The White Masai (12 page)

E
arly the next morning I go to the nearest bank and open an account in Maralal, which is not easy, given that I can provide neither a street nor postal address. When I tell them I live in one of the
manyattas
in Barsaloi, they simply don’t believe it. How on earth do I get there? they ask. I tell them about the car, and in the end they let me open an account. I write to my mother, telling her now to send any money to Maralal.

I load up with food and set off. Obviously I take the shortest route, through the bush, otherwise I wouldn’t have enough fuel to get there and come back later. I can’t wait to see Lketinga’s face when I arrive at the village in the car.

The Land Rover copes with the steep dusty track, although I have to engage the four-wheel drive just before I get to the forest to avoid getting stuck. I’m proud of myself for having got to grips with the car so well. The trees are enormous, and I can tell from the overgrown path that the route has not been used for a long time. Then it goes downhill again, and I’m motoring along happily until suddenly I see a great herd of animals across the path. I break sharply. Didn’t Lketinga tell me there were no herds of cows around here? But one hundred and fifty feet closer to the herd I realize that what I thought were cows are in fact fully-grown buffalo.

What was it Lketinga said? The most dangerous animal in the bush isn’t the lion but the buffalo. And here are at least thirty of them, with young ones, great giants with broad noses and sharp horns. A few of them continue to graze peacefully, but some others have turned to look at my car. There’s steam coming from the herd, or is it rising dust? I stare frozen
at them. Should I hoot or not? Do they recognize a car? I wait and wait, but they don’t move from the track, and eventually I hoot at them. At once they all raise their heads in my direction. Gingerly I engage reverse and parp again at short intervals. That is the end of their peaceful grazing. A few of the huge beasts start to lower their horns and cast around them. I watch in frozen terror hoping they’ll disappear into the thick forest rather than come up the path towards me. But before I can take in exactly what’s happening, the track is suddenly clear. The ghosts have vanished, leaving only a cloud of dust behind.

Even so, I wait cautiously for a few minutes before putting my foot down. The Land Rover rattles like it’s falling apart, but the only thought in my head is to get out of here as fast as possible. When I reach the spot where the animals were, I risk a quick glance into the forest but can see nothing, even though I can smell their freshly dropped dung. I have to hold on tight to the steering wheel to stop it being wrenched from my hands. After five minutes at top speed I slow down a bit, because the track is getting steeper and steeper. I stop and engage the four-wheel drive. I hope that will get me across this patch without tipping over because everywhere I look now I can see huge potholes and ravines. Feverishly I pray that the car will keep all four wheels on the ground. I don’t dare use the clutch for fear of falling out of gear! I make progress yard by yard with every imaginable disaster going through my head. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, but I don’t dare wipe it away because I need both hands to hang on to the steering wheel. After two or three hundred yards the worst of it is behind me, the forest is thinning out, and I’m happy to have a bit more light and air around me. Shortly afterwards I reach the scree slope. Even that looks different now. The last time I was sitting in the back, thinking only about Lketinga.

I stop and get out to see if the track really does keep going. In some places the stones are nearly half as big as the wheels of the Land Rover. Despite my experienced driving, I suddenly feel alone and scared. I try moving some of the stones together to make the downward steps less steep. Time’s getting on; it’ll be dark in two hours. How far is it still to Barsaloi? I’m so nervous I can’t remember anything. I engage the
four-wheel
drive and know that I mustn’t brake or change gear: just let the vehicle climb onwards even though it’s a steep downhill slope. The car manages the first hurdles even though the steering wheel is almost ripped
out of my hand. The car scrapes and bumps, so long in the wheelbase that the rear end is often still on one rock when the front has already bumped down over another. Then halfway down the worst happens. The engine splutters briefly and dies. I’m halfway down a hill of stones, and the engine has croaked. How the hell am I going to bring it back to life? I hit the clutch briefly, and it shunts a couple of feet forwards. But I stop immediately; it’ll never work like that. I get out and see that one of the rear wheels is up in the air. I drag a big rock behind the other one, but I’m getting hysterical.

