The White Masai

Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Touchdown
The Search Party
A Long Six Months
The Reunion
Red Tape
Burning Bridges
A New Homeland
A Trip With Priscilla
Jutta
Magical Maralal
Back to Mombasa
Sick In The Head
‘You Come To My Home’
The Land Rover
Braving The Bush
Back To The Future
The Daily Grind
A Stranger In My Own Country
African Homeland
More Red Tape
Malaria
In Hospital
Rites Of Passage
‘Pole, Pole’
Farewell And Welcome
Registry Office And Honeymoon
A Hut Of Our Own!
Wedding, Samburu-Style
The Shop
Jungle Tracks
A Matter Of Life And Death
Fears For My Child
The Fatal Plunge
The Great Rains
Moving out of the Manyatta
Flying Doctor
Sophia
Napirai
Homecoming For Three
Hunger
Quarantine
Nairobi And A New Car
Rest and Recreation
White Faces
A Fresh Beginning?
A Failure Of Trust
The Downhill Path
Desperate Stakes
Anger and Impotence
Mud In Your Eye!
Fresh Hope
A Bitter Blow
No Exit
The Final Flight
About the Author
By the Same Author
Copyright

W
onderful warm tropical air embraces us the minute we land at Mombasa Airport, and already I feel in my bones that this is my country: I’m going to be at home here. The extraordinary atmosphere works its magic only on me, however. My boyfriend Marco’s comment is more succinct: ‘This place stinks!’

After customs control a safari bus takes us to our hotel. Mombasa is on a peninsula, and we have to take a ferry across a river to the southern bank. It’s hot. We sit in the bus, gawping. Right now I have no idea that in three days’ time this ferry will change my entire life, turn it upside down.

On the other side of the river we drive for another hour along rural roads through little settlements. Most women sitting outside their simple huts seem to be Moslems, wrapped up in black robes. At long last we reach our hotel, the Africa Sea Lodge. It’s a modern but traditional, African-style development, our accommodation a little roundhouse, cute and cosy. Our first visit to the beach only amplifies my overwhelming impression: this is the most beautiful country I have ever visited. I could live here.

Two days later we’ve settled in and are ready to set out off our own bat on the public bus to Mombasa, taking the Likoni ferry over for a spot of sightseeing. A Rasta slopes past us, and I hear the whispered words: ‘Hashish, marijuana’. Marco nods and says in English: ‘Yes, yes, where we can make a deal?’ After a quick conversation we’re supposed to follow him. ‘Leave it, Marco, it’s too dangerous!’ I say, but he pays no attention. When we find ourselves in a deserted, dilapidated district, I want to call it off, but the man tells us to wait for him and disappears. I’m uneasy, and eventually Marco agrees we should go. We get out just in time before the
Rasta turns up with a policeman. I’m furious and lose it with Marco: ‘Now do you see what might have happened?’

By now it’s late afternoon, time to go home. But which way is home? I have no idea how to get to the ferry, and useless Marco is no better. Our first big row, and it takes forever until we eventually catch a glimpse of the ferry. Hundreds of people with crates and chickens and crammed-full cardboard boxes packed between lines of waiting cars. And all of them want to board the two-storey ferry.

At long last we get on board, and then the unimaginable happens. Marco says, ‘Corinne, look, over there, on the other side, that’s a Masai!’ ‘Where?’ I ask and look where he’s pointing. And then it’s as if I’ve been struck by lightning. A tall, dark brown, beautiful exotic man lounging on the quayside looking at us, the only white people in this throng, with dark eyes. My God, he’s beautiful; more beautiful than anyone I’ve ever seen.

He is wearing almost no clothes – just a short red loincloth – but lots of jewellery. On his forehead is a large mother-of-pearl button with lots of little bright pearls, the whole thing glittering. His long red hair has been plaited into thin braids, and his face is painted with symbols that extend right down onto his chest beneath two long necklaces of coloured pearls. On each wrist he wears several bracelets. His face is so elegantly proportioned that it could almost be that of a woman. But the way he holds himself, the proud look and wiry muscular build betray his undoubted masculinity. I can’t take my eyes off him; sitting there in the last rays of the sinking sun, he looks like a young god.

Five minutes from now, I think to myself, suddenly depressed, you’ll never see him again. The ferry will dock and chaos will break loose, people piling off onto buses and disappearing in every conceivable direction. All of a sudden my heart feels like lead, and I find it hard to breathe. And next to me Marco, of all things, says: ‘We ought to watch out for that Masai, they steal from tourists.’ Right now I couldn’t care less, all that’s running through my mind is how I can make contact with this breathtakingly beautiful man. I don’t speak any English, and just staring at him isn’t going to get me anywhere.

