Reunion in Barsaloi (19 page)

A
s we get off the plane in Mombasa we’re met by the same warm humid tropical air that I first fell in love with, the same scent of the sea. It’s only been a short internal flight but even so the impression is of being in a completely different country. Klaus has done the groundwork in advance and so we have a well-respected local taxi driver waiting for us. He’ll be at our disposal for the next day and a half, which is all the time I have left to revisit my memories.

First of all we head for the old part of town where all the fruit and vegetable markets are. Kenya’s second biggest city has a Muslim feel to it: alongside African women dressed in European clothes are veiled women in black. The pace of life here is less hectic than in Nairobi, however, and at last I feel happy getting about on foot. I wander through the old part of town breathing in the exotic air, with its rich mix of sea salt, fruit, vegetables and spices. The huge sacks of red, orange, yellow and black ground spices are a feast for both eyes and nose. Fruit here has a rich intense smell that we never experience in a supermarket back in Europe. People keep asking me to taste some. Women sit under an umbrella to shade them from the scorching sun and offer their vegetables for sale. What would Mama say if she could see all this?

I stroll down to Fort Jesus, a fortress built by the Portuguese in 1593, enjoying the light breeze that blows through my clothing. In the distance I can make out the Likoni ferry where my African fate first took its course. Tomorrow I will board it once again. For today it’s too late and we make our way to a hotel on the outskirts of the city.

O
ur driver picks us up after breakfast. Unfortunately it’s been raining a little and the sky is overcast. We drive along the northern coast towards the city and then head directly for the ferry. A long queue of cars and lorries and hundreds of people are already waiting for the ferry to dock. It’s always a frantic business, even though the crossing itself only takes a few minutes. Watching the ferry go through its docking manoeuvres, I realize that this one is slightly larger than the one on which my fate was decided. And then the horde piles on board, carrying me with them.

Klaus and I are the only white people among the more than five hundred on the ferry – just like it was eighteen years ago when my boyfriend Marco and I were the only tourists on board. I climb up to the upper deck and let my gaze sweep out over the heads of the heaving masses towards the open sea, lost in contemplation of all the events my first journey on this ferry unleashed. Who would have thought back then that this one fateful event would not only set my life on a completely different course but also come to move many others all over the world? Standing there by the railing, I’m lost in amazement at the turns my life has taken. I turn around and – irony of ironies – find myself staring into the eyes of a young Masai warrior barely fifteen feet away. He is neither as tall nor as handsome as Lketinga was back then, but even so this one moment brings all my old feelings and all my memories rushing back. My heart starts beating faster once more and I close my eyes and see myself as I was back then, a pretty 26-year-old woman turning her head at my then boyfriend’s suggestion and looking into the proud eyes of the man who would become my husband. I can see Lketinga standing there: tall,
gracious, exotic and unbelievably beautiful, his face painted, his long red hair plaited finely and his naked torso adorned with necklaces of beads. Just the sight of him took my breath away and swept me off my feet.

Klaus brings me back from my dreams to ask if I’ve noticed the Masai standing behind me. ‘Of course,’ I tell him with a laugh, ‘but I’m pleased to say you’re not Marco and our young warrior here isn’t Lketinga.’

Before long the ferry docks and we walk across to the taxi that will take us to the Diani coast. Along the route I try to make out where our old souvenir shop would have been, but it’s not easy – so much has changed. Everywhere I look there’s new building going on. Where there was once empty bush country, there are now golf courses, hotels and apartment complexes.

It’s only on the third time along the same stretch of road that I finally spot our white building, but to my disappointment there are no longer any shops there. It seems the whole block has been turned into apartments, and the entire complex in turn has been surrounded by a security fence. I don’t know what I’d expected but I’m still disappointed that everything has altered so far beyond recognition.

We drive on to the Africa Sea Lodge, the hotel where I stayed the first time – still a tourist – I came to Mombasa. I suppose I was hoping I might find Priscilla on the beach. She was the one I lived with for a few months that first time in Mombasa, and she was a great help to me. A few tourists had told me she was still there, selling kangas. But with the rain beginning to fall again, my hopes were fading. When we get to the hotel I see that the side of the street opposite has completely changed. There are now several roads heading off into the bush and I can see a school in the distance. Almost certainly Kamau village where I spent my last six months in Kenya is not there anymore. That’s something we can’t check out so easily, however, as the rain has already turned the roads to mud. We walk into the hotel grounds. These at least have changed little, although there are a lot fewer tourists than there used to be.

We have coffee and then suddenly the sun breaks through again. I kick off my sandals and run along the beach in my bare feet. A few of the beach hawkers approach me; a few others simply stand there selling their masks and paintings. That is where I sat after my first ‘unsuccessful’ kiss with Lketinga, and again three years later when our young daughter was playing on the sand. This is also where we sat with Papa Saguna the first
time he saw the sea and was almost sick with terror. I give free rein to all my memories, feelings and thoughts and let my feet bury themselves in the sand. Once again it comes home to me how strong my fascination with this country is, and in particular that part of it that is hardest to love – the Samburu lands. But at the same time I feel I have neither the ability nor the desire to live in Kenya anymore either in Samburu country or here on the coast.

There is nothing left for me in Mombasa now and I feel glad when we’re on our way to the airport. Once again I find myself on the Likoni ferry, and once again I realize my knees will always go weak here, whether or not there’s a Masai anywhere to be seen. Here feelings overwhelm me that I simply cannot explain, even today. Even so, I can honestly and sincerely say that of all the adventures, emotions and risks I went through here, I regret not one.

I am happy that I have such a wonderful African family and I regard it as a great gift to have been allowed to come back after fourteen years and be welcomed once again into their midst.

But now it’s time to go home, to my daughter. Right now, all I want to do is to throw my arms around her and tell her about her family in Africa, the family she still doesn’t know.

Born in 1960 of a French mother and a German father in Frauenfeld in the Swiss canton of Thurgau, Corinne Hofmann had an international bestseller with
The White Masai
, an autobiographical account of her life in Kenya, which has since been translated into more than twenty languages and has spawned a film adaptation, seen by more than one million people when released in Germany in 2005. Her second book,
Zurück aus Afrika
(
Back from Africa
) described her attempt to start a new life back in Switzerland. An English translation will be published by Bliss Books in 2007. She has lived for several years with her daughter near Lake Lugano.