The White Masai Page 10

  Back next to the manyatta the thorn bush is moved into place again, and we sit back on the cowhide. Washing here is not on because there’s only enough water for the chai. When I ask Lketinga how we’re to keep ourselves clean, he says: ‘Tomorrow, at the river, no problem!’ Inside the hut it is warm now, but outside it is cold. The little girl is already sound asleep naked next to her grandmother, and the three of us attempt a conversation. People here go to bed around eight or nine p.m., and we too snuggle down as the fire is gradually fading and it’s getting hard to see one another. Lketinga and I cuddle together. Although we’d both like to do more, obviously nothing can happen in the presence of his mother and in this total silence.

  The first night, unused to the hard earth, I sleep badly, tossing and turning from one side to the other and listening to every little sound. Now and then a goat’s bell tinkles, ringing, it seems to me, like church bells in the silence. Some animal howls in the distance. Then there’s a rustling at the thorn fence – quite clearly – someone’s trying to come into the corral. My heart’s pounding, and I’m straining to listen. Someone’s coming. I crawl flat on my stomach to the entrance and look out at two black girders – no, they’re legs – and the tips of two spears. At that moment a man’s voice rings out: ‘Supa moran!’ I prod Lketinga in the side and whisper: ‘Darling, somebody is here.’ He makes strange noises, more like grunts, and for a split second stares at me almost angrily. ‘Somebody is outside,’ I tell him pointedly. Then there’s the voice again: ‘Moran supa!’ Then there’s an exchange of words, and the legs suddenly move and disappear. ‘What’s the problem?’ I ask. The man, another warrior, wanted to spend the night with us, which normally wouldn’t have been a problem, but because I’m here it isn’t possible. He will try to find room in another manyatta. I should go back to sleep.

  The sun rises at around six a.m., and men and animals rise with it. The goats bray loudly, wanting out from their pen. There are voices everywhere, and already Mama’s place is empty. We get up an hour later and drink chai. This is almost torture because the flies wake up too with the morning sun, and if I put the cup on the ground dozens immediately cluster around it. They buzz continuously around my head. Saguna seems not to notice them, even though they settle around her eyes and in the corners of her mouth. I ask Lketinga where they all come from. He points to the pile of goat dung that’s built up overnight. In the course of the day the dung dries out, and there are fewer flies. That was why I hadn’t found them so persistent the night before. He laughs and says wait until the cows come back, then it’ll be much worse; their milk attracts thousands of flies. The mosquitoes that appear after it rains are even nicer! After chai, I want to go down to the river to wash at last. We head off, me armed with soap, towels and clean clothes, while all Lketinga carries is a yellow canister to fetch water for Mama’s chai. We walk about a mile down a narrow path to the wide riverbed we crossed the day before in the Land Rover. Big, luxuriant trees border the river on both sides, but there’s no sign of water. We wander along the dry riverbed until rocks appear round a bend, and here indeed a little stream emerges from the sand.

  We aren’t the only ones here. Next to the little stream a few girls have dug a hole in the sand and are patiently using beakers to fill their water canisters. When they see my warrior they drop their heads in embarrassment and giggle amongst themselves. Twenty yards further along a group of warriors are standing next to the stream washing each other. Their loincloths are laid out on the warm stone to dry. They fall silent at the sight of me, although they are not obviously embarrassed by their nakedness. Lketinga stops and talks to a few of them. Some of them stare at me openly, and I don’t know where to look. I’ve never seen so many naked men who don’t seem to realize they are. Their slim elegant bodies shine magnificently in the morning sun.