The gangplank drops and everybody starts squeezing between the cars already starting to drive off. All I can see of the Masai is his glistening back as he lithely vanishes amidst the mass of ponderous heaving humanity. It’s over, I think, on the brink of tears. Why I feel like that, I have no idea.

Once again terra firma is beneath our feet, and we push our way towards the buses. It’s already dusk; in Kenya darkness falls within half an hour. In next to no time all the buses are jam-packed with people and parcels. We’re standing there, clueless. Sure, we know the name of our hotel, but not which beach it is on. I prod Marco impatiently: ‘Go on, ask somebody!’ Why don’t I do it, he says, even though I’ve never been to Kenya before and don’t speak English. I’m unhappy; my thoughts are with the Masai who has somehow lodged himself in my head.

In total darkness we stand there and argue. All the buses have gone, and then from behind us a dark voice says, ‘Hello!’ We turn around simultaneously, and my heart skips a beat: it’s ‘my’ Masai! A full head taller than me, even though I’m almost six foot. He’s looking at us and speaking a language that neither of us understands. My heart is palpitating, and I’ve gone weak at the knees. I’m a complete wreck. Marco meanwhile is trying to explain where we want to get to. ‘No problem,’ says the Masai and tells us to wait. For the next half hour I simply look at this beautiful human being. He hardly notices me, but Marco is getting annoyed: ‘What’s got into you?’ he wants to know. ‘I’m embarrassed the way you’re staring so fixedly at this man. Pull yourself together, you’re not yourself.’ The Masai stands beside us and doesn’t say a word. I only know he’s there by the silhouette of his long body and his exotic smell, which is giving me an erotic charge.

All around the bus station there are little shops that look like a shanty town and all sell the same things: tea, sweets, vegetable, fruits and lumps of meat hanging from hooks. People in ragged clothing stand around these little shacks lit feebly by petrol lamps. As the only white people, we stick out like sore thumbs.

‘Let’s go back to Mombasa and get a taxi. The Masai didn’t understand what we wanted, and anyhow I don’t trust him. Apart from anything else, I think you’re bewitched by him,’ says Marco. But as far as I’m concerned, the fact that of all these black people he was the one to approach us is a happy omen.

A few minutes later a bus stops, and the Masai says ‘Come, come!’, swings on board and saves us two seats. Is he going to get out again or come with us? I ask myself. To my relief he sits himself down across the passageway, directly behind Marco. The bus sets off along a country road in complete darkness. Now and then, between the palms and shrubs, a fire
glows, hinting at the presence of people. Night changes everything, we are completely disoriented. Marco thinks the journey is taking far too long and several times moves to get out. Only my imprecations and a few words from the Masai make him see that we have no alternative but to trust this stranger. I’m not in the least afraid; on the contrary, I could travel like this forever. It’s the presence of my friend that’s starting to annoy me. He sees everything so negatively, and on top of it all he’s blocking my view! Like a stomach cramp the thought occurs to me: ‘What happens when we get to the hotel?’

After an hour or more the moment I’ve been dreading arrives. The bus stops, and Marco says thank you and climbs out with obvious relief. I look at the Masai and, not finding any words to say, throw myself off the bus. It drives off, who knows where, maybe to Tanzania. For me the holiday is as good as over.

My thoughts return to me and Marco and the business. For nearly five years now I’ve been running an upmarket nearly new clothing shop in Biel with a special department for bridal wear. After a few teething problems the business is doing well, and I now employ three dressmakers. For twenty-seven years old, I’ve got myself an impressive standard of living.

I came to know Marco when there was carpentry work to be done in setting up the shop. He was polite, good fun; and since I had just arrived in Biel and didn’t know anybody, I took him up on an invitation to dinner one night. Over time the relationship developed, and six months later we moved in together. Back in Biel people think of us as a ‘dream couple’. We have lots of friends and all of them are just waiting for a wedding date to be set. But I think of myself as a full-time businesswoman and am actively looking for a second shop, in Bern. I hardly have time for thoughts of weddings or children. Anyway, Marco can’t get very worked up about all my plans, probably because I earn a lot more than he does. That gets to him, and of late it’s led to rows.

And now, all of a sudden, this completely new experience! I try to understand exactly what’s happening to me. My feelings for Marco have evaporated to the point where I hardly even notice him. The Masai has lodged himself in my brain. I can’t eat. The hotel has excellent buffets, but I can’t bring myself to force anything down. It’s as if my intestines have tied themselves in knots. All day long I gaze along the beach or walk up and down it in the hope of catching a glimpse of him. Now and then I
see a few Masai, but they are all smaller and nothing like as beautiful. Marco leaves me to it; he has no option. He’s looking forward to going home and thinks everything will return to normal then. But this country has turned my life upside down and nothing will ever be the same again.