Then, climbing back into the car, I spot two warriors on a nearby outcrop watching me with interest. It obviously doesn’t occur to them to help me, but even so I feel a bit better not being so completely alone. I try again to start the engine. It clunks into life but then falters again. I try and try again. I want out of here. The pair over on the rocky outcrop just sit there. But how could they help anyhow? They obviously don’t know anything about engines.

When I’ve just about given up hope, suddenly it comes back to life as if nothing had ever happened. Gently, ever so gently, I ease off the clutch and hope that the vehicle can get itself over the remaining stones. After twenty yards or so I’m over the biggest rocks, and I can loosen my iron grip. Then I break into tears with the realization of the danger I was in.

From here on, the track is fairly flat. I catch sight of a few
manyattas
here and there and children who wave excitedly. I slow down for fear of running over one of the large number of goats. About half an hour later I reach the big Barsaloi River, which is not without its dangers in crossing because, although it is dry, there is quicksand. I engage the four-wheel drive again and drive at top speed across the hundred or so yards of its width. The car manages the last upward stretch to Barsaloi, and I drive proudly into the village. People come out from all over to watch, even the Somalis from their shops and all around me I hear, ‘
Mzungu! Mzungu
!’

Then all of a sudden Lketinga and two other warriors are standing in the street in front of me. Before I can even stop he’s jumped into the car beaming at me radiantly. ‘Corinne, you come back and with this car!’ He stares at me in disbelief, as happy as a child. I just want to embrace him. The two warriors jump in when he invites them, and we drive together to the
manyatta
. Mama runs away in fright, and even Saguna scampers away, but before long the parked vehicle is surrounded by old people and
young people alike. Mama doesn’t want to leave the car near the tree because someone might deliberately damage it. Lketinga opens the briar fence, and I park the car next to the
manyatta
, which looks even smaller against the big vehicle. The contrast is really quite grotesque.

We unload all the foodstuffs and store them away inside the hut. I’m happy to get some of Mama’s
chai
, and she’s delighted by the sugar I’ve brought. In the meantime the shops have maize meal again but no sugar. Lketinga and the others are admiring the car. Mama talks and talks to me. I don’t understand a word but she seems happy because when I laugh helplessly she joins in.

It’s late before we get to bed this evening because I have to tell them everything. When I mention the buffalo everyone looks serious, and Mama keeps muttering ‘
Enkai, Enkai
,’ which means ‘God’. When the older brother comes back with the goats, he is amazed too. There’s a lot of conversation. The car will have to be watched all the time to make sure nobody steals it or damages it. Lketinga volunteers to spend the first night in it. I had somehow imagined our reunion differently, but I say nothing because his eyes are full of pride.

The next day he’s already keen to go for a drive, to see his
half-brother
, who keeps cows in Sitedi. I try to tell Lketinga that we can’t make any big expeditions because I don’t have any reserves of fuel. The indicator is showing half full. That’s just enough to get back to Maralal. He only reluctantly understands. I’m sorry too that I can’t show off and drive him proudly around the place, but I have to be strict.

Three days later the number two in the local government, known as the assistant chief, is outside our
manyatta
, talking to Lketinga and Mama. I hear the words ‘
mzungu
’ and ‘car’; they’re talking about me. He looks funny in his ill-fitting green uniform. Only the large gun at his side lends him an air of authority. He can’t speak English either. Afterwards he wants to look at my passport. I show it to him and ask what the problem is. Lketinga translates for me. I have to go to Maralal to register with the government office: Europeans are not allowed to live in
manyattas
.

T
he same afternoon Lketinga and I, after discussion with Mama, decide to get married. The little boss man says we’ll have to do it in Maralal, at the government office there; the traditional bush wedding won’t do. At the end of our discussion the boss man demands to be driven home. As far as Lketinga is concerned, that goes without saying: he is, after all, a ‘man of respect’. It is a status he clearly abuses. But when I start up I check the fuel indicator and see with horror that the level has dropped, even though the vehicle hasn’t been used. I don’t understand.

