Reunion in Barsaloi (3 page)

S
hortly before we reach our destination for the day I hand the wheel back to our driver so I can properly take everything in as we drive into Maralal. It’s soon clear how much the town has grown. There are new roads, although still unsurfaced, even a roundabout, and directly opposite it – I can hardly believe my eyes – a new BP service station with a shop, just like we have back in Europe. Before long I realize that Maralal nowadays has three filling stations, and petrol is available all the time. It was so different in my day. I never knew when the solitary petrol station would get a delivery of fuel. Sometimes we had to wait for more than a week and then drive back on the dangerous bush track carrying a full forty-gallon canister. When we got home I had to decide where to store it, given that there were always fires in and around the
manyattas
. Thank God Father Giuliani helped out, letting us store it in the Mission. The filling stations today are obviously a godsend to everyone who has a car. But then back then there were no more than ten cars in the whole district.

We drive slowly in our Land Cruisers past the market, which hasn’t changed much. There are still lots of wooden stalls next to one another with colourful pretty Masai blankets and cloth waving in the wind. Behind, as ever, is the post office. Only later do I find out, to my astonishment, that it contains four computers that people from the Mission and former schoolchildren can use to access the internet and the wider world.

We drive as slowly as possible, looking out for James. I suggest we drive once around the whole town, as a group of white people will stand out and James will be sure to hear of our arrival.

The centre of Maralal is unchanged despite the fact that the town has grown in all directions. We pass my Italian friend Sophia’s little house and memories of her come flooding back. She was a good friend to me back then. We were lucky enough to both be pregnant at the same time and give birth to our daughters the same week. We were the first white women to have children in this area and were able to share a room in the hospital in Wamba. It was thanks to Sophia and her Italian cooking that I was able to put on the 22 pounds I needed in the last month of pregnancy to reach the 150 pounds that was considered the minimum weight for giving birth. Nowadays, at five foot nine, I weigh substantially more even when not in the ninth month of pregnancy. How I wish I could see Sophia and her daughter again!

When we’ve done our tour of the town we park in front of the lodging house where I used to spend the night with Lketinga. No sooner have we got out of the cars than we’re surrounded by at least eight young men trying to sell us things. One of them tells us that just a few weeks ago, here in this very lodging house, they were making a film, called
The
White Masai
. He asks if we’ve ever heard of it. One of the others nods in agreement and asks if we’re part of the film crew. We say no to everything and go on into the restaurant.

The décor is different to how I remember it. The centre of the room is dominated by a bar counter with a wire grille in front of it. We get a cola passed through. The young men from outside have piled in after us, a few of them smelling of beer. One of them asks me my name and I give one at random. I don’t want to declare myself to be the original ‘white Masai’ not least because I have no idea how welcome the film crew were in Maralal. On the other hand, what if James were to walk in at any moment?

To change the subject I ask if there are any samosas to be had. Immediately one of the men runs off and come back in a few minutes to lay ten samosas wrapped in old newspaper on the table. I wolf down three of them happily. My companions Albert and Klaus, however, seem to lose their appetite at the sight of the printer’s ink soaked in fat.

But what about James? After half an hour he still hasn’t turned up. What if he didn’t get my last letter? Not that I specified an exact meeting place. Maralal was clear enough in my memory.

Meanwhile the samosas on the table have been joined by a mountain of tourist souvenirs, handmade Masai jewellery, little wooden headrests
and even
rungus
– the warrior’s fighting clubs. The atmosphere, however, is getting less comfortable. We pay up, an enormous sum in local terms, for the samosas and leave the remainder to the other guests. Outside there’s still no sign of James so we decide to drive up to the Safari Lodge to check in to our rooms.

I have very specific memories of this Lodge. I sat out on the terrace here the first time I came to Maralal looking for my husband-to-be. For hours on end I watched zebras, apes and wild boar around the waterhole, wondering behind which of these surrounding hills my hard-to-find warrior lived and whether he knew I was nearby. Armed with a handful of photographs I wandered around Maralal every day asking travellers in traditional dress if they knew Lketinga. It was ten days before my efforts were rewarded and my prayers answered. At last I was able to throw my arms around the great love of my life and let our destiny take its course.

Later my then husband would bring me back to this Lodge when I was so weak with malaria that I could hardly stand. I had kept no food down for weeks and Lketinga in his despair had brought me to the one place he knew where there were salads and sandwiches – white people’s food. And indeed, after months of maize porridge and goat meat it took nothing more than a simple ham and cheese salad sandwich to give me a new lease of life.

Up until now, however, I had never spent a night here.

I
shake myself out of my daydreams and walk down to the car to fetch my luggage. Suddenly there’s the growl of an engine and a motorbike comes roaring up and immediately – although I can hardly believe it – I realize it’s James! He can ride a motorbike! Carefully he parks the little all-terrain bike on one side, takes his hat off and, dressed in a thick jacket despite the heat, runs across to me with outstretched arms like a little boy. We throw our arms around each other in sheer delight.