Marco decides to go on a safari into the Masai-Mara. I’m not particularly entranced by the idea because it means there’s no chance of finding my Masai again. But I agree to a two-day trip.

The safari is tiring, because it means taking buses far into the interior. After several hours of travelling, Marco is already bored: ‘We didn’t need to go through all this just for a couple of elephants and lions we could have seen at the zoo back home.’ I’m enjoying the journey. Soon we reach the first Masai villages. The bus stops, and the driver asks if we want to get out and see the huts and the people. ‘Of course,’ I say, and the other safari fans look at me askance. The driver negotiates a price and we pile out, clumping in white trainers through the muddy clay, careful not to tread in the cowpats that are everywhere. We have hardly reached the huts, the
manyattas
, when we are surrounded by women with their throngs of children pulling at our clothes and wanting to swap spears, cloth or bits of jewellery for almost any and everything we have.

The men meanwhile have been lured into the huts. I can’t bring myself to tramp through the mud another single step so instead I pull myself free from the pushy mob of women and storm off back to the safari bus, followed by hundreds of flies. The other passengers hurry back too and shout, ‘Let’s go!’ The driver smiles and says: ‘Now maybe you’ve been warned about this tribe. They’re the last uncivilized people in Kenya; even the government has problems with them.’

It stinks in the bus now, and the flies are an absolute plague. Marco laughs and says: ‘Well, now you know where your pretty boy comes from and how they live.’ Funnily enough, in those few minutes I hadn’t even thought of ‘my’ Masai.

We drive on in silence, past great herds of elephants. In the afternoon we arrive at a tourist hotel. It’s almost incredible to be spending the night in a luxury hotel in the middle of this semi-desert. We get our rooms straight away and head for the shower. Hair, face, everything is sticky with sweat. Then there’s a lavish meal laid on, and after nearly five days fasting I’ve almost got an appetite. The next morning, we’re up at five to see the lions and really do find three of the animals still asleep. Then it’s time for
the long trek home. The closer we get to Mombasa, the more I feel strangely happy. One thing is clear to me now: with just one week left, I have to find my Masai again.

In the evening the hotel has a Masai-dance floorshow with a jewellery sale afterwards, and I am full of hope that I’ll see him again. We’re sitting in the front row as the warriors come in, some twenty men in all, small ones, tall ones, good-looking ones, ugly ones, but my Masai isn’t among them. I am disappointed. Even so, I enjoy the show and once again I smell this aroma they exude that distinguishes them from the other Africans.

Not far from the hotel there’s supposed to be an open-air dance joint called the Bush Baby Disco, where the natives can go too. So I say to Marco: ‘Come on, let’s find this disco place’. He’s not so keen because the hotel management rather obviously warns that it might be risky, but I insist. We wander along the dark road for a bit until we spot a light and hear a few bars of rock music. We go in, and I like the place immediately. At last something that isn’t just another sterile air-conditioned hotel disco, but a dance floor under the heavens with bars between palm trees. All around tourists and natives are leaning on the bars. There’s a relaxed feel. We sit ourselves down at a table. Marco orders a beer, and I ask for a Coke. Then I get up and dance on my own, because Marco isn’t keen on dancing.

Towards midnight a few Masai come in. I take a good look at them but recognize only a couple who were in the show at the hotel. Disappointed, I go back to the table. I make up my mind to come here every night for the rest of our stay, as it seems the only chance of finding my Masai again. Marco protests but doesn’t want to sit in the hotel on his own, so every evening after dinner we set out for the Bush Baby Disco.

After the second evening, it’s the twenty-first of December already; Marco’s had enough of these little excursions. I promise him we’ll go just one more time. As always we sit ourselves down at what has become our regular table under the palm trees. I decide to dance on my own in the middle of the couples, black and white. He has to come!

I’m already dripping with sweat when just after eleven the door opens, and it’s him! My Masai! He leaves the heavy stick he’s carrying with the doorman, walks quietly across to a table and sits down with his back to me. My knees have gone weak, I can hardly stand. Sweat is flowing from every pore. I have to hold on to a pillar on the edge of the dance floor to stop myself collapsing.

I’m wondering frantically what to do. I’ve waited days for this moment. As calmly as possible I go back to our table and say to Marco: ‘Oh look, there’s that Masai who helped us out. You should get him over to our table and buy him a beer to say thanks!’ Marco turns around, and at the same time the Masai spots us. He waves and comes over to us of his own accord. ‘Hello, friends,’ he says, laughing and holding out his hand to us. It feels cool and supple.