Reunion in Barsaloi (12 page)

J
ames has invited us to dinner in his house. Stefania hands out aluminium plates and puts a big bowl of spaghetti on the table. We all tuck in heartily, even though it’s not exactly the way we normally eat it. Stefania has broken the spaghetti into little pieces and mixed in vegetables and lumps of goat meat.

James tells us that some of the villagers, especially in families where the children have been to school, have changed their eating habits. He’s known spaghetti since his school days and so doesn’t find the dish unusual for him or his family. His children have grown up eating it. I want to know if Mama eats pasta nowadays. In the old days she would have refused to try anything she didn’t know. The only exception was pineapple. James laughs and says: ‘No, Mama won’t eat it but she still likes pineapples and whenever I bring one, she starts talking about you. You got her to like them.’ I remember it well and can still picture her slowly and cautiously biting into a piece of pineapple.

When I ask James if the Somali shops are now selling these things too, he gets quite worked up: ‘There aren’t any Somalis here anymore. We got rid of them all. Do you know when you left Barsaloi and the only Samburu shop was closed, the price for maize meal and sugar soared? Instead of sticking to the official state prices, the way we did, they doubled them. Everybody in the village started complaining and bad-mouthing them. ‘Why isn’t Corinne here anymore?’ everyone kept asking. ‘Now we don’t have a shop or a car.’ The Somalis charged too much for the few things they had and didn’t pay people as much for the goatskins and cowhides as you did. Lots of village people kept coming up to me and
asking: ‘What can we do to bring Corinne back? Only
mzungus
can run a shop like that, and there aren’t any others who want to come and live with us like she did.’ They even suggested I should offer to marry you to get you to come back! They were so worked up about it all, people were suggesting the craziest ideas.’

I sit there quietly drinking my tea as if to help me digest all this – the idea of James and me getting married is a new one on me, and I have to laugh at the idea. James shares my amusement at the idea and goes on: ‘I told them we should work together to open our own Samburu shops so that we can keep a check on prices. Gradually one shop after another opened up till we reached the point where we are now, when there are too many, and business is not so good for any of them!’

At this point Lketinga comes and in and sits down on the sofa beside me asking with a long face if we’ve been talking about him. For some reason or other he seems to be in a worse mood than he was an hour ago. Nobody seems to know where he’s been or what he’s been up to. For a brief moment it occurs to me that maybe he’s feeling left out, like he used to do fourteen years ago when James came home from school with his friends and we enjoyed ourselves playing cards together. In an attempt to cheer him up I ask if he can still remember the spaghetti dinner we had in Mombasa with my brother Eric and his wife Jelly. It was a mad occasion because all the locals thought we were eating white worms. In his rough voice he says, ‘Of course I remember. I thought it was plain crazy. And now we even have people here in the village who eat that stuff.’

L
ater on we sit down to work out our plans for the rest of the trip and decide to drive down to the film set tomorrow as agreed, spend two days there and then go off to find Father Giuliani before coming back to Barsaloi.

That way the family can catch their breath and get back to normal a little before they have to prepare the big all-comers feast they’re planning before our departure. Unfortunately as we’re the guests we’re not allowed to contribute much, although as the family will be doing all the work we’d like to offer to cover their expenses. They’re going to slaughter four goats and cook up an enormous amount of rice and beans. But before they get that far they’re going to have to collect a vast amount of firewood and make several fires for cooking, all of which involves a huge amount of work with no car and not much time. James says he’ll sort out the food and asks Lketinga if he could buy a few goats, but he answers rather abruptly: ‘No, I won’t have time. I’m going with Corinne to see the film set. I’d like to know what they’re up to!’

Oh God, I think, feeling suddenly quite ill at the thought! That’s the last thing I need! I know I’m going to find it difficult enough taking in the film set and understanding the movie-making process. I’ve only a very vague concept of what to expect and how I’m gong to cope with it. But the very idea of having to explain it all to Lketinga again is more than I can bear! He doesn’t have the first idea about what making a film involves.

