Today an ox is to be slaughtered in the middle of the square. It’s quite a spectacle. Six men try to wrestle the ox onto the ground from the side. It’s not easy as the terrified animal thrusts around with its horns. Only after several attempts do two warriors manage to grab the horns and turn its head to one side, and the beast slowly sinks to the ground. Immediately its legs are tied, and three people set about slaughtering it while the others hold its legs. It’s appalling but for the Masai it’s the only way they know to kill an animal. When the animal stops moving its artery is cut, and all the men standing around try to drink the blood. It must be a great delicacy because there’s a lot of pushing and jostling. Then the butchery begins. Old men, women and children are already queuing up for their share. The best bits go to the old men and only then do the women and children get theirs. Four hours later there’s nothing left but a pool of blood and the splayed out hide. The women have withdrawn into their huts and are cooking. The old men are sitting in the shade under the trees, drinking beer and waiting for their cooked meat to arrive.
Late in the afternoon I hear the sound of an engine, and shortly afterwards Father Giuliani turns up on his motorbike. I greet him warmly. He’s heard that I’m here and have malaria and wanted to see if I was okay. He has brought home-baked bread and bananas. I’m overjoyed and feel as if it’s Christmas. I tell him the whole story from our wedding plans to the malaria. He advises me strongly to go to Wamba or back to Switzerland until I’ve fully recovered. He gives me such a penetrating look that I realize I’m not over the hill yet, not by a long way. Then he gets back on his motorbike and roars off.
I think of home, my mother, a warm bath. Yes, right now that would be wonderful, even though it’s not all that long since I was back in Switzerland. Even so it seems like forever. But one look at my darling and I forget even the thought of Switzerland. He asks how I am, and I tell him about the priest’s visit. I learned from him that today the schoolchildren come home from Maralal. Father Roberto is bringing some of them in his car. When Mama hears she immediately hopes that James is among them. I’m pleased too at the thought of being able to speak English for a couple of weeks.
Slowly I manage to eat a few pieces of meat after brushing off a swarm of flies. The drinking water looks more like cocoa, but unless I want to go thirsty I’ve no choice but to drink it. I’m not given any milk because Mama reckons that with malaria it could be dangerous and cause a relapse.
The first schoolboys arrive, including James and two friends. They’re all dressed the same in short grey trousers, a light blue shirt and dark blue pullover. He greets me cheerfully and his mother respectfully. As we sit drinking chai together I notice how much his generation is different from that of Lketinga and his age group. They don’t look right in these manyattas. James looks at me and says he heard in Maralal that I had malaria. He says he’s amazed that a white person can live in Mama’s manyatta. Even as a Samburu he finds it difficult when he comes home for the holidays: everything is so cramped and dirty.
The children’s arrival makes a change, and the day flies by. Soon the goats and cows are back home. In the evening there’s a big dance in which even the old women will take part, dancing just with themselves. Even the schoolboys dance, outside the encampment, some of them still in uniform. It looks funny. Late in the evening the kings of the festival, the warriors, assemble again. James stands next to them and records their song with our radio-cassette player. I wouldn’t have thought of it. After two hours the cassette is full.
The warriors’ dance gets wilder and wilder. One of the morans suddenly gets a sort of fit. He shakes as if in ecstasy until he falls to ground thrashing around noisily. Two of the warriors break loose from the dance and forcibly hold him to the ground. I ask James worriedly what’s going on. He says this warrior has probably drunk too much blood and gone into a sort of trance and imagines he’s fighting a lion. It’s not too drastic and eventually he’ll snap out of it and become normal again. The man is squirming and screaming on the ground, his eyes staring at the heavens and foam coming from his mouth. It looks awful, and I just hope nothing like that happens to Lketinga. Apart from the two holding him down, nobody else pays any heed. The festival goes on as before, and I watch Lketinga and notice again how elegantly he leaps into the air. I soak in the spectacle because today is the official end of the festival.
Mama sits in the manyatta, half-drunk. The boys play back the cassette, and everybody gets very excited. The warriors gather around the machine, which James has placed on the ground. Lketinga is the first to understand, and his whole face lights up when he recognizes one or other of the morans singing or shouting. Some of the others stare at the machine with wide eyes, and a few dare to touch it. Lketinga lifts it proudly onto his shoulders, and some of the morans start to dance again.