We set off, the boss man in the front passenger seat with Lketinga behind him. I consider it a cheek but say nothing, as it clearly doesn’t bother Lketinga. When we get to our destination the boss man says he has to be in Maralal in two days’ time and as I have to sort things out with the office there anyhow, I might as well take him with me. In fact, there is only one month left on my visa.

But when we get back to the
manyatta
I realize that there is not enough fuel left to get to Maralal, quite apart from the fact that I intend to take the longer, less hazardous route. I go up to the Mission where Father Giuliani opens the door and, slightly more politely this time, says: ‘Yes?’

I tell him my problem with the fuel. When he asks which route I took I tell him I took the track through the forest, and for the first time I have the feeling that he treats me with a bit more attention and respect. ‘That road is very dangerous, don’t go there again,’ he says and tells me to bring the car round and he’ll look at the tank. When I do, he discovers that the tank has dropped two inches on one side and that fuel has been evaporating. Now I also know how I got stuck on the rocks.

Over the next few days the priest fixes the tank, for which I am extremely grateful. He asks me which of the
morans
I’m living with and wishes me ‘
bon courage
’ and strength! He also tells me that getting fuel in Maralal is always hit and miss, and I’d do better to get one or two
forty-gallon
canisters and keep them in the Mission as he won’t always be able to sell me his fuel. I’m delighted by the offer especially as he also says I can park the Land Rover up at the Mission. It’s not so easy to persuade Lketinga, though, as he doesn’t even trust the missionaries.

The next few days pass quietly except that people keep coming by to ask when we’re going to Maralal. It seems everybody wants to come. At long last here is a Samburu with a car so everyone treats it as theirs. I keep having to repeat that on roads like these I’m not prepared to take twenty people.

Eventually we set off, with the little boss man of course, who thinks he can decide who else may come along. Only men of course, women have to wait behind. When I spot one woman who has a child with tightly shut, septic-looking eyes wrapped up in her kanga, I ask her why she wants to go to Maralal. She answers shyly, looking down at the ground, that she wants to go to the hospital because there’s no eye medicine to be had here. I tell her to get in.

When the boss man goes to sit in the front passenger seat, I summon up all my courage and, looking him right in the eye, say ‘No, this place is for Lketinga!’ He yields, but I know that from now on I’ll get no sympathy from him. The journey goes well, everybody talking together and singing. For most of them it’s the first time they’ve ever been in a car.

Three times we cross a river, and I have to engage the four-wheel driver, but the rest of the time I don’t need it. Even so, I have to concentrate on the road, which is full of ruts and potholes. It seems to go on forever, and the fuel level drops quickly.

We get to Maralal in the afternoon, the passengers leave, and we head for the filling station straight away. I’m deeply disappointed to find out there’s still no fuel. Apparently there hasn’t been any more fuel in Maralal since I bought the car. The Somali insists it’ll arrive today or tomorrow, but I don’t believe a word anymore. Lketinga and I find our boarding house and spend the night there.

In the meantime, however, it has rained in Maralal, and everything is green, almost as if we were in another country. But the nights are also
colder, and for the first time I find out what pests mosquitoes can be. Even during dinner, which we take in our cold little room so that nobody will see us eating together, the mosquitoes attack me incessantly. Before long my ankles and hands have swollen up. For every mosquito I splat, more come in under the roof. Funnily, they seem to prefer white meat because my Masai barely gets half as many bites. In bed they buzz around my head continuously. Lketinga just pulls the sheet right over his head and notices nothing.

After a while I can’t take it anymore and turn on the light in annoyance, waking him: ‘I can’t sleep with these mosquitoes,’ I tell him despairingly. He gets up, goes out, and ten minutes later comes back and puts a green snail-like thing on the floor, a mosquito-repellent which he lights at one end. And indeed before long, although it stinks appallingly, the pests have gone, and eventually I fall asleep. I wake at five, however, because the mosquitoes are tormenting me again. The coil has burned out; apparently they last just six hours.

