Reunion in Barsaloi (9 page)

I
go across to Mama’s
manyatta
. She’s sitting outside with a few other women around her. Once again everybody shakes me by the hand, and I see nothing but smiling faces.

Away to one side is a woman with a baby who keeps looking over at me. She can hardly be very old, although there are already a lot of wrinkles on her forehead and big bags beneath her eyes. Whenever I look back at her she immediately looks away and doesn’t say a word, but she seems strangely familiar to me. It’s quite a while before I realize with some embarrassment that it’s the girl whose ‘circumcision’ I was present for.

My God, how old and resigned to her fate she looks. To think she was just twelve years old when I peered into the ‘circumcision hut’ to see her sitting, smiling bravely on the cowhide, despite the fact that barely two hours earlier with no anaesthetic she had had her clitoris removed with a razor blade. She impressed me with the aura of bravery she exuded, acting as if despite her youth she was oblivious to the pain. I had crawled out of the hut ashamed that I had expected to find her a whimpering vestige of humanity. But now I have to ask myself what has happened since to this proud, happy girl.

If nothing else, she seems to have suffered from malnutrition. I say a few words to her, asking if she didn’t used to be the girl who lived next door to us. She just smiles and looks away, but I persist, telling her I know she can understand my English because she went to school for a while. For just a second I’m rewarded with a beaming smile, perhaps because someone’s taking an interest in her again at last.

Then her brother turns up. He’s done up as a warrior but seems older and more careworn than the others of his age. He says hello to me by
name. His mouth is fixed in a rictus smile that’s almost spooky. Things have obviously gone really badly for their family, but I don’t know what I can do to help. I can’t stand in the middle of the village square handing out money: I’d only start a riot that would end up forcing us to run for our lives for fear of being overwhelmed. And I can hardly pass them something discreetly either because there are always other people around me.

While these thoughts are going through my mind I hear the first tinkling of bells and bleating of goats. Almost immediately the kids in the hut behind me start bleating too and before long you can hardly hear yourself think. The corral fills up quickly with white goats running all over the place. Mama fends off one that seems determined to get into her
manyatta
, clearly the mother of the little kid tethered inside. Then the girls and women turn up to start the milking. A few of the girls can be no more than ten years old and are carrying their little brothers or sister on their backs.

Lketinga strides proudly through the herd, adorned in his new
red-and-
yellow blanket, stopping now and again to examine a goat’s ear or hoof. Even James has changed to welcome the goats home and is now wearing a kanga. We three white folk stand there watching all the
goings-on
and noticing how much more lively everything is when the children are around.

This is the time of day when people – usually elderly men – drop in to visit, usually to drink tea together. Today the man from the ‘Hotel’ is with them and furtively begs a few shillings off Albert for a beer. At the same time he points out a young girl of about seventeen to me and tells me conspiratorially that she is Lketinga’s latest wife.

She is sitting just a few feet from us milking a goat. It would appear she has been out with part of the herd, which is why I haven’t seen her until now. Considering that their wedding – and therefore the grim ‘circumcision’ – only took place a month ago, it can hardly be easy work for her.

I try to observe her without drawing attention to myself. She’s a
well-built
young girl wearing traditional Samburu jewellery but comes across as rather shy and unsure of herself. It’s no wonder, as she hasn’t been here long and her home is several hours away on foot. She has no idea when she’ll see her parents or friends again. She obviously feels an outsider here still and, apart from anything else, is living with someone she hardly knows who must seem an old man to her. The more I try to imagine myself in
her place, the more sympathetic I feel towards her. As it’s getting dark I can’t see her face properly but I make a point of looking out for her tomorrow. It’s strange that Lketinga hasn’t even introduced me to his new wife yet!

James asks if we’d like something more to eat. His wife could make spaghetti. I have to laugh because back in the old days they turned up their noses at food like that even in Mombasa, saying we white people were worm-eaters. And yet now even out here in the bush they’re cooking pasta. How things change! But we’re all still full from the filling stew and don’t feel like anything else. I make do with a cup of
chai
and the freshly produced goat milk.

By now it’s dark and in the huts people are talking and cooking. First of all they make
chai
and then the maize porridge they call
ugali
. Children of all ages are running between the
manyattas
doing little chores. James is feeling rundown and feverish again and we too slowly begin to notice how exhausted we are. There are people all around us all the time and there’s never a minute when you can retreat and be on your own for half an hour to chill out. All the time there are men, women and now children clustered around us talking to us in Maa, which we don’t understand, or just standing and gawping at us.

I’ve already had several young men come to see me. Two of them were schoolmates of James and used to come by our house regularly to play cards. I’m pleased to see them and that they’re doing well. However, they all have the same problem: no jobs. That’s partly why they want to go into further education but they can’t find anyone to sponsor them. They ask me if I can offer them any financial support but it’s hard to promise something to one and not the other, and how am I expected to make a decision like that? Apart from anything else, they’re all about James’s age – just over thirty. I promise to think about it and make a mental note to ask some questions up at the Mission.