I suddenly vividly recall the scene we had when Lketinga and I went to see a film in the Mission in Barsaloi – the epic
Ben-Hur
, of all things. Lketinga got incredibly worked up over the whole thing and would not
believe it had nothing to do with
mzungus
’ modern everyday life. He was absolutely convinced that the film represented modern life in Germany or Switzerland. Only twenty minutes into the film we had to walk out and the rest of the evening was spent in argument while he refused to believe that the film had nothing to do with real life.

And now he wants to visit a film set where they’re making a movie about the Samburu and a part of his own life to boot! How on earth is he going to understand that he’s not going to see a finished film but a series of shots that are probably incomprehensible out of context? No! This is simply not something I can deal with, especially as I’m nervous about the whole thing myself.

Thanks God James finally intervenes in the discussion on our side, telling Lketinga he’s going to be needed here. He can hardly be absent, after all, when the entire village is getting ready to put on a party for his guests. He sees the point of that and promises he’ll wait here for us instead and deal with buying the goats.

Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s time for me to be on my way to the Mission if I’m not to miss the chance of contacting Father Giuliani on the radio. When we get there the attendant welcomes us and shows us into the room where the transmitter is set up. It’s an ancient box of a thing and I can hear various voices in different languages – Italian, Swahili, English. Lketinga listens closely, obviously understanding more than I do, and after a minute or two he nudges me and says gently that I should say something.

All of a sudden for the first time in more than fourteen years I hear once again the voice of Father Giuliani, just as strong as ever. He’s obviously delighted to hear we’re here and tries to give us instructions on how to get to him. But it all sounds so complicated that all of a sudden he says he’s prepared to come and pick us up from the Mission at midday in three days’ time. I’m just about to tell him how grateful we are when I realize the connection has already been lost.

We stroll back to Albert and James in the corral where the animals have once again returned and it’s the usual colourful evening scene, with all the women milking the bleating goats. Lketinga’s sister takes me by the arm, presses a cup in my hand and urges me with a laugh to have a go at it myself. I pick out a big fat white goat and am delighted to get a thin little spurt of milk into the cup. It seems, however, I need a bit of practice
and I have to admit that even a three-year-old child here is better at milking. Before long there’s a crowd of children gathered around me laughing. But it’s precisely this ‘
joie de vivre
’ that I love so much here. Despite the hard conditions they live under, people haven’t lost their sense of humour. The children chase the baby goats here and there, laughing and giggling like children at play anywhere in the world. As it gets dark, people begin to brew up maize porridge and tea and we retire to our camp. James and Lketinga are due to drop by in an hour’s time.

Back at the camp we collapse on the little folding chairs and the drivers John and Francis come over. They’re extremely friendly and helpful, keeping watch on the cars and all our stuff during the day. As usual they offer to fix us a drink, but we decline as we’d prefer Lketinga doesn’t see any alcohol when he turns up. I don’t want to put any temptation in his way because up until now at least I haven’t seen him touch a drop in public.

Four of the sisters from the Mission are sitting in meditation up by the water tank. Their rough-haired little dog comes down to see us, and Albert and Klaus make a fuss of him. So we all sit there quietly for a while enjoying the silence and keeping our thoughts to ourselves. This reunion that I had longed for and yet dreaded for such a long time has in the end exceeded my wildest expectations. I feel really happy and at peace with the world. On the other hand, it’s perfectly clear to me that I could no longer live back here. Even if some aspects of life have got easier, things are still rough and ready at best. If nothing else, the slow repetitive pace of daily life here would eventually get on my nerves. How on earth did I manage before? The only thing I can imagine is that I was so in love with Lketinga and, at the same time, just the business of staying alive was an effort.

