The White Masai (4 page)

The curious business in Ukunda comes back to me, and suddenly my question for Priscilla about why all the men disappeared behind the wall is superfluous. So Lketinga can’t even eat with me and I can never cook anything for him. Funnily, this is something that shakes me even more than the idea of never having good sex. When I have collected myself I try to find out more. What is married life like? Once again her answer is a disappointment. Basically the wife stays with the children while her husband associates with other men of the same status, warriors, at least one of whom must accompany him at mealtimes. Eating alone was not done either.

I’m speechless. All my romantic fantasies of cooking and eating together out in the bush or in a simple hut collapse. I can hardly hold back my tears, and Priscilla is looking at me in astonishment. Then she breaks out laughing, which makes me furious. All of a sudden I feel quite alone and realize that Priscilla too is alien to me, someone who inhabits a completely different world.

But what has happened to Lketinga? It’s night and Priscilla has served up the meat on two battered aluminium plates. I’ve got hungry by now so I try the meat and am astonished at how tender it is. The taste is quite unique, salty like slow-braised pork. We eat with our hands, in silence.

When it gets late I say goodnight and retreat into what was Priscilla’s hut. I’m tired. I light the paraffin lamp and lie down on the cot. The sound of cicadas outside fills the air. My thoughts drift back to Switzerland, my mother, my little shop and my everyday life in Biel. How totally different the world is here! Despite all the primitiveness of their lives, the people seem happier, maybe because they can get by with less expense, and that thought lingers and makes me feel better.

All of a sudden the wooden door squeaks open, and Lketinga is standing smiling in the doorway. He has to lower his head just to get in. He takes a look around and then sits down beside me on the bed. ‘Hello, how are you? You have eat meat?’ he asks, and the way he asks about me and listens attentively makes me feel good, and I feel great desire for him again. He looks magnificent in the glow of the paraffin lamp. His jewellery gleams, his chest is naked, adorned with just the two strings of pearls. The knowledge that under his loincloth there is nothing but flesh excites me.
I grab his long, slim, cool hand and press it against my face. At this moment I feel bound to this man whom I know to be wholly alien to me, and I know that I love him. I pull him towards me and feel the weight of his body on mine. I press my head against the side of his and inhale the savage perfume of his long red hair. We stay like that for what seems an eternity, and I notice that he too is excited. The only thing between us is my thin summer dress, and I pull it off. He forces himself inside me, and this time, if only briefly, I feel a whole new sense of joy, even without reaching a climax. I feel myself at one with this man and now, this night, I know that despite all the barriers between us, I have already become a captive of his world.

During the night I feel stomach cramps and grab hold of my torch, which I have luckily left near my head. Apart from the never-ceasing cicadas it is quiet outside, and everyone must hear the creaking of the opening door. I make my way to the ‘chicken toilet’, literally jumping the last step and reaching my destination only just in the nick of time. Because everything has to be done squatting, my knees are literally trembling. With the last of my strength I get back to my feet, grab my torch, clamber back down the chicken ladder and make my way back to the hut. Lketinga is still sleeping peacefully. I squeeze myself onto the cot between him and the wall.

By the time I wake it is already eight a.m. and the sun is shining so strongly that even inside the hut there’s a sticky heat. After the usual ritual of tea and washing I decide I want to wash my hair too. But how am I going to do it with no running water? Our water comes in five-gallon canisters, which Priscilla fills up each day from the nearby well. I try to explain to Lketinga what I want to do and he’s immediately ready to help: ‘No problem. I help you!’ Using an empty tin he pours water over my head then laughing hilariously rubs the shampoo in for me and then professes amazement that with so much foam I’ve still got any hair left.

Then we decide to go and see my brother and Jelly at the hotel again. When we arrive, they’re both sitting over a lavish breakfast. Looking at this magnificent spread I realize just how frugal my breakfast is these days. This time I decide to tell them a bit, and Lketinga sits there listening but not understanding. When I get to my night-time visit to the toilet and they both stare at me in horror, he goes: ‘What’s the problem?’ ‘No problem,’ I tell him with a smile. ‘Everything is okay!’