T
o give everyone a bit of a break we decline a communal evening meal tonight and decide to retire to our camp. We agree to meet up in the morning for a long chat with James, Lketinga and Mama. There are so many things I still want to know about the past few years.

Back at the camp we settle down on our folding chairs and our drivers Francis and John light lamps to provide us with a little light. We spoil ourselves with a drop of red wine to round off the day. As a selection of nibbles are magically produced from inside the vehicles it occurs to me that this time, as opposed to my previous incarnation in Barsaloi, I’m not going to lose any weight.

I tell the others it should be possible to get in touch with Father Giuliani over the Mission radio and we decide to have a go the next day. As we are due to be on the
White Masai
film set in two days’ time we could go and visit Giuliani afterwards and then come back to Barsaloi for an end-of-trip party. It also makes sense for us to leave the family in peace for a while. We’ve caused a lot of disruption to their everyday lives. Even James has had to tell us that he does have to go to his school from time to time.

As we’re talking over all this, four women in nun’s habits walk by heading for the Mission. Then shortly afterwards the new Colombian priest appears and sits down to join us. He asks us how we’re doing and how we’ve enjoyed our stay so far. He’s very interested in how Lketinga behaved towards me and is pleased to hear that we’ve had no problems. He explains that James and he have worked together on several projects. For example, James is the agent and financial manager for a group of
women who make traditional jewellery that is sold as far away as Nairobi. The women are paid per piece and several of them have already had good wooden houses built on the proceeds. I’m impressed to hear all this, particularly that he has been helping the women.

The priest tells us he’s been here in Barsaloi for five years and arrived just after the bloody conflict with the Turkana. He also tells us about events at the Mission since my hasty departure. Immediately after Father Giuliani left in 1991 more missionaries arrived, one of whom died of tropical malaria. He was taken to Nairobi where they tried for over a year to save his life. The story sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of my own horrific experiences of malaria. More than once I nearly died of it. The most dramatic time was two months before Napirai’s birth when Father Giuliani saved me from the worst only by summoning the Flying Doctors who flew me to the hospital in Wamba literally at the last moment. It comes back to me how close a brush with death I really had.

In response to our curiosity about the Turkana business, the priest tells us as much as he knows:

‘Nobody was expecting it, even though there had been a few attacks on individuals over several months and even a couple of deaths. But the occasional minor incident between the two neighbouring tribes of Turkana and Samburu were not exactly unusual. But what happened at the beginning of December 1996 took everyone by surprise. The day began normally enough. The warriors and children set off from the village with their herds as usual. But a rumour spread like bushfire that during the night gangs of robbers had been seen lighting campfires by the side of the roads. Nobody knew anything for sure, however. Then around midday suddenly some six hundred armed Turkana attacked the outskirts of Barsaloi. They swept down out of the mountains and surrounded both people and animals, driving them down towards the river bed. Anyone who tried to defend themselves, warriors with spears or even women and children, were simply shot. When people here in the village heard the first shots they had no idea what was happening. Then the first of those who had escaped arrived and told them. After a brief discussion it was decided that everyone should flee as quickly as possible, but there was only one direction they could go. The Samburu could do nothing but watch as their entire livestock herds were driven away: some twenty thousand goats and a few thousand cattle. With their own survival at stake, the people
simply fled. At the time nobody could explain why the Turkana had suddenly got hold of such superior weapons. The raid was carried out like an organized crime.

‘The four priests who were here at the time refused to leave the Mission and offered people sanctuary in the church. But even they were attacked, and the daughter of one of the Mission employees was killed. One of the priests had a bullet shot through his leg, and another was wounded in the arm. When the dead girl was found it was a complete shock to everyone. The Mission was evacuated at short notice and emergency aid requested from Nairobi. But it took days before anything happened. In the meantime all the Samburu warriors had got together and decided to go and get their animals back even without firearms, which they managed in large part. But it was only days later after many, many dead that the government sent in reinforcements. When one of the reconnaissance helicopters was shot down, killing a District Officer, things got serious and a few hand grenades were dropped. But by then the villages had all been abandoned and everyone had fled to Maralal.’

We asked the priest what had led up to such a massacre. ‘Nobody really knows for sure. A few months previously mining companies had carried out test bores in Samburu country and found traces of gold. I’m not sure if there’s any connection. On the other hand a few months earlier there had been a major incident between Samburu and Somalis in which people on both sides had died, albeit a long way away, somewhere near Wamba. But nobody can be absolutely certain what sparked it all off.’

Listening to the missionary, I remember the letters from James in which he wrote that they were all forced to live with strangers outside Maralal and had lost nearly everything they owned. Mama, thank heavens, had been got out of Barsaloi in a car just in time. Amidst all that horror she had been forced to get into a car for the first time in her life. All of a sudden they had become refugees in their own country. Many people had starved.

I helped them as much as I could but at that time I was unemployed back home in Switzerland. Two years later they were still waiting to return home. By then, however, my book was already becoming successful. The following year, in July 1999, Albert went to visit them and was also able to help out. When I think back to the photos of the family then just the memory makes me feel sick. At least today there’s no trace anymore of the
devastation and most of the families seem to have come to terms with what happened to them. The only thing that worries me, however, is how many warriors now carry guns.