  Not knowing how I’m supposed to behave in an unfamiliar situation like this, I stroll on for a few yards and sit down by the sluggishly flowing stream. Lketinga comes up to me and says: ‘Corinne, come, here is not good for lady.’ We walk on around another bend in the riverbed to where we can’t be seen, and here Lketinga takes his sparse clothing off and starts washing. When I go to do the same, he looks at me in horror: ‘No, Corinne, this is not good!’ ‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘How am I supposed to wash if I can’t take my T-shirt and skirt off?’ He tells me that to expose my legs would be indecent. We argue gently and in the end I kneel down naked and give myself a thorough wash. Lketinga rubs soap on my back and into my hair, all the while looking around to make sure there really is no one watching us.

  The ritual of washing takes a couple of hours, and then we go back. There’s lots going on by the river now: several women washing their head and feet, others digging holes to fill with water for the goats to drink. And still others are patiently filling water canisters. Lketinga sets his down too, and a girl immediately fills it for him.

  Then we wander round the village because I want to see the shops. There are three square mud huts that are supposed to be shops. Lketinga talks to the owner of each, all of them Somalis. They each shake their head: there’s nothing to buy except for some powdered tea and Kimbo-brand tins of fat. The largest shop has a couple of pounds of rice. When we start to pack it up I discover that the rice is full of little black beetles. ‘Oh, no,’ I say. ‘I don’t want this.’ He says sorry and takes it back. We now have nothing to eat.

  A few women sitting under a tree are selling cow’s milk from calabashes. So at least we can buy milk. For a couple of coins we get two full calabashes, about a litre altogether, and take them home. Mama is delighted to see so much milk. We make chai, and Saguna gets a whole cup of milk, which makes her happy.

  Lketinga and Mama discuss the situation, and I am genuinely left wondering how these people feed themselves. From time to time the Mission distributes a pound or two of maize meal to old women, but there’s nothing to be had there for the moment. Lketinga decides to slaughter a goat that evening when the herds return. But in the midst of all this new experience I’m not really hungry.

  We spend the rest of the afternoon in the manyatta, while the mother sits under the tree, chatting to the other women. At last we can make love. Cautiously I keep my clothes on, because it’s still day and someone could come into the hut at any time. We perform the brief act of love several times that afternoon. I’m not used to it all being over so quickly and then almost immediately starting again, but I don’t mind. I don’t regret it, because I’m happy to be with Lketinga.

  In the evening the goats come home, and Lketinga’s older brother, Saguna’s father, is with them. He and the mother have a long serious conversation during which he every now and then fires wild looks in my direction. Later on I ask Lketinga what was going on, and he tries to explain his brother is just very worried about my health, saying it wouldn’t be long before the District Manager comes out and starts wanting to know why a white woman is living in a hut like this. It isn’t normal.

  Within two or three days everybody for miles around will know that I am here and come to see me. If anything happens to me, even the police will turn up, and in the whole history of the Leparmorijos – that’s their family name – nothing of the kind has ever happened before. I reassure Lketinga and promise him that I’m fine and everything is in order with my passport if the District Manager comes. So far I’ve never been seriously sick in my whole life, I tell him, so let’s go and eat a goat and I’ll do my best to eat as much as I can.

  As soon as it’s dark the three of us head off, Lketinga, his brother and I. Lketinga has a goat in tow, and we walk about a mile from the village into the bush, because Lketinga is not allowed to eat in Mama’s hut if she is there. I’m accepted perforce because I’m white. I ask what Mama and Saguna will eat. Lketinga laughs and says certain bits of the animal are for women and men don’t eat them. When there was meat to be had, she’d be up late into the night, and they’d wake up Saguna too. I’m satisfied, although I’m never quite sure that I unde
rstand everything properly because our conversation in English mixed with Masai and gestures with hands and feet is not exactly fluent.

  At last we reach the spot, and they fetch wood and cut green branches from a bush which are arranged together on the sandy earth to form a sort of bed. Then Lketinga grabs the complaining animal by a hind leg and a foreleg and lays it down on its side on the green wood. His brother holds the head forcing its mouth closed and stabs it. The animal jerks fiercely but briefly and then stares motionless into the starry sky. I have no choice but to watch it all close up, because I’m not going to wander off in the dark. I ask why they don’t cut its throat rather than stabbing it so gruesomely. The answer is brief: amongst the Samburus no blood must be allowed to flow until the animal is dead. That’s the way it’s always been.