We invite the pair of them to come and have lunch at Priscilla’s. I’d like to cook some spaghetti. They both agree, and Eric reckons he can find the way. We have two hours to find spaghetti, sauce, onions and herbs. Lketinga hasn’t a clue what sort of food I’m talking about but smiles and says, ‘Yes, yes, it’s okay.’

We take a
matatu
to the nearest supermarket, where they do indeed have everything we need. By the time we get back to the village I don’t have much time left to prepare the ‘party meal’. I prepare everything sitting cross-legged on the ground. Priscilla and Lketinga watch the spaghetti boiling with amusement but say: ‘This is no food!’ My Masai stares into the boiling water, watching with amazement as the brittle strands of spaghetti slowly soften. This is a mystery to him, and he doubts that a meal will emerge from it. While the pasta simmers I use a knife to open the tin of tomato purée and pour it into a beaten-up saucepan. Lketinga looks on in horror and asks: ‘Is this blood?’ Now it’s my turn to laugh out loud: ‘Blood!? No, no, tomato sauce,’ I answer, giggling.

Jelly and Eric arrive, covered in sweat. ‘What’s this? You’re cooking sitting on the ground?’ says Jelly in surprise. ‘Yes, did you think we had a kitchen?’ I reply. As we start to extract the spaghetti, strand by strand, from the pot with forks, Lketinga and Priscilla vanish out of the hut. Priscilla’s gone to get her neighbour, who looks at the white spaghetti, then the pot with the red sauce. She points at the pasta and, making a face, says: ‘Worms?’ We have to laugh. All three of them think we’re eating worms with blood and won’t touch it. Somehow, though, I know how they feel because the more I look at the plate and think of worms and blood the less appetite I have.

Washing up is the next problem. There is neither detergent nor a brush. Priscilla deals with the problem by using Omo washing powder and her fingernails. My brother addresses me soberly: ‘My dearest sister, somehow I don’t see you staying here forever. In any case, your pretty long fingernails won’t need a file any longer!’ He’s not wrong.

They have two more days left of their holiday, and then I’ll be on my own with Lketinga. On their last evening in the hotel, there’s a Masai dance, just like last time. Even though I’ve seen it before, Jelly and Eric haven’t, and even Lketinga is going to be there. The three of us sit waiting in eager anticipation. The Masai gather outside the hotel and lay out spears, jewellery, cloth and strings of pearls to sell afterwards.

There are about twenty-five warriors who come in singing. I feel an affinity with these people and am as proud of them as if they were all my brothers. It’s unbelievable how elegant they are in their movements, and what an aura they exude. Tears come to my eyes at this feeling of belonging, something I’ve never known before: as if I’ve found my family, my people. Jelly, a bit wary of so many crazily painted, decorated Masai, turns to me and says: ‘Corinne, are you sure that your future is here?’ I can say only one word: ‘Yes.’

The performance is over by midnight, and the Masai disappear. Lketinga comes and shows us proudly the money he has made selling pieces of jewellery. It doesn’t look like much to us but for him it means survival for another few days. We say our farewells emotionally because we won’t see Eric and Jelly before they leave the hotel early in the morning. My brother has to promise Lketinga he’ll come back: ‘You are my friends now!’ he says in English. Jelly holds me tight, sobbing, and tells me to look after myself, think things through carefully and come back to Switzerland in ten days’ time. I don’t think she trusts me.