It’s slowly getting cold, and I go back into the manyatta. James will sleep with a friend, and my darling will go off with the others into the bush. Once again I hear noises everywhere. The entrance to the hut isn’t closed, and from time to time I see feet passing by. I’ll be glad to be back in Barsaloi. My clothes are dirty and smoky, and my body could do with feeling water, not to mention my hair.
The boys are in the hut next morning before Lketinga. Mama’s making chai when Lketinga sticks his head in. At the sight of the boys he says something crossly. Mama repeats it, and the boys disappear without their chai. In their place Lketinga and another moran come in and sit down. ‘What’s the problem, darling?’ I ask, somewhat shocked. After a lengthy pause he tells me that this is a warrior’s hut and uncircumcised boys shouldn’t be in it. James has to eat and drink in another hut where the Mama has a son his own age and not a warrior. Mama keeps an embarrassed silence. I’m disappointed to lose the English conversation and sympathize with the banished boys. But I have to accept these rules.
I ask how much longer we’re staying here. Two or three days, comes the reply, and then each family goes back to where they were living. I’m horrified at having to stick it out here for so long with no water to wash with and all the cowpats and flies. The thought of Switzerland comes creeping back, and once again I feel weak. I don’t dare venture any further than a couple of yards into the bush to answer the call of nature. I would prefer to live a more normal life again with my boyfriend.
That afternoon Father Giuliani looks in and brings me some bananas and a letter from my mother. The letter cheers me up, even though my mother is very worried because she hasn’t heard from me for so long. The priest and I exchange a few words, and then he’s off again. I take the opportunity to write a letter back, mentioning my illness only briefly and playing it down so as not to worry my mother. Nonetheless I hint that I might be back in Switzerland soon. I intend to post the letter when we get back to the Mission. My mother will have to wait three weeks to receive it.
Eventually we depart. We pack up quickly, piling as much as possible into the Land Rover and the rest loaded on to two donkeys. Naturally we get to Barsaloi long before Mama, and so I drive directly to the river. Because Lketinga won’t leave the car unattended, we drive along the dried up riverbed until we get to an isolated spot. I get out of my smoky clothing, and we wash each other thoroughly. The soap suds run black off my body, and there’s a layer of soot on my skin. Lketinga washes my hair in several goes.
I haven’t seen myself naked for some time, and I notice how skinny my legs are. After washing I feel like I’ve been reborn. I wrap myself in a kanga and begin washing the clothes. It’s as hard work as ever getting the dirt out with cold water, but with enough Omo it eventually works. Lketinga helps me and shows how much he loves me by helping wash my skirts, T-shirts and even underwear. No other man would wash the clothes of a woman.
I really enjoy this togetherness. We hang our wet clothing over bushes or on the hot rocks and sit down in the sunshine, me in the kanga, Lketinga completely naked. He gets his little mirror out and starts painting his clean face artistically with orange-coloured ochre a
nd a little stick. His long elegant fingers do this so exactly that it’s a joy to watch. He looks fantastic. He turns to me and laughs: ‘Why you look always to me, Corinne?’ ‘Beautiful, it’s very nice,’ I reply. But Lketinga shakes his head and says you shouldn’t say such things, it’s bad luck.
Our clothes dry quickly, and we pack everything up and set off. We stop in the village and go to the chai-house, where there’s not only chai but also mandazi, little sweet spiced pastries. The building is a mishmash between a big manyatta and a wooden shed. There are two fires on the ground with chai boiling on each. Along the walls planks serve as benches for three old men and two morans. ‘Hey, Supa Moran,’ they greet us. ‘Supa,’ Lketinga replies. We order chai, and the two morans look at me as Lketinga takes up the conversation with the same habitual phrases which by now I understand. People start by asking a stranger the name of their tribe, where they live, how their family and animals are, where they’ve just come from and where they’re going. Then they talk about recent events. That’s how the work of the newspaper or telephone gets done out in the bush. When we’re walking somewhere we have this conversation with everyone we meet. These two morans also want to know who the mzungu is. Then that’s the conversation over and we leave the teahouse.