For all these years the only contact we have had with one another has been by letter. He is my link to the rest of the family. For a while we can do nothing but laugh together. I’m astounded at how James has grown up. Last time I saw him he was a schoolboy of about seventeen; now he’s a mature man.

James is just as effusive in greeting Albert, my publisher, whom he already knows, and Klaus. He tells us animatedly that he just spotted our cars as we were leaving Maralal and fetched the motorbike to catch up with us. We’re amazed we didn’t see him in the rear-view mirror, but then the cars were kicking up such a cloud of dust, and then again, we weren’t expecting to see him on a motorbike.

After we’ve got over the excitement of seeing one another again we all go across to sit on the terrace and talk. James is now taller than I am and his face has filled out, which makes his eyes appear smaller than they used to be. He’s very fit and wearing warm clothing including good stout shoes, a type of walking boot I’ve never seen around here before. Most of the locals used to wander around in sandals made out of old car tyres or plastic flip-flops.

With a big smile he tells us the whole of Barsaloi is excited about our arrival and that Mama won’t believe it until we’re standing outside her
manyatta
. She is delighted and keeps saying she always knew she would see me again. Albert asks him about the motorbike and James’s eyes light up. He’s very proud that only he and one old friend from school have managed to learn to ride a motorbike. It makes things vastly easier for him to be able to use it on the long journey between his school and his family. Unfortunately he can only afford to use it at weekends as otherwise the costs in petrol and upkeep are too high. He is the headmaster of a small school a few miles beyond Barsaloi and the journey takes forty-five minutes. It’s hard to believe that a head teacher can’t afford to drive home on his motorbike every night, but that’s northern Kenya – Samburu country – and as far as James is concerned it’s normal enough. He’s happy enough to actually own a motorbike.

Obviously I have to give him news of Napirai. Why did she not come with me? How big is she now? Does she ask after her African family? Is she going to come and see them one day? Does she like school? Question after question, and I do my best to answer them all. I tell James the truth, that I want to get a first impression myself, to bring back photographs and some video to inspire Napirai to come and visit. If everything goes well, she’ll definitely be with me next time.

The time flies by and before we know it we’re all being called in to dinner. We’re the Lodge’s only guests. Even back in the old days I never ran across any other tourists here but somehow it still manages to function. This is the first time James has been here and he’s interested to see how they lay out the cutlery on either side of the plate.

The starter is toast with mushrooms and I have to laugh because I know the Samburu don’t eat mushrooms. James asks cautiously what sort of a dish it is, looking rather embarrassedly at the little piece of toast. I’m laughing so much I can hardly explain to him. All the time I can hear Lketinga’s words: ‘White people’s food is not proper food, you will never be full by eating it.’ He would make exactly the same face that James is making now. Eventually I pull myself together and tell him what it is, and that it’s only a starter. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘No problem. I’ll try it. I’m a guest after all, and a guest should eat what’s put in front of him.’

After a few minutes, however, I rescue James from his toast as the second course – a tomato soup – is already being served. He finds that
somewhat better although still unusual. And then at least a piece of meat arrives. At last that’s something he understands even if it is a bit small by his standards. But there’s nothing I can do to persuade him to touch the last course – a wholly alien chocolate mousse.

Throughout the meal we’re all talking and laughing and I ask tentatively about Lketinga. James replies: ‘He is not bad in this time.’ It seems things are going okay for him and a month ago he married a second young girl. I’m surprised as nobody mentioned this in any of the recent letters. James explains that Lketinga only decided on another marriage recently. His first wife – or second after me, depending on your point of view – is sickly and has had a number of miscarriages. Until now Lketinga has only one daughter in Kenya, Shankayon, and he would like more children, having waited long enough for them. His sick wife left Barsaloi a few months ago to go back to her mother.

This is all unexpected news to me, and a bit disconcerting: I hope my turning up doesn’t cause any extra difficulties. But when I tell James of my fears, he smiles and says: ‘No, no, there won’t be any problems.’

He says that Lketinga didn’t want to be without a wife by his side when I arrived as this might have given me the wrong impression. And as he wants more children anyhow, it’s all for the best. I find the first part of this a bit much but am still pleased that Lketinga has a wife from his own tribe at his side. She’s probably a young girl not much older than our daughter Napirai!

It may be hard to imagine for us Europeans but in Samburu culture there’s no real alternative for the men but to choose young brides. Girls are often married off to men up to forty years older than them and when they die their wives are not allowed to remarry. They may still have children but they are given the name of the widow’s late husband and never told who their real father is. Marriage for love is relatively unknown among the Samburu. Lketinga and I were a major exception to the rule. I know that he found that something strange and wonderful but at the same time confusing and unsettling.

I’m fascinated to know how things with his new wife came about. I knew the other wife when she came into our shop as a girl to buy food. Years later I was delighted to spot her again on the video that Father Giuliani took during our marriage ceremony. I would have liked to meet her again as a young woman and the mother of Napirai’s half-sister.

