Reunion in Barsaloi (8 page)

I
t’s quiet back in the village. Everyone has retreated into their huts or found shade somewhere else, but I’m off to find our old shop. All of a sudden I find myself standing outside a dilapidated building which bears only the slightest resemblance to the magnificent big shop we used to keep. Paint is flaking off the walls all over the place, the windows have iron bars across them and the door is closed. Above it the word ‘Hotel’ has been scratched on the wall. I try to get a glimpse inside and then, totally unexpectedly, the door opens, almost falling off its hinges. The owner is the man who threw himself at me when we arrived the day before. It’s obvious from the smell, as well as from looking at him, that he has a drink problem. He asks us in and tells Albert and Klaus at great length how hard I used to work in the shop. He appears to know the whole story of my life in Barsaloi and be a great admirer of mine, but I can’t remember him at all.

When I mention it later to Lketinga, he says: ‘Oh, that old boy’s crazy, don’t pay any attention to him.’ He doesn’t strike me, however, as either crazy or stupid. Some time back he took over the rental of the shop and turned it into a hotel. But then when I look around inside I get a shock: all the shelves are either falling apart or already broken. The so-called hotel is the room at the back, where we used to live, with a few hanging sheets separating it into different areas to give a minimum of privacy. But there are no beds and not even any mattresses. The man tells me his guests don’t need things like that as they sleep on the floor in any case. I feel rather depressed and disgusted as I leave what was once the first proper food shop in Barsaloi and where I nearly worked myself into an early grave.

As I wander around the village people keep calling out ‘Mama Napirai’ in greeting, but in general things are pretty quiet at this time of day, even in my African family’s corral. The grown-ups have all hidden themselves away indoors and the children are either at school or out with the animals. Only Stefania is still around going about her business calmly and quietly with her little children Albert and Saruni. Lketinga asks me considerately if I’m hungry, which I have to admit I am now. I suggest Stefania and I cook something. The men agree and take themselves off: Lketinga, I assume, back to his latest wife while Albert and Klaus head back to our camp for a bit of a rest.

W
e decide to make a stew of meat, carrots, cabbage and rice. A foreleg of the goat slaughtered yesterday is still hanging from a nail near the window in the little kitchen. Stefania takes it down and hands it to me. Then she takes a huge bush knife and cuts little pieces off it, each time coming within a hairsbreadth of my fingers. I try not to think about the fact that they have no fridge and this raw meat has been hanging out in the heat. We boil everything up together in a huge pot and to my amazement, Stefania throws in a dash of ready-prepared seasoning. In my day here all they had was salt.

I try to hold a conversation with her but it’s not easy, even though she has good English. She answers my question but offers nothing further. Young women here simply aren’t used to having conversations with strangers or even local men.

When I take James to task about this later, he confirms, ‘It’s true, Samburu women don’t talk a lot usually. Educated women like Stefania are better. She and I chat about things. But my brother and everyone else of the older generation believe that when you talk to your wife you should use as few words as possible and speak in good, clear sentences. They think a girl or woman who talks too much or too loudly will not make a good wife and won’t obey you. It’s almost always men who solve problems and make the decisions. The women simply have to get on with it without further discussion.’

Once again I realize that in their eyes I must have been very far from a perfect wife. Most of the time I was the one who dealt with problems and often after obstreperous arguments.

Despite what James says, I’ve never seen him chatting with his wife for any length of time or inviting her to join a conversation. She’s always standing to one side with the children, listening silently or making tea. Even though she eats alongside us, there always seems to be a certain distance between us.

While our meal is simmering on the hearth, Lketinga’s sister comes in and asks me to pop over to Mama’s hut. I go across to find Mama dozing on her cowhide. She gets up straight away and laughs. Lketinga’s sister blows on the hot ashes and immediately the
manyatta
fills briefly with smoke as the fire rekindles. She puts a pot with a few pieces of roast meat on the fire and indicates these are for me.

Mama has cooked my favourite bush meal. She’s remembered that what I like most is this little dish of fried meat she makes. I’m really pleased and tuck in, although I feel guilty for a moment about Albert and Klaus whose stomachs must be rumbling by now. Mama watches me and keeps saying: ‘
Tamada, tamada
– take more, take more’. She smiles when I compliment her on her cooking, even though she doesn’t understand the words I use.

