Reunion in Barsaloi (14 page)

B
efore long we’re on our way to the film-set village. We crest a hill and suddenly I’m struck dumb by the sight that meets my eyes. The entire village has been recreated almost perfectly. On either side of the street stand a few wooden huts with rusty tin roofs and paint peeling from the walls that makes them look as if they’ve been here a dozen years at least. The village sits on an area of raised ground with a magnificent view over the plain while the reconstructed Mission building stands on a slope off to one side.

As they’re shooting over in the shop, we start our visit at the Mission. Even from the outside there’s a certain resemblance to the one in Barsaloi, primarily because of the little vegetable garden. Father Giuliani loved his garden and had to use all his cunning and imagination to protect it from the wild animals. Here too they’ve planted vegetables and maize to be correct down to the last detail. The inside has been done up in colonial style and even the great fireplace dominating the room looks as if it’s been used countless times. A pair of old chairs alongside an antique table, shelves full of books and paintings of saints on the walls all come together to create the harmonious impression of a room in a Mission. Outside there’s the church with a superb view over the village. The producer, who’s obviously enjoying showing off, tells us they’ll be filming up here this afternoon.

There are people everywhere. Before they start shooting, a megaphone orders silence everywhere, even three hundred yards away from the action. That makes it virtually impossible to have any sort of sensible conversation. It’s all go, outside the shop over in the village. All of
a sudden someone calls to us that they’ve stopped for a break and we can come over to the village.

Outside the houses a few native extras are sitting on the ground and I wonder what on earth they think of us
mzungus
! One day a lorry-load of
mzungus
drives up and within a couple of weeks they’ve built an entire village and even a Mission building in the middle of the scrubland. Then they do everything they can to make it all look as old as possible. A bit later I watch as, for one scene, a group of native warriors and women run from one end of the street to the other, ten times over, the same thing repeated over and over again. I would give anything to know what they’re thinking. One thing, however, I’m sure of: they’ll be talking about this for years. Even the generations to come will almost certainly hear all sorts of versions of the story.

We’re almost at the shop when we see Lemalian and Carola coming out. They both look terrific. Nina has got her hair tied back for the role, just like I used to do. With her pregnant belly, brightly coloured flowery dress and Masai jewellery she looks very like the Corinne of those days. I tell her so with absolute conviction. We have a few photos taken and then they have to get back to work. Just before they do I take the opportunity to have a look round the reconstructed shop. Yet again they’ve got everything just right, even the old set of scales with the stone weights. Seeing this after all these years reminds me what bone-breaking work it was lugging hundreds of pounds of cornmeal, sugar or rice every day. Sometimes my back was so bad, I could hardly move in the evenings. The best payment, however, was the smiles on the faces of my customers, just pleased they had somewhere to buy food. But my reminiscences have to give way to the work of the moment as the filming recommences.

Outside, Klaus and I go off looking for photo opportunities. I’m struck by one in particular: two very old men in traditional dress, one of them with a very unique piece of ‘jewellery’ – glasses with lenses half the size of his head – and a funny floppy hat with a picture of a tiger on it. I sit down for a chat with them and we have our photo taken together. The face behind the giant glasses beams at me with good-natured pride. I find the old people here fascinating for you can see their whole lives in their faces.

Then we sit down in the shade and watch the shooting from a distance for a couple of hours, but it’s the same thing over and over: a few lines, then silence, then they wait a bit, then they say a few more lines, then they
go silent and wait again. It’s fascinating at first but soon gets monotonous if you’re not up close and involved, so I’m pleased that after lunch when they’re shooting up at the Mission they ask me to come onto the set.

The director offers me a seat next to the camera. I have no idea what scene they’re shooting and sit there in anticipation. All of a sudden Lemalian runs up the steps of the Mission and the priest hurries over to him. It seems Lemalian is telling him that Carola and the baby in hospital are okay.

Watching this scene, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the most appalling feeling of desolation. I had simply not anticipated this as I was feeling relaxed and comfortable with it all, but the moment Lemalian opens his mouth it’s not him I see but Lketinga, and the desperate situation I was in then comes flooding back to me. I’m in such a state that I have to leave the set in tears, ashamed and embarrassed in front of the whole crew. One tiny little episode like that and I completely lose control of my emotions. What on earth will I be like when Carola comes on? There are going to be tears for sure.