We go inside from the terrace for a last glass of wine. James sticks to Coke as he isn’t used to wine and anyway has to get back to Maralal on the motorbike. Gazing into a flickering fire I listen attentively to James telling Albert and Klaus about the first time he met me. It was outside the school in Maralal just after I had finally found Lketinga. He took me down to the school to meet his little brother and to tell him that we were off to Mombasa together. James, who was about fourteen at the time, had to be fetched out of class and was very shy, coming over with his head down, scarcely daring to look up at us.

And now here he is trying to describe what he felt back then: ‘I was very unsure of myself because I thought this white lady was my sponsor. I knew that an American lady financed our school and couldn’t understand what she was doing standing there in front of me. What did it all mean? I was very nervous. It was only when my brother told me Corinne belonged to him and had come here to find him that I realized what was what.

‘But even that seemed crazy to me. My brother with a white woman who wanted to come and live with our Mama? I could see problems ahead: my big brother had never been to school and knew nothing at all about the white people’s world. Everybody else back home too knew only the traditional Samburu way of life. It was different for me because I’d been to school and I could see only problems ahead.

‘Lketinga is older than I am. He was a warrior while I was just an uncircumcised schoolboy. I could hardly tell a warrior what I thought. The problems began back in Mombasa already and just a few weeks later there was Corinne standing outside the school again, alone this time, once again looking for my brother, who was by this stage not well in the head. She asked me to take her back to my family in Barsaloi.

‘I said I’d help even though it was going to cause a lot of problems just to get out of school for a couple of days. We’re normally only allowed out of school during the holidays or when someone back home has died. It really wasn’t easy. Thank God she eventually found another alternative and got there on her own.’

And he looks across at me and laughs. Much of what he’s just told us has given me a whole new perspective on the turn of events back then, while at the same time bringing it all sharply back into focus.

Tomorrow morning it will be time to take the biggest step of all, the last leg of the journey, from Maralal to Barsaloi and my first meeting with
Lketinga since I fled from him fourteen years ago. I can’t help feeling uneasy. The fire in the lodge hearth has burned low now, and we’re all feeling tired and drained from the long journey and the initial excitement of meeting up. We agree to meet James early in morning outside the post office to go shopping together for essentials.

We retire to our rooms and I’m pleased to find a small fire burning in the hearth here too. Before long I’m in bed under the mosquito net waiting for sleep to take me. But as everything goes quiet I’m only too aware how wound up I am inside. Instead of sleep all that comes to me is a deep feeling of sadness. The more I think about it the more certain I am that when I see Mama and Lketinga tomorrow I’ll burst into tears, and that would be a terrible
faux pas
in Samburu eyes. Tears are reserved for bereavement.

I get up again and sit outside on the doorstep soaking in the
nighttime
tranquillity. It’s almost a full moon. Strange noises emanate from the bush but I can see nothing. Then comes the nearby growl of a great ape and suddenly in the distance I can hear the singing of Samburu warriors. Somewhere out there dozens of warriors and girls have gathered to dance in the moonlight. In the wind the sound of their singing dips and rises, and in between I can clearly hear the stamping of feet, now and again interrupted by a short sharp cry. I sit there remembering how these beautifully decorated young men would leap into the air while the young girls would bob their heads and their heavy necklaces in time. I used to watch my husband dance like that and every time it never failed to excite and move me.

The sadness and the sense of uncertainty have faded now and I feel happy and free. I’m ready now to meet the family tomorrow and can even look forward to it. At peace with the world again I crawl back beneath the mosquito netting, sniff the sweet smoke from the fire and fall fast asleep.

We meet up next morning at the post office as arranged and are immediately surrounded by the same young men as yesterday still keen to test their marketing skills. To our surprise someone gives Albert, who we have told them – to spare me any hassle – is my father, a traditional hardwood
rungu
club.

But it’s not until James has had a few words with the youths that we’re left to go round the market more or less in peace to find a nice warm blanket for my mother-in-law. I have two other blankets in my luggage,
an orange-red one for Lketinga because I know he likes this colour, and a checked one for his older brother. The Samburu men wear them as warm clothing. For Mama we buy a good thick wool blanket.

Then we take the cars to a wholesale food store and order a 55-pound sack of rice and the same of good quality maize meal, as well as various cooking fats, powdered tea, sweets, soap and other bits and bobs. At the same time we order up several pounds of tomatoes, carrots, cabbage, onions and oranges. We have to take something for ourselves too unless we want to live on goat meat.

Just before we leave, James runs across to the tobacco shop to pick up six pounds of chewing tobacco, which for the old folk is almost more important than food. A woman dressed beautifully in traditional clothes climbs into one of the cars with us, delighted to be given the chance to get a lift for the long journey. It goes without saying here that if there is a spare seat in a car someone must fill it.