I’m irritated by the fact that after fourteen years I can’t have a proper conversation without the help of other people. How on earth did I manage back then? Lketinga’s sister speaks a little and so I can make out a bit of what she says but still can’t reply properly. Somehow, however, I understand that among other things she’s asking for money. I pull out a couple of notes and hand the smaller one to the sister and the larger to Mama. The younger woman immediately sticks the note behind the rows of necklaces she’s wearing; Mama pushes hers beneath the cowhide with her foot. Even though it’s worth no more than the equivalent of ten euros, I feel certain neither of them have ever seen such large denomination banknotes. Where would Mama get money like that from anyhow? James provides her with everything they need They both say thank you with a polite ‘
Asche oleng
’.

A
little while later I hear the sound of James's motorbike. I go back across to the house as dinner will be ready soon and say hello to James, who looks tired out. Saruni, his daughter, is a real daddy's girl and springs into his arms immediately. James immediately starts talking about the inspectors who've been to visit his school today, which was the reason he had to be there bright and early, even though he's feeling tired and sick. He suspects he might be having a mild attack of malaria, and there are indeed little beads of sweat on his face.

Everybody here gets malaria attacks from time to time. For sturdy, healthy folk it feels a bit like flu, and usually lasts no more than a few days. Even so it's no laughing matter: malaria is still one of the major causes of death in Kenya. Thank heavens the symptoms James is exhibiting are mild and might not even be malaria at all.

During the course of the evening I come to realize that James has almost as much day-today stress as the average European. He has a lot of work to do as a headmaster, runs several programmes jointly with the Mission, acts as head of the household for his family, as well as helping Lketinga build his own house, and organizes supplies for his shop. It's as if he's forever rushing between one appointment and another while the rest of the world stands still around him. It would all be impossible if he didn't have his motorbike. But because he does have it, everyone expects him to be able to do more and more. The bike has its advantages but also its disadvantages. As far as he's concerned, it's obvious that progress has automatically made his life all the more hectic.

It's not a case of getting everything done faster in order to have more free time, but of getting everything done faster in order to do even more. From a material point of view, life here has become much more comfortable for him, but his health is clearly suffering to the extent that some days he has to take something to cure his headaches before he can go to work. Very European! Undoubtedly he could do a bit less, but he's already quite clearly infected with the virus of ‘success at all costs'. He says he still has a lot to learn and has registered for a further education course at the university in Nairobi.

When Lketinga arrives we all sit down at the table and a full plate of stew is placed in front of each of us. James has the appetite of two men, which makes me all the more certain that he's not really suffering from malaria. Stefania and the children spend all their time making sure everything gets served properly, while James does his best to reassure us that they'll eat later on their own. It is the tradition here that the men eat first and the women and children later. Somehow I've come to be considered a man.

I
can hardly wait for the meal to be over so we can finally hand out our presents. At last the time comes and even Mama comes over to James’s house. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her sit on a chair. She sits there, resting her arms on a long, thin stick, looking very dignified. Nonetheless, you can see she’s not quite comfortable in these surroundings, even though she’s only a stone’s throw from her
manyatta
. Lketinga’s sister, a brother I’ve never met before and a whole bevy of children have also turned up. I start with the clothing: T-shirts and jumpers for the baby, little Albert, Saruni and Napirai’s half-sister Shankayon. I also have two pretty skirts for her. Next are a few more skirts for Mama, the first made from a heavy, dark-green material. Mama shows no interest. The second is a little lighter, but it’s only when I produce the really bright multicoloured flowery one that she finally breaks into beams of delight. She also really likes the pretty royal blue shawl. Success at last.

The brother I don’t know gets a blanket, the sister and James’s wife get a skirt and a kanga each. Lketinga is watching closely and asks with a laugh if there’s going to be anything for him in the bag, which by now is almost empty. I delve into it and hand him a yellowy-red blanket with which he seems well pleased, and a skirt for his wife. I didn’t know of course, that he now has two wives, but as neither of them is here, it’s up to him which of them he gives it to. I have shirts for all the men, a red one naturally for Lketinga. There are also a couple of cheap watches, one each for my ex-husband and his wife as well as James and Stefania. And that’s it; the bag is empty.

Albert, however, has also brought presents on his own behalf for the family. Everybody takes in every detail, sitting around like children under the Christmas tree. When my publisher produces a pair of binoculars each for Lketinga and James, neither has any idea what to do with them at first, so Albert takes both of them outside to demonstrate. James holds the binoculars up to his eyes and adjusts the focussing, then suddenly calls out in excitement: ‘I can see a
manyatta
over there on the hills and two goats lying outside it, as clearly as if they were next door. Unbelievable!’ Lketinga takes his time working with his too until he gets them into focus. Then the two of them stand there, binoculars to their eyes, talking excitedly to one another in Maa, of which we of course don’t understand a word. It’s such a comical scene, however, that we all burst out laughing, even the usually so quiet Stefania, not to mention the children. These are undoubtedly the best presents they’ve had today.