And now here comes Lketinga, strolling towards us slowly with his familiar elegant stride. He says he’s just seen two goats he wants to buy but intends to wait until we’ve left as the price is likely to drop then. He’s going to send word to his older brother too, to invite him to our farewell party. While he’s talking James comes up and exchanges a few words with the priest before sitting down beside us. He’s also busy with preparations for the big party in four days’ time. We ask him with some concern if there’ll be enough food for everybody. ‘This isn’t a problem for Samburu,’ he reassures us. ‘It’s our tradition that everybody is invited to a party like this and nobody can be turned away. But if there’s nothing left to eat or drink, then it’s no problem. We’re not obliged to keep providing food until
everyone has eaten their fill, and given that we fully expect half the village to turn up, there’s not much chance of that in any case. The most important thing is that we have enough tobacco for the old folk.’ Lketinga nods in agreement and says he’s sure it’ll go fine. After another half hour we say our goodnights and agree to drop by the corral in the morning before we head off. As he leaves, however, Lketinga asks me: ‘You sleep good alone here, no problem?’ pointing to my tent. I laugh and reply: ‘
Hakuna mata
– no problem, and good night’. Then I crawl into my tent and fall fast asleep.

I
wake early next morning uncertain of what it is that’s disturbed me. Listening to the sounds from outside I realize that, apart from the dozens of different bird calls that greet us every morning, there’s the long low baying of a donkey mixed with the barking of a dog. It’s still a relaxing change to feel so much a part of nature and not have wake up to the sound of traffic and car engines. I crawl out of the tent eager for what the day will bring.

Our drivers are already up and about, clearly keen to get their vehicles back on the road. Before long we’re all standing around the gas cooker waiting for tea or coffee. The nuns’ funny little dog, whom we’ve christened Willi, is already getting under Klaus’s feet, which makes us all laugh. All there is to eat are the last few crumbs of potato crisps and a few nuts, which hardly appeal.

Francis and John stow away the roof tents with practised ease, and we pack up our belongings before heading down to the corral. Lketinga meets us coming up the hill, and James is already standing by his motorbike, ready for the off. We go over final details for the party and give James money to buy what’s needed. Mama comes out of her hut to say goodbye, but it’s not too traumatic as we all know we’ll be back in a couple of days. I throw my arms around her and tell her I look forward to seeing her again shortly, and she smiles in acknowledgement. James revs up his bike and sets off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake as always. Shortly afterwards our drivers arrive to pick us up. Lketinga avoids my eyes but touches me gently on the arm and says, ‘
Lesere – auf Wiedersehen
!’ He walks away slowly then turns round to ask, ‘Are you coming back after two sleeps or three?’ I tell him, ‘Two.
But we’ll only be here for a little while to meet up with Giuliani, and then we’re going on to Sererit. We’ll be there for one night so after three sleeps we’ll be back here for the party.’

‘Okay,’ he says with a serious face, ‘Off you go then.’

Once more we drive down the dried-up Barsaloi river bed past the school and then shortly afterwards take a turning towards Wamba. There are never any signposts here so you have to have a good idea where you’re heading, especially as all the roads through the bush look the same: red earthen tracks with only rare lane markings, frequent potholes and crossed every now and then by the beds of dried-up streams. The landscape is incredible, dotted with vast numbers of thorn trees and here and there a little bush ablaze with hug red flowers in the middle of this semi-desert, proof that nature can cope even with very little water. It is beautiful to look at. On the horizon I can see the mountain ridge with its thick jungle to which the wild animals retreat during the dry season.

For the first time the sky is no longer an unremitting blue, but dotted here and there with fleecy white clouds. In a few weeks’ time the rains will come and then the whole region changes with astonishing rapidity. The rivers swell so quickly that they carry everything before them in a rage of reddish-brown waters and become impassable for days on end. The earth – now red, parched and dusty – will be transformed into a sea of mud. This is all something we’d actually rather not experience on our short safari and hope the film crew avoid it too. I let my eyes roam over the magnificent panorama and, as I look more carefully, gradually pick out individual corrals scattered here and there across the plain. They blend so well into their environment that it can be easy to miss them unless you spot the telltale circles of thorn bushes.

Even though we’re not going very fast, it requires a lot of concentration on the part of our drivers. Animals scared by the noise of our engines lurch across the road. Camels in particular find it hard to get out of the way quickly as most of them have one of their forelegs tethered up at the knee and can’t move very fast on just three legs. It’s not nice to see but it does seem to be a useful technique for keeping the herds together.