After four days, however, there’s still no fuel. Out of boredom, Lketinga starts chewing
miraa
again and secretly knocks back a couple of beers. I don’t like it, but what can I say? The waiting is getting on my nerves too. In the meantime we have been to the office to notify them of our intention to get married. We get shunted from pillar to post until they find someone who knows about civil weddings. It’s not something that happens often here because most Samburus can have more than one wife when they get married the traditional way. This is to cause quite a bit of a fuss for both Lketinga and me, although for quite different reasons, as I’m soon to find out.

For the moment, however, we don’t think much about it. When the official asks for my passport and Lketinga’s identity card to note down our details, it turns out that Lketinga no longer has one. It was stolen in Mombasa. The official makes a face and tells us he’ll have to order a new one from Nairobi and that is likely to take at least two months. Only when he’s got all the details can he register us and then it takes six weeks before the marriage can take place, providing no one raises an objection. But I have to leave Kenya in three weeks at the latest, when my extended visa expires.

With Lketinga still chewing his weed, I decide to discuss the issue of multiple wives with him. He tells me that it would be a problem for him
if our marriage would make that impossible. This comes as a bit of a blow to me, but I try to stay calm because, after all, for him it is not something wicked or wrong but perfectly normal, even if from my European point of view it is unthinkable. I try to imagine how he could live with me and one or two other wives. Just the thought makes my blood boil with jealousy.

As I’m thinking all this, he announces that he can’t marry me in this office if later on I won’t let him marry another Samburu woman in a traditional ceremony. This is too much for me, and I can’t hold the tears back any longer. He stares at me in astonishment and asks: ‘Corinne, what’s the problem?’ I try to tell him that we white people don’t do things that way and I can’t imagine living together like that. He laughs, puts his arms around me and gives me a quick kiss on the mouth: ‘No problem, Corinne. Now you will get my first wife,
pole, pole
.’

He wants lots of children, eight at least. I have to smile and tell him I don’t want more than two. Well, there you are, says my warrior, all the better if there’s another wife to have children. In any case, he doesn’t even know if I can give him children, and a man without children is worthless. I see his point because, after all, I don’t know if I can have children either; until I came to Kenya it never mattered. We talk things through until at last I come to the following proposal: if after two years I still have not had a child, then he can marry again, otherwise he has to wait five years at least. He agrees and I tell myself to calm down: five years is a long time.

We leave the bedroom and wander round Maralal in the hope that the fuel tanker might have arrived, but as usual it hasn’t. However, we do run into my eternal saviour Tom and his young wife. She’s practically a child still and looks at her feet shyly. Not a happy girl. We mention that we’ve been waiting four days for fuel, and our friend says why don’t we drive down to Lake Baringo? It’s just two hours away, and there’s always fuel there.

I’m delighted by the suggestion, fed up with hanging around, and I suggest he and his wife should come along, as I owe him a trip. He discusses it with me, but says the girl is afraid of the car. Lketinga, however, laughs and manages to persuade her. We agree to set off the next day.

First we go to the local garage, run by a Somali, to buy two empty canisters that will fit into the back of the Land Rover. When we have fastened them down with ropes I feel well equipped for future journeys and we’re happy to be on the road again. The girl, however, seems even smaller and quieter and holds on to the canisters in fear.

For ages we trundle along the dusty, bumpy road without seeing any other traffic. From time to time we spot herds of zebra or giraffes, but there is no sign of any human life or road signs. Suddenly the Land Rover tips forward, and the steering goes – we’ve got a flat! In ten years of driving this is the first time it’s ever happened to me. ‘No problem,’ says Tom. We get out the spare tyre, wheel brace and an ancient jack. Tom crawls under the Land Rover to get the jack into position. He tries to use the brace to loosen the wheel nuts, but the tool is worn and can’t get any purchase on the nuts. We try to wedge them in with sand, bits of cloth and wood and eventually get three of the nuts off but the others won’t budge. Tom’s wife starts crying and runs off.