When everyone’s calmed down and we’re all back in the house again I finally produce a cassette recorder to play back the tape of my Swiss family for them. Immediately it goes quiet in the room as everyone listens to the words spoken by my mother, her husband Hans-Peter and my brother and sister. When my brother’s loud voice comes on everybody laughs. Lketinga recognizes his voice straight away, nods and says in his growly voice: ‘Yes, I remember Jelly and Eric. Really, I remember.’ Then after a brief pause he’s listening to his daughter speak for the first time. He sits there tense, his back ramrod straight on his chair listening intently without an expression on his face. When Swiss barrel organ music comes on at the end, he looks over to me and says: ‘Okay, it’s okay! I remember all and I wait for my child.’

James is thrilled and thanks me warmly for the recorder, although he notes that it needs eight batteries and these are expensive in Kenya. As an afterthought he adds that it’s even better than the one in school. I have to explain the CD-tray to him, though, as he’s never seen one before. Mama goes back to her
manyatta
, but everyone else is busy comparing presents. The two pairs of binoculars are compared, and all the material fingered and felt.

Unfortunately there are still a few children hanging around for whom I haven’t brought any clothing items, simply because I didn’t know they lived here in the corral and were even partly fed by James. They do chores around the house and get board and lodging in return so that they can attend the school. It seems parents who live a long way away send their
children to stay with relatives in the village so as to have a chance of going to school. It breaks my heart that I’ve got nothing to give them other than a few sweets. We have so much stuff lying around the house at home, things Napirai has grown out of. These children here would have been delighted with any of them, even if they were too large or too small. Lketinga tells me not to worry: there is no problem about these children.

The animals will be back in a couple of hours. Before then I want to get back to our camp to have a wash while it’s still daylight and warm. Lketinga sends one of the little girls into a nearby
manyatta
to fetch a plastic basin. I noticed the same sort of thing earlier when we were drinking
chai
in Mama’s hut. Obviously she didn’t have six cups so she sent a little girl off to borrow some from the neighbours.

It’s precisely for little chores like this that grandmothers always have one of the little girls living with them. Traditionally the eldest girl of her own children is brought up by her grandmother. Shankayon helps Mama a lot when she is home from school. She has been living with her grandmother for a few months now, since her own mother went away. Lketinga has no idea when or even if his wife will be back. She’s still sickly after so many miscarriages. But I notice that Lketinga doesn’t pay as much attention to his daughter as James does with his. I recall him being a lot more attentive with Napirai, his first daughter, even though she was just a toddler then. Fathers don’t normally have much to do with babies. Even James didn’t bother to pick up or even say hello to his most recent child, in contrast to the way he treats Little Albert and Saruni.

The girl sent to fetch the basin soon comes back with it, and Lketinga rinses it out with water before giving it to me. Once again I’m touched by how attentive he is to me. I say thank you and set off back to the camp.

Everything back there is quiet and so I fill the basin with water and look for somewhere I can wash myself without being seen. A few minutes later I feel like a new woman, clean and in fresh clothes. I’m just about to set off back down to the corral when I hear someone calling me from the Mission. It’s one of the employees I used to know. While we’re chatting she mentions my washing problems and says: ‘Corinne, you shouldn’t be washing out here in the open. It’s not right for a woman. Next time come into the Mission and you can use the shower.’

I take up the unexpected offer with pleasure and ask if there’s any way of getting in touch with Father Giuliani as we’d like to go an see him in
a couple of days’ time. She says it’s possible to get hold of him by radio twice a day, either at 7.00am in the morning or 6.00pm in the evening. She says we can drop by any time to use the radio. Cheered up further by this, I go back down to the others in the corral.

In the meantime Klaus and his cameras have become the centre of attention in the corral. Everyone really enjoys seeing themselves on his monitor. Many of them have never even looked into a mirror before. So Klaus spends a lot of time sitting on the ground in his light-coloured trousers with the monitor surrounded by at least eight bobbing heads. A couple of days later Lketinga asks mischievously why Klaus always wears the same grubby trousers while he changes his clothes every day in our honour.