived in Mombasa and also have identity cards. They promise to stay in Maralal for a couple of days.