Mama is back by now and busy cleaning and renovating our old manyatta. The roof has to be repaired with cardboard or sisal matting; there’s no cow dung to be had for the moment. Lketinga and James go off into the bush to chop down some more thorn bushes to repair and raise our fencing. Some of the people who stayed in Barsaloi were followed home a few days ago by two lions that ripped apart their goats. They came in the night and leaped over the thorn-bush fencing, seized the goats and disappeared into the night. Because there were no warriors, there was no one to pursue them. So all the fences have been built higher. Everyone is talking about the event and saying we have to watch out because they’ll be back. Our corral would be more difficult because we have the Land Rover parked in front of the hut, taking up half the space.
In the evening our animals come back. We can hear them from miles off, thanks to their Swiss cowbells. Lketinga and I go to meet them. It’s a pretty sight watching the animals driven back home: the goats in front, the cows behind.
Our evening meal consists of ugali, which Lketinga will only eat late at night when everyone is asleep. At last we can make love, even though it has to be quietly because Mama and Saguna are sleeping just five feet away. Even so it’s good to feel his silky skin and touch again. After this lovemaking, Lketinga whispers: ‘Now you get a baby!’ I have to laugh because he sounds so convinced. At the same time I suddenly realize I haven’t had a period for ages. But I put it down to my poor health rather than a pregnancy, though the thought of a baby sends me to sleep happy.
In the night I feel a stomach cramp and suddenly realize that the diarrhoea is starting again. I panic and gently nudge Lketinga, but he’s sound asleep. Oh my God, I’ll never find the gate in the fence! And then there might be lions around! I crawl silently out of the manyatta and look around to see if there is anyone about. Then I squat behind the Land Rover and let go. It seems endless, and I’m ashamed because I know it’s a serious misdemeanour to answer a call of nature like this inside the corral. On no account can I use paper, so I clean myself with my underwear and hide it in the undercarriage of the Land Rover. I cover up the mess I’ve made with sand and hope that in the morning there’ll be no evidence of this nightmare. Worried, I crawl back into the manyatta, but nobody wakes. Lketinga just grunts.
As long as it doesn’t happen again. I last until the morning and then have to rush off into the bush. The diarrhoea keeps coming, and my legs start shaking again. Back inside the corral I glance around the Land Rover and am relieved to see that there is no sign of my accident in the night. A stray dog has probably dealt with the rest. I tell Lketinga that I still have problems and go to the Mission to ask for some medicine. But despite the charcoal pills, the diarrhoea lasts all day. Mama brings me home-brewed beer and tells me to drink a pint or so of it. It looks disgusting and tastes that way too, but after a couple of cups the alcohol has its effect, and I doze on and off all day.
At some stage the boys come by. Lketinga is in the village, and I can enjoy an unhindered conversation. We talk about God, the world, Switzerland, my family and about the wedding, which I hope will take place soon. James is amazed at me and is proud that his brother, whom he sees as difficult, is going to get a good wife, and a white one at that. They tell me lots about the strict school and how life can be completely different when you have the chance to go to school. There are lots of things at home they don’t understand anymore. They give me examples, and we all laugh.
During the conversation James asks me why I don’t do business with my car. I could fetch maize or bags of sugar for the Somalis, transport people, etc. I’m not keen on the idea because of the state of the roads but mention that after the wedding I’d like to do something to bring in money. I’d most like to open a shop to sell all sorts of food. The boys are fascinated by the idea of a shop. James promises that when he’s finished school in a year’s time he’ll help. The idea is attractive, but a year is a long time.
Lketinga comes back, and shortly afterwards the boys bid a respectful farewell. He wants to know what we talked about. I tell him of my vague idea of opening a shop. To my surprise he’s enthusiastic too. It would be the only Masai shop for miles, and the Somalis would have no customers anymore because everyone would use the shop of a fellow tribesman. Then he looks at me and says this would cost a lot of money and do I have that much? I reassure him that there is still some in Switzerland. We’ll have to think it all through.