We set off home. The night sky is filled with thousands and thousands of stars, but there is no moon. Lketinga could find the way through the bush blindfold, but I have to hold on to his arm for fear of losing him. A yapping dog comes towards us on the outskirts of the village, but Lketinga emits short sharp noises and the hound scampers off. In the hut I reach for my torch. When I finally find it I look for matches to light the paraffin lamp. For a brief moment it occurs to me how simple everything is back in Switzerland. There are street lamps, electric light, it seems as if everything works of its own accord. I’m tired and want to sleep, but Lketinga has been working and is hungry and says I should make him some tea. Up until now I’ve always left that to Priscilla! In the
semidarkness
I first have to fill up the spirit burner and then when I find the tealeaves, I ask him: ‘How much?’ Lketinga laughs and shakes about a third of the packet into the boiling water. Then sugar, not two or three spoonfuls but a whole cup. I’m shocked and can’t imagine such tea being drinkable, but it tastes almost as good as Priscilla’s. Now I understand that a cup of tea can indeed replace a meal.

I spend the next day with Priscilla. We have washing to do, and Lketinga decides to go up to the north coast to find out which hotels do native dance evenings. He doesn’t think to ask if I’d like to come too.

I go to the well with Priscilla and try to bring back a five-gallon water canister as she does, but it’s not that simple. First of all a half-gallon bucket has to be dropped fifteen feet down and drawn back up again. Then you have to use an empty tin to transfer it via the narrow opening of the canister until the latter is full. It’s all done extremely carefully to make sure not a drop of the precious liquid is lost.

When my canister is full I try to drag it the two hundred yards to the huts. I had always considered myself to be sturdy, but I can’t manage it. Priscilla, on the other hand, takes two or three swings with her canister to get it up onto her head, then she walks calmly and unhurriedly back to the huts. She comes back to meet me halfway and takes my canister back for me. My fingers are already aching. We do the whole thing several times because the Omo here is very frothy. Doing washing by hand in cold water, to Swiss standards of cleanliness, soon takes its toll on my knuckles. After a while they’re red raw, and the Omo water burns them. My fingernails are ruined. Exhausted and with an aching back, I give up; Priscilla finishes the rest for me.

It’s gone lunchtime by now, but we haven’t eaten anything. How could we? We don’t keep supplies in the house or we’d be infested with mice and beetles. We buy what we need each day in the shop. So despite the incredible heat we set off on what is at least a half-hour walk as long as Priscilla doesn’t stop to gossip with every single person we meet on the way. It seems to be the local custom to hail everyone we meet with ‘
Jambo
’ and then stop to exchange half the family history.

At last we get there and buy rice and meat, tomatoes, milk and even some soft bread. Now we have to go all the way back and then start cooking. By evening Lketinga still hasn’t turned up. I ask Priscilla if she knows when he’ll be back, but she just laughs and says: ‘No, I can’t ask this a Masai-man!’ Exhausted by all this unfamiliar exertion in the heat, I go to lie down in the cool of the hut while Priscilla gets on with the cooking. It’s probably just the lack of food that’s made me so listless.

But I miss my Masai. Without him this world is only half as interesting and worth living in. Then at long last, just before darkness falls, he strolls up to the huts with his familiar, ‘Hello, how are you?’ I answer somewhat crossly, ‘Oh, not so good,’ which shocks him and he asks: ‘Why?’ A bit disconcerted by the expression on his face, I decide not to nag him for being away so long; with both of us struggling to makes ourselves understood
in English there are too many opportunities for misunderstanding. Instead I point to my belly and say: ‘Stomach!’ He beams at me and says: ‘Maybe baby?’ I laugh and say no. The idea frankly never occurred to me, because I’m on the pill, which is something he doesn’t know and has probably never heard of.

W
e’re looking for a hotel in which a Masai with a white wife is apparently staying. I can hardly imagine it, but I’m eager to ask her a few questions. But when we meet them I’m disappointed. This Masai looks just like a ‘normal black’ who doesn’t wear jewellery or traditional clothing but a red made-to-measure suit. He’s a few years older than Lketinga and even his wife is already in her late forties. Everyone starts talking at once, but Ursula, who’s German, says: ‘What? You want to come and live here with this Masai?’ I say yes and ask shyly why not. ‘Do you know?’ she says. ‘My husband and I have been together for fifteen years. He is a lawyer, but he still has enormous difficulty with the German way of thinking. Now look at Lketinga: he’s never been to school, can’t read or write and barely speaks English. He has absolutely no idea of European customs and manners, let alone the Swiss obsession with perfection. That’s doomed from the outset!’ But for her there was simply no question of living in Kenya: women here have no rights. Holidays, on the other hand, are another thing entirely. But I ought to buy Lketinga some clothes; I can’t go around with him like that.