  Now it’s my first time to watch an animal being butchered. They make an incision at the neck, and as the brother pulls at the fleece it forms a sort of trough which immediately fills up with blood. I look on in horrified amazement as Lketinga actually bends over this pool of blood and takes a few slurps. His brother does the same thing. I’m grossed out but don’t say anything. Lketinga points and says: ‘Corinne, you like blood, make very strong!’ I shake my head. No.

  After that everything goes quickly. The fleece is deftly removed, the head and the feet severed and laid on the bed of green branches. The stomach is opened carefully, and a horrid stinking green mass – the contents of the stomach – falls out onto the ground. My appetite has gone completely. The brother continues butchering while my Masai patiently blows on the fire. After an hour we’re ready to pile the cut-up pieces of meat onto a sort of pyramid built of sticks. The ribs, all in one piece, go on first because they don’t take as long as the rear legs. The head and feet go straight onto the fire.

  The whole thing looks pretty vile, but I know that I have to get used to it. After a short time the ribs are hauled off the fire and bit by bit the rest of the goat is grilled. Lketinga uses his bush knife to cut off half the ribs and hands these to me. I grab them bravely and nibble at them, though it would probably be better with a bit of salt. I have difficulty biting the tough meat off the bones, but Lketinga and his brother eat noisily with accustomed speed. The gnawed bones are thrown over their heads into the bush and soon there’s a rustling noise. I have no idea who’s making off with the remains, but with Lketinga next to me I’m not afraid.

  The pair of them now cut slices off the hind leg throwing them back on the fire to grill through. The brother asks me if I like it, and I reply ‘Oh yes, it’s very good!’ and keep on chewing. After all, I’m going to end up skin and bones myself before long if I don’t get something into my stomach. By the time I’ve finished my teeth ache. Lketinga reaches over to the fire and hands me a whole front leg. I look at him quizzically: ‘For me?’ ‘Yes, this is only for you.’ But my stomach is full; I simply can’t eat any more. They can’t believe it and tell me I’m not a proper Samburu: ‘You take home and eat tomorrow,’ says Lketinga good-humouredly. So I sit there and watch as they swallow pound after pound of meat.

  When they have finally had enough, they use the fleece to wrap up all the leftovers including the head, feet and internal organs, and we walk back to the manyatta. I’m carrying my ‘breakfast’ home with me. The corral is fast asleep. We crawl into our hut, and Mama immediately rises from her sleeping place. The men give her some of the leftover meat. I can see nothing but the red ashes in the hearth.

  The brother goes off to take some meat to his wife’s manyatta. Mama pokes around in the ashes and blows carefully to rekindle the fire. Of course that sends a cloud of smoke up again, and I start coughing. Then a flame flickers into life, and all at once the hut seems warm and cosy. Mama starts dealing with a piece of grilled meat and wakes Saguna. I’m amazed to see this little girl, plucked from a deep sleep, tackle the hunk of meat, cutting little pieces with a knife and putting them straight in her mouth.

  While the two of them eat, the water for chai boils. Lketinga and I drink our chai with my leg of goat hanging from the ceiling above us. As soon as the pot is emptied of chai, Mama throws some little off-cuts of meat into it and stir-fries them until they are crispy brown, then she tips them into empty calabashes. I wonder what she’s doing, but Lketinga explains that this is a way of preserving the meat so that it lasts several days. Mama starts to cook all that’s left, otherwise tomorrow lots of other women will come and she’ll have to share with them and we’d be left with nothing again. The goat’s head, completely blackened by the ash, is supposed to be particularly good; she keeps that for tomorrow.