The priest interrupts my train of thought to take his leave and turn in for the night. The three of us retire too, each mulling over the experiences of the day.

T
he next morning I wake shortly after 6.00am. I hear a few voices from the village and decide to go over to see Mama. At this time of day it's still cool and I pull on a jumper. When I get to the corral, however, I can't get in because the thorn fencing is still across the opening. I peer over the fence until Lketinga spots me. With his new blanket pulled up over his head he strolls slowly through the herd to the ‘gate', which he opens with a smile and asks me what I'm doing up and about so early. I tell him that nobody's up yet at our camp and I prefer to be down here with the animals. Also I want to ask James for a couple of eggs, as we've nothing for breakfast. James hears us talking and comes out of his house. He says hello and then gives me the last four eggs they have at present.

I turn to head back to the camp, but Lketinga sends me to Mama's
manyatta
for
chai
. I ask if I can come in and Mama is amazed too to see me up and about so early. Two elderly men have just been in for
chai
and are leaving the
manyatta
. She hands me a cup and at the same time puts the pan of roasted meat on the fire. I'm amazed that there's any left. Obviously she'd made it just for me and won't give any to anyone else. She presses a soup spoon into my hand and encourages me with her usual, ‘
Tamada, tamada
,' and then goes out. Delighted and embarrassed at the same time, I eat a few spoonfuls of the meat for breakfast. I'm almost certainly the only one to be offered such a luxurious meal so early in the day.

I'm chewing the meat, lost in thought, when suddenly Lketinga's young wife crawls into the
manyatta
. She obviously thought it was empty, given that Mama and Lketinga are standing outside with the animals.

Taken aback, she stops in the entrance, still bent over but uncertain whether to come in or go back out. I smile at her and say, ‘
Karibu
!
' She comes in and, cautiously avoiding Mama's place, sits on the cowhide near the fire. I move along to make room for her, waiting to see what she's up to. She opens Lketinga's metal box and takes out the skirt that I brought for his wife – whichever one he wants to give it to! She feels the material carefully and then checks out the size before immediately placing it back neatly. With my minimal knowledge of Maa, I ask her if she likes it. She gives a shy ‘yes'. Then she turns around and is about to leave the hut when Lketinga comes in. It's his turn to be surprised but doesn't say a word to either me or his young wife, who shrinks away and crawls out of the tent.

I have to suppress a smile when I see how serious Lketinga looks. He sits down on a little stool in front of the entrance near the fire, takes a soup spoon and fills it with meat. I use my spoon playfully to push the pieces of meat back into the pot, protesting: ‘No, that's my meal. Mama made it specially for me.' He smiles back, acting the beggar: ‘Only a little bit.'

Of course I give him some, but I can't resist mentioning his wife and, as if in passing, say to him: ‘That was your new wife, wasn't it?' He looks serious and says: ‘Yes, do you have a problem with that?' I say no, of course not, but ask him: ‘Why don't you speak to her or at least look at her?' ‘Why should I say
Jambo
to my wife first just because I'm her husband? She's never said hello to me, so why should I say hello to her? It's up to her to speak first, then maybe I'll speak to her.'

He says this with such conviction that, despite the awful tragedy of the situation, I have to laugh out loud. Obviously unsure of himself, my
ex-husband
begins to laugh too and says that's normal. I try to tell him things could go on like that for months and it would be better for both of them if they gradually started talking to each other. He admits he doesn't know her very well, but he's spoken to her parents and asked around the village about her. He knows a lot about his wife's background. I discover she comes from the little village near Maralal where I was first struck by all the plastic bags hanging on the bushes. I realize that means she will only see her former home rarely or perhaps even never again. I ask him how he expects their marriage to be tolerable if they don't talk or laugh together. ‘Yes,' he replies, ‘that's crazy! But I'm not going to talk to her first, I'm not a woman.' Then he adds with a laugh: ‘Maybe I should marry
you again.' I join him in a rather nervous laugh of my own, which, under these bizarre circumstances, seems the safest thing to do.

Then all of a sudden I realize I've left the eggs sitting on James's motorbike and with a twinge of guilt remember my hungry travelling companions. We leave the hut and stroll up to the Mission. They're already making tea and coffee, and Albert, Klaus and the two drivers are pleased to see the eggs. Apart from some nuts and a few soft potato crisps, that's all they have for breakfast. They're surprised that I'm not hungry but I tell them how spoilt I was in Mama's
manyatta
.

After the frugal breakfast we go back down to the corral with Lketinga. We bump into James who's busy spraying the little
manyatta
where the kid goats are kept with pesticide. That's something they didn't have in the old days either. While we're chatting, Lketinga's sister comes out of Mama's
manyatta
and greets us effusively. But Lketinga speaks to her gruffly and rather sharply, and she runs off. I ask him what's wrong and with angry gestures he replies, ‘Last night my sister was drunk. I don't allow that and don't know how it could have happened.' I immediately remember the money I gave her and Mama and feel somewhat guilty.