Luckily it’s coffee break and nobody outside notices the state I’m in. I put my sunglasses on and have a cup of hot tea. My hands are shaking so much I spill it all over one of them, but at least the pain’s a distraction.

After my experience on the set close up, I decide I’ve seen enough of the shooting and feel I’m in any case redundant. I’ve seen everything, got to meet most of the actors and actresses and seen how successfully they’ve recreated the setting. There’s nothing more I can do here to help the film along and it makes no sense for me to hang around on the set any longer. Clearly the emotional excitement of the past few days has upset my internal equilibrium. The trip to see Father Giuliani is just what I need. I always felt safe and sound in his reassuring presence. Even now seeing him is bound to restore a bit of emotional stability before I have to go back to Barsaloi to face the painful farewells with my family there.

We spend the rest of the afternoon chatting in a relaxed atmosphere with the producer and his wife. Over a splendid evening meal I thank them all for their kindness and above all for the chance of a glimpse behind the scenes of ‘my’ film, and tell them I have no fears and am convinced the film will appeal to a wide audience.

W
e set off after breakfast from the film location for the three-hour journey back to Barsaloi where we’re due to meet Father Giuliani at midday. We arrive exactly on time to find Father Giuliani waiting for us. He’s hardly changed. Only his white hair and a few more wrinkles in his tanned face betray the passing of the years. He is dressed – as always – in shorts, a polo shirt and beach sandals. He comes up to say hello with a broad smile on his face. Grinning he looks me up and down and says: ‘What? Is this supposed to be the Corinne who was forever knocking on my door?’ I have to laugh. When he knew me of course I was at my thinnest. These days I eat healthily and don’t consider myself fat but I’m no longer a beanpole. He says hello to Albert and Klaus with an enthusiasm that shows how much he enjoys the break in routine that visitors bring.

Then he takes a look at our four-wheel drive vehicles and reckons we can get away with just using one. But, as our drivers refuse to let their vehicles out of their sight, that would mean leaving one of them behind and we don’t want to do that. We have no idea yet how cramped things are at Giuliani’s place. All he says is that his new Mission isn’t as big as the one here. When I tell him that the thing I miss most of all is his pretty little garden with its banana trees, he says dryly: ‘These new priests aren’t interested in gardens or vegetables. They can’t fix their own cars either, which is pretty essential around here. Still I suppose that’s why there’s a nunnery!’

I go with Giuliani in his little Mercedes Unimog truck so we can talk
en route
, but the engine noise and banging in and out of potholes means it’s hard to make ourselves heard. We drive for mile after mile along the
dried-up bed of the Barsaloi River towards the mountains. After half an hour’s drive the scenery is already new to me. I never came so far in this direction with Lketinga. In places here the river bed is up to three hundred yards across and it’s easy to imagine how dangerous it must be when the rains come.

We drive through different zones of vegetation. One minute the landscape is green with lots of bushes and so-called ‘thumb palms’ that I’ve never seen before. The next the riverbank becomes a cast dark cliff wall. Father Giuliani says there’s a rumour there might be gold somewhere here and talk of test bores, which would be disastrous for the whole area.

He drives the same as always, fast and furious, a 64-year-old forever looking in his rear-view mirror and asking, ‘What’s happened to your young drivers with their supercars?’ On the left bank of the river we come across a group of Samburu women with lots of children sitting in the shade, cooking up maize porridge in a big pot to feed the little ones. Giuliani says that around here very few of the women still have husbands who support them. Most of them have moved into the growing villages or towns and more than a few of them have taken to drink. The priest gets out to talk to the women and pats the head of a few of the children. Through European eyes, they make a pretty picture all sitting there in the shadow of the tree, but these mothers have to struggle just so they and their large brood of children can get by.

As we drive on, the bed of the river changes from loose yellow sand to dried cracked red mud. It reminds me of fragments of broken pottery distorted and fractured by the heat. I’m keen to take a few photographs of some of the shapes but the instant I step out it’s like climbing into an oven. In our bare feet we couldn’t even touch the earth here. Yet despite that we keep coming across people and animals who live their day-today lives in this hostile environment. Father Giuliani calls out to every man, woman and child we pass, his voice battling against the speed with which we’re travelling. It’s easy to see how well he knows and loves this part of the world.