She goes on and on, and my heart sinks with her endless list of problems. Even her husband agrees it would be better if Lketinga came to visit me in Switzerland. But that’s something I can’t imagine and all my feelings would be wrong. All the same, we accept their offer of help and the next day set off to Mombasa to see about getting Lketinga a passport. When I mention my doubts, Lketinga asks if I have a husband back in Switzerland, because if not I can just take him with me. Only ten minutes ago he said he had no intention of leaving Kenya because he had no idea where Switzerland even is or what my family is like.

On the way to the passport office I have doubts that later turn out to have been justified. Our peaceful days in Kenya are over from this moment on, and the stress of dealing with bureaucracy has just begun. All four of us go into the passport office together and stand in a queue for an hour before we’re allowed into the right room. The official who deals with applications is sitting behind a huge mahogany desk. He and Ursula’s husband have a discussion of which neither Lketinga or I understand a word. I just notice how every now and then they glance over at Lketinga in his exotic apparel. After five minutes it’s ‘Let’s go’, and we leave the office. I’m confused and annoyed: standing in line for an hour only to have a five-minute interview appals me.

But that is just the beginning. Ursula’s husband says a few things have to be cleared up straight away. There’s no way that Lketinga can simply get on the plane with me. The earliest opportunity, if there are no problems, would be in a month’s time. First of all we have to get photographs taken, then come back and fill in forms, which at the moment they’ve run out of and will only be available again in five days’ time. I can hardly believe it: ‘What, are you telling me that in a big city like this they have no passport application forms?’ But then it takes us ages to find a photographer, and he tells us that it will take several days before the pictures will be ready. Exhausted by the heat and the perpetual queuing and waiting, we decide to return to the coast. The other couple disappear back into their luxurious hotel, telling us that now we know where the passport office is and if there are problems we also know where to find them.

Because time is running out, we go back to the office three days later with the pictures. Again we have to queue up, for longer than the first time. The closer we come to the door, the more nervous I get, because Lketinga doesn’t feel at all comfortable and I’m self-conscious about my poor English. When finally we get to see the passport officer I explain our case painstakingly. Eventually he looks up from his newspaper and asks what I want to take someone like that – with a dismissive gesture towards Lketinga – to Switzerland for? ‘Holidays,’ I reply. The passport officer laughs and says that until this Masai learns how to put on proper civilized clothes he won’t be getting a passport. And because he has no education and no idea of Europe, I will have to pay a guarantee of one thousand Swiss francs and at the same time buy Lketinga a return ticket. Only when I have done all of that will he even consider giving me an application form.

Annoyed by the arrogance of this lump of lard, I ask him how long it would then take to get the passport, after I’d done all he asked. ‘About two weeks,’ he replies, waving us out of his office and reaching for his newspaper. Such bare-faced cheek leaves me speechless, but instead of giving up all hope, his behaviour makes me want to show him who’s boss. Above all else, I won’t have him denigrate Lketinga, who in any case I’m keen to introduce to my mother.

The whole thing becomes an
idée fixe
for me, and I make up my mind to take Lketinga, by now impatient and disappointed, into the nearest travel agent’s to sort it all out. We find a friendly Indian who quickly understands the situation and warns me to be careful because a lot of white women have lost their money like this. I agree to deposit the money with him and that he will give me a confirmation of the return ticket and a receipt and promises to return it all if the passport application is rejected.