Every now and then we come across children of all ages standing by the roadside waving or holding out empty hands. I can’t stop myself giving out the last of our sweets, particularly when most of them look as if they’ve just got the best Christmas present of their lives. Almost all the
women we come across have either a baby on their backs or a pile of wood or water container on their heads. Just occasionally there’ll be a donkey to carry the load. The people stand out from a long way off with their multicoloured clothes. To our eyes, they appear majestic the way they carry themselves so elegantly across this hot, barren plain, their red, blue and yellow kangas fluttering from their bodies in the wind. The jewellery and body paint they wear make them seem all the more impressive.

Occasionally we see tic-tics, little deer-like animals, scurrying along. These are considered a delicacy in times when food is in short supply. Here and there we spot small herds of zebras. But there’s no sign of any big animals, such as giraffes or elephants, although large piles of dung lying around make it obvious herds of elephants have passed by fairly recently. Between the thorn trees there are termite hills sometimes up to six feet high, fantastic abandoned insect cities. The new priest in Barsaloi told us he wants to use this material, which is as hard as rock, to build the new church in Opiroi. He says it could hardly be more suitable: incredibly hardwearing and costs nothing.

We’ve been on the road for nearly two hours now and it’s time we were looking out for the spot where we have to turn off the road and head into the bush. Klaus has already been out to the film set twice before this trip but previously he came from a different direction. He’s heard that they’ve laid a new access road to the set. There are indeed lots of vehicle tracks to be seen now but none of them look as if they were made by trucks. The film set is somewhere near Wamba – which I can already make out in the distance – so it can’t be far.

The closer we get to the film set the more nervous and fidgety I become. Up until this moment my thoughts have been taken up primarily with my African family, but now my nerves are gradually getting the better of me. I’m particularly nervous about meeting Nina Hoss, the actress who’s playing me. I really hope that we get on with one another. It can’t be easy for her either, meeting the woman whose life she’s supposed to be portraying. And what about the ‘male lead’? Will he do a good enough job as Lketinga, even though he’s neither a Samburu nor a Masai? Obviously I have my doubts.

On the other hand, it was always equally obvious that a traditional Samburu could hardly play the role. How could he play someone’s life on film if he didn’t even know what a film was? Or if he’d never even spoken
to a white woman, let alone had physical contact with one? Traditional Samburus almost never show signs of affection, and kissing is an absolute taboo. How could a warrior possibly be expected to play this role for three months, sometimes repeating scenes as much as twenty times? It would never have been possible. The producers tried in vain to find someone among the Samburu and Masai down at the coast who are familiar with tourists but in the end opted for a pleasant but worldly-wise African, even though he’s not even from East Africa. So now I can hardly wait to see whether or not I’ll share the praise the directors have heaped on him. I really hope so.

It’s certainly a strange feeling to be on your way to a film set where what they’re filming is part of your own life. Most of the time I don’t have a problem keeping the two things apart, reminding myself that this is just a film and not really my own past. But every now and then I find myself hoping that they will get it exactly as I remember it. I suspect it’s not going to be easy and hope visiting the set like this will reassure me.

I’m so tied up with my own thoughts that I barely notice that we’re not having any luck in finding the right way. A couple of times what we think is the right route ends up in a dead end and we have to do a
U-turn
. It’s only by the time we almost reach the outskirts of Wamba that we come across a jeep with a big yellow sticker reading ‘
The White Masai
’. Klaus recognizes the people in it as members of the film crew and has them tell him the way to the set. Several miles further on we come across a signpost in the middle of the scrub with an arrow and the words ‘
White
Masai
Location’. Seeing this turns my feelings of trepidation into something more like pride.

We twice cross the meandering but luckily dried-up bed of the mighty River Wamba before we reach the entrance to the camp. All around the area is a security fence and guards, and entrance is by permit only. Lots of men and women, most of them in traditional Samburu clothes are crowded around the gate. Some of them have set up little stands to sell items to members of the crew. We park the vehicles and for the first time in my life I’m about to walk onto a film set – and a film set of the story of my own life. I can hardly believe it!