After two hours or more we leave the river bed and turn onto a dirt track that only someone who knew it was there could have found. This takes us up hill to where a magnificent view across the great plain spreads before us. Giuliani stops and climbs out. He shows us a bush from which he plucks little balls that smell like incense and points into the distance to
a little white vertical line on a far mountain that looks like a waterfall. ‘That’s where my Mission is,’ he says. ‘A couple of months ago part of the mountain behind my house collapsed with a noise like thunder. Ever since it’s been easy to point out Sererit from a distance. Next time you come you just have to head straight for it.’

We make our way towards the mountain slowly over the bumpy ground. Up on the ridge thick jungle begins and Giuliani tells us it’s virtually impenetrable for human beings and there are huge herds of buffalo and elephants living in it. The Samburu bring their animal herds up to the edge of the forest because the grass there is at its most luxurious.

Completely unexpectedly we suddenly come across a long low building by the side of the road that Giuliani proudly tells us is the new school. He says the problem is keeping enough teachers; most of them simply stop turning up after a couple of months. But it’s going to be a while yet before there’s someone who’s grown up around here and is capable of becoming a teacher. We trundle along the track making detours around the bigger rocks and bushes. Giuliani tells me the whole area used to be covered with boulders and scrub vegetation and he had to clear a track himself.

W
e crawl our way up a long slow winding road until eventually we come around one last bend and find ourselves at the Mission. It doesn’t exactly look like a Mission building though. My first impression is that we’re in the middle of a collection of outsized tin cans. Apart from the ‘church’, which dominates the little settlement of no more than a few huts, everything is made of corrugated iron. Even Giuliani’s trusty old motorbike is housed in a corrugated iron shelter. Our cars are almost as big as any of the dwellings. Now I understand why we should have brought only one vehicle; there’s scarcely room to park two. But Giuliani wouldn’t be Giuliani if he couldn’t solve a problem like that. One of the cars will have to be parked over his ‘garage pit’, a ditch dug in the ground with concrete ramps on either side. The other can park at an angle on the side of the hill. It means, of course, we can’t use our roof tents.

We take a look around the Mission and it’s not just we three Europeans but our African drivers too who’re amazed that anyone can live here. When we put it to the priest, he answers with a laugh: ‘I go where the Samburu are and where there’s water. Those are the only criteria. I don’t need anything else. Of all the places I’ve come to know in all my years in Kenya this is the most beautiful and has the best water.’ His face positively lights up with pride.

Now it’s time to start unloading his vehicle. When I see two huge canisters full of diesel emerge from under the tarpaulin I can’t imagine how he’s going to get them to the ground. But that’s no problem for Giuliani: he’s put together a makeshift crane for jobs like this and a couple of the Samburu give him a hand. After that they unload enormous
numbers of tins of fat for the local population and store them in a sort of shed. I watch all of this and gradually the realization dawns on me: ‘This is all you have as a supply store?’ But Giuliani laughs out loud and says: ‘No, Corinne. This is my house. I live here. At night I throw a mattress on the table and sleep on it. It’s perfectly comfortable.’ He can see I can hardly believe my eyes and adds: ‘It’s all I need.’ While we’re talking another Italian priest wanders up to join us. He’s seventy-seven years old and lives here with Giuliani but comes across as extremely sprightly.

Later we go to see the focal point of the Mission, the most original church I’ve ever seen. It looks more like a giant
manyatta
. It’s a circular building with the roof and side walls covered with blue, yellow and green sheets of plastic with a few bits of straw sticking out between them. The front doors are made of corrugated iron and are opened vertically and supported by posts. Inside this round tent are planks nailed onto wooden stakes about fifteen inches off the ground. These are the pews. Giuliani is visibly proud of his church and tells us tomorrow we’ll see it full.

Now it’s time to sort out sleeping arrangements. I get a little corrugated iron shed for myself while Albert and Klaus have to share another one. Because the ground slopes so much there’s nowhere for the drivers to erect their tent, but Giuliani has a solution to this too. He offers to let them sleep on the open back of his Unimog truck, under the tarpaulin. It ought not to be a problem for one night.

We’ve barely finished putting our things away when he comes round with a tray of espresso coffee – very Italian! Then he asks us into his little kitchen, showing us on the way his little vegetable garden with a magnificent shrub with red flowers at the gate. He’s planted all sorts of vegetables, including tomatoes, aubergines and lettuce, and there are plants of all sorts growing inside and outside the little garden fence. We go into the modest kitchen, which contains a tall fridge that runs off solar power, like all the Mission lighting. They cook on bottled gas. On the table is a big chunk of Italian hard cheese, salami and ham. How on earth does he conjure up all these delicacies out here at the ends of the earth?