Somehow or other I understand that this is all reckless but I rely on my instincts for people. The important thing is that Lketinga should know where he has to go when he gets his passport to name the date for his flight. ‘One step further forward,’ I tell myself bravely.

At a nearby market we buy Lketinga trousers, a shirt and shoes, which isn’t easy because we have diametrically opposite tastes. He wants either white or red trousers. I reckon that white is impossible in the bush while red is not exactly a ‘manly’ colour in western clothing. Fate comes to my aid: all the trousers are too short for my six and a half foot man. Eventually we find a pair of jeans that will do. When we get to shoes it’s the same thing again. Up until now he’s only ever worn sandals made of old car tyres. We agree on trainers. Two hours later he’s all dressed up in new clothes, but I don’t like it any better. He, on the other hand, is very proud that for the first time in his life he’s wearing trousers, a shirt and trainers.

Of course, by now it’s too late to go back to the passport office so Lketinga suggests we go over to the north bank. He wants me to meet friends and show me where he lived before he moved in with Priscilla. I’m not sure because it’s already four p.m., and that will mean returning to the south bank in the dark. But once again he says, ‘No problem, Corinne.’ So we wait for a
matatu
to the north but it’s not until the third bus that we find even a corner to squeeze into, and within seconds I’m dripping sweat.

Luckily we soon come to a big Masai village where for the first time I see women wearing jewellery. They welcome me cheerfully, and there’s a great commotion between the huts. I’m not sure which amazes them more: me or Lketinga’s new outfit. They all finger the material of the shirt, the trousers and are even amazed by the shoes. Slowly but surely the shirt gets darker. Two or three women try to talk to me at once, and I sit there smiling but speechless, understanding nothing.

In the meantime lots of children have come into the huts, and they all either stare at me or giggle. I notice how dirty they all are. Suddenly Lketinga says ‘Wait here,’ and is gone. I’m not very comfortable. A woman offers me milk but, looking at the flies, I decline. Another gives me a Masai armband, which I put on with glee. It would seem they all make jewellery of some sort.

A little later Lketinga comes back and says: ‘You hungry?’ This time I honestly say yes because I really am. We go into the nearest bush restaurant, a bit like the one in Ukunda only bigger. Here there is one area reserved for women and, further away, a separate one for men. Of course I have to go with the women, and Lketinga goes off with the other warriors. I’m not very happy with the situation; I would have preferred to be in my little hut on the south bank. A plate, in which meat and even a few tomatoes swim in a liquid that could almost be a sauce, is put in front of me. On a second plate there is a type of flat bread. I watch another woman with the same ‘menu’ breaking up the bread, dipping it into the sauce, taking a piece of meat and putting the whole lot into her mouth with her hand. I copy her, although I need two hands. All of a sudden it goes quiet; everybody is watching me eat, which irritates me. There are even a dozen or so children gathered around me watching me with big eyes. Then everybody starts talking again all at once, but even so I have the feeling of being watched. I swallow it all down as quickly as possible and hope Lketinga turns up again soon. When there’s nothing left but bones I go to a sort of barrel from which people get water to run over their hands and wash the fat off, although it obviously doesn’t work.

I wait and wait. At last Lketinga turns up. What I really want to do is throw my arms around his neck but he gives me a funny look, almost angry, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done. I can see he’s eaten too, by the state of his shirt. ‘Come,’ he says to me, ‘Come.’ As we walk towards the road I ask him, ‘Lketinga, what’s the problem?’ The
expression on his face scares me. It becomes clear that I’m the reason for his displeasure when he takes my left hand and says: ‘This hand no good for food! No eat with this one!’ I understand the words, but why it makes him so angry I have no idea. I ask him why, but he doesn’t answer.