  As the fire burns down Lketinga and I try to get some sleep. He lays his head on a three-legged, wooden stool about four inches high to stop his long red hair getting tangled and spreading the colouring everywhere. In Mombasa, where he didn’t have such a thing, he used to tie his hair up in a cloth. It’s a mystery to me how anyone can sleep with their neck stretched and their head on something so hard. But it’s obviously not a problem for him because he’s already fast asleep. I, however, am not having such an easy time; the ground is very hard, it’s not easy to ignore the noises made by Mama who is still eating, and mosquitoes buzz aggravatingly around my head.

  In the morning I’m woken up by the pesky flies and a strange noise. All I can see through the doorway is Mama’s skirt with a fast-flowing stream gushing between her legs. It seems the women pee standing up while the men, as I’ve noticed with Lketinga, prefer to crouch down. When the noise fades away I climb out and make my way behind the hut to relieve myself in my own way. Then I wander across to watch Mama milk the goats. After the usual morning chai, we go down to the river again and fetch a gallon of water.

  On our return there are three women sitting in the manyatta, but when they see Lketinga and me they get up and leave. Mama is in a bad mood because apparently other women had already come to call and she had neither powdered tea nor sugar nor even a drop of water. Hospitality requires that every visitor is offered chai or at the very least a cup of water. They all want to know about the white woman, she says. Nobody has bothered with her before, but now they won’t leave her alone. I suggest to Lketinga that we go and get some powdered tea at least from one of the shops. When we get back there’s a crowd of elderly people milling around in the shade near the manyatta. They have unbelievable patience and can wait around for hours, just chatting to one another, in the knowledge that sooner or later the mzungu will have to eat and the laws of hospitality demand that the old folks will get a share.

  As a warrior, Lketinga feels uncomfortable among so many married women and old men and says he wants to show me the countryside. We head off into the bush, and he tells me the names of all the plants and animals we encounter. The whole area is bone dry, and the ground either rock-hard red earth or sand. The earth is cracked, and from time to time we come across what look like craters. It’s hot and I’m thirsty, but Lketinga reckons the more water I drink the thirstier I’ll get. He cuts a couple of twigs from a bush, sticks one in his mouth and gives me one, and says it’s good for cleaning the teeth and at the same time takes away the thirst.

  My full cotton skirt keeps getting caught on thorns, and after another hour I’m really sweating and insist on drinking something, so we head down towards the river, which is identifiable from a distance because the trees next to it are greener and taller. But I search the dried-up riverbed in vain for any trace of water. We walk along the riverbed for a bit until we catch sight of a group of apes near some rocks. They scamper away from us, and Lketinga goes over to the rocks and digs a hole in the sand. Gradually the sand grows darker, slowly a little pool of water appears, which eventually clears. I satisfy my thirst, and we head back home.

  My meal that evening is the rest of the goat leg. Sitting around in the twilight we converse as well as we can. Mama wants to know about my country and my family. From time to time the difficulties in understanding one another make us laugh. As ever, Saguna is asleep, snuggled up close
to Mama. She has more or less grown used to my presence, although she still won’t let me touch her. By nine o’clock we’re ready for bed. I keep my T-shirt on but fold up my skirt beneath my head as a pillow and use a thin kanga as a blanket, though it’s little protection from the early morning cold.

  On the fourth day Lketinga and I go off to look after the goats for the whole day together. I am very proud at being allowed to go with him. It’s not easy to keep all the animals together. When we come across other herds I’m amazed at how even the children know exactly which are their animals, although there are only about fifty goats at most. We stroll casually for mile upon mile, the goats nibbling at the almost bare bushes. Around lunch we drive them down to the river to drink before moving on. We drink the same water, and that is all we consume all day. We return to the house towards evening, exhausted and sunburned, and I think: once, but never again! I am amazed that people can do this, day-in day-out, all their lives. Mama, the brother and his wife are at the manyatta to welcome us back, and I glean from their conversation that I have won some respect, and they are proud that I could do it. For the first time I sleep soundly the whole night through.