He’s forever running around, scarcely taking time to sit down for a minute. As he is the cook here it’ll be up to him to prepare our evening meal, something simple but good. ‘We don’t have the fine things you see on the table there every day, you know,’ he says with a wink, pouring red wine into our coffee cups. That’s the way he is: simple, uncomplicated and
a genius at organization! He exudes so much energy you automatically feel in good hands, Giuliani’s mere presence works like a tonic!

Over dinner Albert asks him if he’s read my book. ‘Oh yes,’ he replies with a smile. ‘I read most carefully the things Corinne wrote: I found it particularly interesting to read that I slammed the door in her face.’ With that he gets up to act out the scene of our first meeting when he sent me away rather rudely and has everyone in stitches of laughter. But at least he confirms that what he read in the book does indeed fit perfectly with what he recalls of the occasion. He goes on to say that as far as he was concerned my love for Lketinga couldn’t last because the Samburu see marriage and sexuality very differently from the way we do in Europe.

After telling us about the terrible Turkana attack he goes on to explain about a new risk to the region. It seems the government wants to turn the whole area between Barsaloi and Sererit into a wildlife reserve. The natives have been promised jobs in the tourism industry but they would lose something far more important: the right to run their own part of the country. They would no longer be able to find enough pasture-land for their herds. Giuliani is convinced they can only survive out here as long as they and their herds can maintain their semi-nomadic lives.

He talks himself up into an absolute rage at the idea these people could have their land taken from them. Here in Sererit it would be particularly cruel because they have clean fresh water flowing down from the mountain all year round. He gets a map out to explain it all to us.

Fascinating as his conversation is, I have to ask the whereabouts of the toilet. Giuliani points out a tiny hut made of straw and plastic sheeting. As soon as I go in I have to burst out laughing. Out here too of course, it’s simply an earth closet. But with a difference! There’s a wooden frame around the hole in the ground but on top of it two tree branches, carefully bent to shape, make up the toilet seat. Back to nature with a vengeance! There’s a shower next to it, which works on the same principle as the one on the film set. And there’s even a separate water tap so you can wash your hands under running water. I’m so impressed I go back to join the company, singing the praises of the sanitary facilities. As soon as I open my mouth, however, they all start laughing out loud. When I stare at them in amazement they tell me Giuliani had predicted I would come back enchanted by his toilet facilities, as he’d made the seat especially for me.

While the men continue to laugh amongst themselves about Giuliani’s ‘little room’ I hear the tinkle of bells and look behind the house to see a few black and white cows coming slowly back home. Behind them two warriors and a girl are looking up at us with quiet curiosity. It has to be rare that they have white people coming to visit them out here in the bush. I’m feeling fidgety and decide to go and have a little look around the Mission grounds. On my tour I’m surprised to come across a warrior in the garden, decked out in full traditional style with strings of coloured beads around his naked shoulders and a bush knife by his red loincloth. But what surprises me is the thing he’s holding in his right hand: a green watering can. He pays no attention to me, concentrating solely on the business of carefully watering the garden.

Giuliani tells me later the Samburu often help him in the garden. He pays them for it to get them used to the idea of doing jobs they don’t see the purpose of or simply aren’t used to. The Samburu even helped him erect the simple Mission and school buildings and make the road. He sees his first job here as making life better for people, whether it’s by teaching them about hygiene and diseases or building schools and helping them to make something more of their lives. In this remote district he fulfils the roles of teacher, employer, friend, adviser and helper all in one.

The Samburu in the garden is almost the only person I come across in my little stroll and I begin to get the impression that there’s no one actually living here. But, as everywhere in the bush, as soon as you think you’re certain there’s nobody else around another human being pops up as if from nowhere. I spend a while just taking in this wild romantic landscape before going back to join the others in Giuliani’s kitchen to help with the evening meal. But all I’m allowed to do is chop up onions and tomatoes for the salad; he’s doing all the cooking himself.

All at once the silence is broken by the unmistakable tones of Italian opera. It hits me completely out of the blue and despite the heat I find myself coming out in goose bumps. The music seems so anomalous in this harsh, remote part of the world that it’s almost as if it’s from another planet. Giuliani notices my astonishment and bursts spontaneously into song along with the music. Klaus and Albert stick their heads in too to see what’s going on. It turns out the source of the music is a solar-powered CD-player.