Tom tells us not to worry, she’ll be back, but Lketinga goes to fetch her because he says we’re in another tribal district now: the ‘Baringos’. We’re thirsty, dirty and sweating. We have enough fuel but nothing to drink, because we’d only reckoned on a short journey. So we sit down in the shade and hope another vehicle will come along; at least the road looks better used than the one to Barsaloi.

But when nothing arrives after several hours, and even Lketinga on a reconnaissance tour has failed to spot either Lake Baringo or any huts, we decide to spend the night in the Land Rover. A night that seems to last forever. We’re so cold, hungry and thirsty we hardly sleep. In the morning the men have another go at the car, but to no avail. We decide to wait until midday. My throat is dry and my lips cracked. The girl is crying again, and Tom has completely lost his patience with her.

Suddenly Lketinga hushes us; he thinks he can hear a car. Minutes pass before I can hear the engine sounds too. To our enormous relief we see a safari bus. The African driver stops and lowers his window. The Italian tourists stare at us in curiosity. Tom tells him the problem, but he says he’s sorry, he’s not allowed to pick anyone up. He hands us his wheel brace, but it doesn’t fit. I try to soften him up by even offering him money, but he rolls up his window and drives off. The whole time the Italians said nothing, looking at me somewhat distantly. Clearly I’m too dirty, and the others are too exotic. Furious, I shout the worst swear words I can think of after the departing bus. I’m ashamed of the white people, because not one of them tried to persuade the driver to help.

Tom is convinced that at least we’re on the right road and is about to set off on foot when we hear more engine sounds. This time I’m
absolutely determined not to let any vehicle leave without taking at least one of us. It’s another safari bus, also filled with Italians.

When Tom and Lketinga talk to the bus driver, and again he only shakes his head, I pull open the rear door and shout in despair, ‘Do you speak English?’

‘
No, solo italiano
,’ comes the response. But then one young man says, ‘Yes, just a little bit, what’s your problem?’ I explain that we have been stuck here since yesterday morning with no food or water and urgently need help. The driver says, ‘It’s not allowed,’ and tries to shut the door. But thank God, the young Italian intervenes and says that they’ve paid for the bus and therefore can decide whether or not anyone can come with them. Tom gets in alongside the driver, whether he likes it or not, and I thank the tourists in relief.

We have to stick it out for nearly three hours by the roadside until we see a cloud of dust in the distance and Tom comes back in a Land Rover with its owner. To our delight, he’s also brought cola and bread. I want to guzzle the drink, but he warns me just to take little sips or I’ll be ill. Like someone brought back from the dead, I swear never again to set out on a journey without drinking water.

Tom has to use a hammer and chisel to loosen the last nut, but then we change the wheel rapidly and, with one nut less on our wheel, set off again. It takes just one and a half hours to reach Lake Baringo finally. The filling station is right next to a grandiose garden restaurant for tourists. After the nightmare we’ve been through, I invite everyone into the restaurant. The girl is astounded to discover this new world but feels uncomfortable. We sit down at a nice table with a view over the lake and thousands of pink flamingos. Looking into the wondering faces of my guests, I’m thrilled to have been able to offer them something more than just trouble.

Two waiters come to the table, but not to take our order. They tell us that we won’t be served because the restaurant’s only for tourists. I tell them I am a tourist and I want to treat my friends. The black waiter tries to calm me down, saying I can stay but the Masai must leave the premises. We get up and go. I sense almost physically how demoralized these otherwise proud people feel.

At least we get the fuel. When the owner sees that I want to fill up the two canisters as well he demands to see my money first. Lketinga inserts
the nozzle into the canister, and I retire some distance to smoke a cigarette to calm me down. All of a sudden he shouts out and I see the petrol erupting like a fountain. I rush to the car and pull the trigger back on the pump; the cut-off had got jammed and the fuel kept flowing even when the canister was full. Several quarts have spilled on the ground and inside the vehicle, but when I see how bad Lketinga feels, I try to calm myself down. Tom and his wife are standing off to one side, wishing the earth would swallow them. We’re told to pay and go, without being allowed to fill the other canister. I wish we were back at home in the
manyatta
, even without the car. Up until now it’s brought only trouble.