‘Pole, Pole’
For some time now I’ve been dealing with injured people. Since I used some antiseptic ointment to cure a festering sore on the leg of a neighbour’s child, mothers have been bringing children to me with sometimes horrifying abscesses. I clean them, put ointment on them and bandage them up as best I can. But so many keep coming that I’ve run out of ointment and can’t help them anymore. I send them to the hospital or the Mission, but the women go away silently and don’t take my advice.
In two days’ time the children return to school. I’m sorry to see them go because they’ve been good company. In the meantime we’ve worked on the shop idea, and one day I make up my mind to go back to Switzerland for a bit, to gain some energy and put on a few pounds. The opportunity of a lift to Maralal with either Father Roberto or Giuliani is tempting. I can leave our Land Rover here and won’t have the problem of driving myself in my weakened condition. Shortly beforehand I tell Lketinga. He is very annoyed by my intention to leave him in two days’ time. I promise him I’ll think about the shop and bring more money back. He can find out how we should build it and where. Even as we discuss it the idea of running a shop together reinforces itself in my mind. All I need is time to prepare everything and build up my strength.
Naturally Lketinga is worried once again that I’m going to leave him, but this time the boys are on my side and can translate for him, word for word, my promise that I’ll be back in good health in three or four weeks’ time. I’ll tell him the exact day as soon as I’ve got my ticket. I’m going to set off for Nairobi in the hope of getting a flight to Switzerland as soon as possible. With a heavy heart he gives his agreement. I leave him some money, about three hundred Swiss francs.
With as little baggage as possible I wait outside the Mission with several schoolchildren. Just when we’ll be off nobody knows, but anyone who isn’t there will have to go on foot. Mama and my darling have come too, and while Mama gives her final instructions to James, I console Lketinga. He says a month without me is a long, long time. Then Father Giuliani comes. I get to sit next to him while the boys squeeze into the back. Lketinga waves and shouts after me: ‘Take care of our baby!’ I have to smile at how convinced he is that I’m pregnant.
Father Giuliani roars along at speed, and I have to hold on tight
. We don’t talk much, except when I tell him that I’ll be back in a month and he says I’ll need at least three months to recover. But for me that is out of the question.
There’s chaos in Maralal. The little town is filled with departing schoolchildren, being sent all over Kenya so that the different tribes are thrown together. James is lucky and can stay in Maralal. One boy from our village has to go to Nakuru, so he and I can share part of the journey. But first of all we have to get a bus ticket, and that seems impossible for the next two days. All the seats are full. A few folk from far away have even driven in to Maralal with open-backed pick-ups to make money offering overpriced rides, but even these are booked up. Maybe tomorrow morning at five, somebody offers. We make the reservation but don’t hand over any money.
The boy stands there helplessly because he doesn’t know where he can spend the night, as he has no money. He is very shy and helpful. He keeps carrying my bag, and I suggest we go into my usual boarding house to get something to drink and ask about rooms. The landlady greets me cheerily, but when I ask if she has any rooms she shakes her head sorrowfully. But she says that as I’m a regular customer she can make one free by the evening. We drink chai and trawl round the other boarding houses. I’m prepared to pay the relatively tiny sum for the boy. But they are all full. Meanwhile it’s grown dark and colder. I wonder whether I should offer to let the boy sleep in the second bed in my room. I wouldn’t find it a problem, but I don’t know what other people might think. I ask him what he’s thinking of doing. He tells me he’ll have to look for some manyattas outside Maralal and if he finds a Mama with a son his age, she’ll be obliged to take him in.
That seems to me to be leaving too much to chance, especially as we have to leave at five. On the spur of the moment I offer him the second bed, against the opposite wall. His first reaction is to give me an embarrassed look and say thanks but no. He says that he couldn’t possibly sleep in the same room as a warrior’s bride: it would cause problems. I laugh, not taking it too seriously, and tell him he should just keep quiet about it. I go into the boarding house first, giving the watchman a few shillings and asking him to waken me at four-thirty the next morning. The boy turns up half an hour later. I’m already in bed, fully clothed, even though it’s only eight o’clock. There’s nothing going on after dark except in a few bars, which I avoid.
The White Masai Page 17