Before long we’re all sitting down around big plates of garlic spaghetti. To go with it there are chunks of goat meat roasted in a metal pan. It all
tastes wonderful and over dinner our host starts telling us about what he plans to do next. Apart from anything else, when he gets enough money he wants to build a bigger church because the existing one is no longer big enough, as he assures us we’ll see at mass tomorrow. After that he’d like to lay down a track all the way from here to Barsaloi because at present he has to make a huge detour when the rains come and the river is impassable. This becomes a big problem, particularly when someone is ill or there’s been an accident and he’s in a hurry.

During the course of outlining his future plans he remembers a story about my life with Lketinga that we then tell Albert and Klaus between us. Initially the older priest listens too but then he suddenly gets up and leaves the kitchen saying he doesn’t want to miss the news from Italy. We give Giuliani a puzzled look and he explains that there’s an Italian radio station to be heard at the same time every evening.

A little later we all wander out into what has now become a beautiful starry night and find the old priest sitting on a chair with a little radio pressed against his ear. It’s a moving scene. We sit ourselves down on the free chairs while Giuliani fetches an iron bed frame and quite calmly lays down on it to point out various star constellations to us. This is their evening ritual, the two of them out here while the older man listens to the radio and then they chat or watch the stars together. By eight o’clock they are normally in bed.

While we’re listening to Giuliani’s tales I spot tiny flickering flames on the far hillside, almost certainly from the cooking fires of the distant
manyattas
. Now and then human voices drift across to us on the wind. Everything is calm and peaceful. Giuliani, however, can’t keep still for more than ten minutes before he jumps up to do something else. I take the opportunity to pinch his place on the iron bed frame and look straight up at the stars. There’s a full moon surrounded by a bright halo and the stars look so low you could almost reach up and grab them. It’s one of those moments when I feel completely at one with nature, an absolute high!

Giuliani comes back and asks with a laugh: ‘Corinne, do you like the bed? I made it myself. If you like, you can sleep out here on it. I do it myself sometimes.’

I don’t have to be asked twice. How can I refuse? I fetch my thin mattress, sleeping bag and a couple of blankets and make myself up a comfy bed on the iron frame. My two companions look at me somewhat
sceptically and Klaus says: ‘You’re not serious! You really intend to sleep out here? You don’t know what sort of creatures might come prowling around!’

‘It’s not a problem, Klaus. This is something I have to do. Spending a night out here in the open will compensate for not spending one in Mama’s
manyatta
,’ I reply happily.

Before we retire for the night we take it in turns to visit the ‘bathroom’, equipped with a torch of course. The drivers climb under the tarpaulins on the back of the lorry and Albert and Klaus disappear into their ‘tin can’. I slide down inside my sleeping bag, pull the blankets over me and pull the hood of my tracksuit over my head to avoid getting cold during the night. It feels so wonderful I could sing out loud! I feel as if I’ve reached the ends of the earth; I feel free as a bird, light as a feather and infinitesimal in the face of the universe. All the problems I imagine in my life seem suddenly meaningless and unimportant. I stare up into the heavens, recognizing more and more constellations. On the distant horizon behind a dark hill suddenly a light appears, blinking on and off and then I realize that it’s an airplane flying 33, 000 feet above me to some distant location.

Giuliani potters around in his kitchen for a little while longer before turning the light out. I can hear the drivers talking to each other in their own language for a bit and then finally everything is quiet. My thoughts return to my family in Barsaloi and I wonder how tomorrow’s party will go and how many people will turn up. Almost immediately afterwards it will be time for us to leave. But I put this thought to the back of my mind, not to let it dampen my mood.

Here and there I can hear rustling noises in the undergrowth but it doesn’t worry me: my bed is three feet off the ground. The air is pure and cool and as tiredness gradually overcomes me I give thanks in a silent prayer that so far my return to Africa and reunions with friends and family in Barsaloi and here in Sererit have gone so well. In the middle of the night I suddenly wake up. My nose is cold, the blankets have slipped off the bed and there’s a kitten sleeping on them. I make my little nest up again, this time with the kitten purring next to me. In the distance I can hear the roar of a bigger cat: possibly a lion or a leopard, it occurs to me, but I fall asleep again anyway. The next morning Giuliani tells me that it was indeed one of the relatively numerous leopards who still live around here.