Tired out by all our efforts and disconcerted by this new puzzle, I feel nobody understands me and wish we were back home in our little house on the south bank. I try to tell Lketinga this, saying ‘Let’s go home.’ He gives me a look, but of what sort I have no idea because once again all I can see is the gleaming mother-of-pearl button and the whites of his eyes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘All Masai go to Malindi tonight.’ My heart skips a beat. If I’ve understood him properly, he really intends to go to Malindi tonight for a tourist dance. ‘It’s good business in Malindi,’ I hear him say. He notices that I am less than enthusiastic and in a concerned voice asks me: ‘You are tired?’ Yes, I’m tired. I don’t even know exactly where Malindi is, and I’ve no clean clothes. He says it’s no problem, I can sleep here with the ‘Masai ladies’ and he’ll be back tomorrow. To stay here, alone without him, without being able to talk to anyone, just the idea fills me with panic. ‘No, we go to Malindi together,’ I decide. Lketinga laughs again – at long last – and once again there’s the familiar ‘No problem.’ Along with some other Masai, we get into a public bus, which is a lot more comfortable than the dangerously overcrowded
matatus
. When I wake again we’re in Malindi.

The first thing we do is find a Native Lodging House, because after the show it’s likely everything will be booked out. There’s not much choice. We find one where other Masai have already booked in and get the last empty room. It’s barely ten feet by twelve. In each corner between two concrete walls stands an iron bed with thin sagging mattresses and two wool blankets. A naked bulb hangs from the ceiling, and there are two chairs sitting as if they were lost in the middle of the room. At least it costs next to nothing, about four Swiss francs a night, roughly. We still have half an hour before the Masai dancers’ performance begins. I go to get a Coke.

When I come back into the room a few minutes later I can hardly believe my eyes. Lketinga is sitting on one of the mattresses, his jeans down to his knees, pulling and tearing at them. Clearly he’s trying to get them off because we have to leave and he clearly can’t go on stage in European clothes. It’s all I can do to hold back the laughter. He can’t get the jeans off because he still has his trainers on and he can’t get them over them. As a result, the trousers are halfway down his legs and he can’t get
them either up or down. Laughing, I bend down and try to pull the shoes out of the jeans. But he shouts: ‘No, no Corinne, out with this,’ pointing at the trousers. ‘Yes, yes,’ I reply and try to make him understand that he has to get back into them and then take his shoes off before he can get out of the jeans.

The half hour is long gone, and we rush to the hotel. I like him a thousand times better in his usual outfit. He’s already got huge blisters on his heels from the new shoes, which he obviously wears without socks. We get to the show just in time, and I take a place among the white audience, a few of whom give me black looks. I’m still wearing the same clothes that I put on this morning and they certainly haven’t got any cleaner or more attractive. Nor do I smell quite as fresh as these white people straight from their showers, and that’s saying nothing about my long greasy hair. Even so, I am probably the proudest woman in the room. As I watch these men dance I am overcome once again by the familiar feeling of belonging.

It’s almost midnight by the time the dance and show are over. The only thing I want to do is sleep. Back at the lodging I feel I really have to wash, but Lketinga comes into our room followed by another Masai and reckons his friend can sleep in the second bed. I’m not exactly overjoyed by the idea of sharing this ten-by-twelve room with a strange man, but I say nothing for fear of seeming impolite. So still in my clothes I squeeze into the small sagging bed next to Lketinga and, despite everything, fall asleep.

In the morning I get to shower at last, even if it’s hardly luxurious with an intermittent water flow, and ice-cold at that. Despite the dirty clothes I feel a bit better on the trip back to the south bank.

In Mombasa I buy a simple dress because we want to call by the passport office and see if we can get the forms. Today it works. After checking the provisional ticket and confirmation that the guarantee money has been lodged we are finally given an application form. But as we start trying to answer the rows of questions, I realize that I hardly understand most of them and decide to get the help of Ursula and her husband.

After another five-hour journey we are at long last back at our little hut on the south bank. Priscilla has been very worried because she didn’t know where we spent the night. Lketinga has to explain to her why he’s wearing European clothing. I go to lie down for a bit because it’s really hot outside. I’m sure I’ve already lost several pounds.