Reunion in Barsaloi Read online

  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.

  Off To The Movies

  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!

  On Set

  The first thing that strikes me is that it’s a genuine tent city, with proper tent houses laid out in neat rows on either side of a long central avenue, each one the exact same distance from the next. It’s not hard to tell these are Germans. Every tent looks like a little house with a porch. Behind them some distance away is a row of installations covered in plastic sheeting that obviously serve as showers and toilets. My first impression is one of absolutely dumbstruck amazement at the vast amount of resources deployed to depict my life back in the days when all I had to my name was a hut made of cow dung.

  The tent village is beautifully situated in the shelter of two hills with the mountains shimmering in the distance. We’re taken to an information tent equipped with all the latest technology: everywhere there are people at desks working on computers and laptops, with mobile phones plugged into chargers. I’m glad that at least now I’ll have the opportunity to talk to my daughter, who must be waiting with rather mixed feelings for some sign of life from her mother.

  We introduce ourselves to the few people present. As it’s lunchtime, most people are either eating or back on the set. Everything here is done with military precision, and we are each allocated one of the magnificent tents while they send off a messenger to inform the person in charge of looking after us that we have arrived. In the meantime we head off to the showers to wash away the dust of the road. I find my own tent and am stunned to see a proper bed with fresh bed linen and white towels: incredibly luxurious after what we’ve been used to the past few days. There is even a little table and chair and a wardrobe to complete the effect.

  An African appears outside the tent to ask if I want hot water for my shower. Given that the outside temperature is hovering around forty degrees, I tell him I can do without. I have him explain the shower to me, however. It’s rather ingenious. You slip inside the plastic sheeting cubicle behind the tent and stand under a showerhead with a string attached which works like a toilet flush when you pull it. The water, either hot or cold depending on what you asked for, comes from a tank above, which is filled on demand. The other part of the cubicle contains a toilet, which works on the earth-closet system rather than being attached to a water flushing mechanism, but it all seems very hygienic, practical and simple.

  After freshening up under the shower I’m pleased to be able to put on a pair of trousers again. I’ve barely got dressed, however, before someone outside the tent says, ‘Madame, your lunch please.’ I unzip the door and think this has to be a dream: there’s a boy standing there, smiling with a tray and a silver cover over it. I sit down at my little table and can hardly believe what he uncovers: a starter, main course, dessert and various pieces of fruit, all arranged beautifully. I devour the lot with gusto. It’s incredible how your attitude to eating can change when you’ve had to make do and give up a lot of things for a while. I remember the phenomenon all too well from the days back in Barsaloi when we were nearly starving. In those days I had money enough but no way of buying even the simplest foodstuffs because for weeks on end the rivers were impassable, and there was simply nothing available. Right now, on the other hand, I feel like I’m on a luxury safari.

  After this magnificent meal I go to find Albert who’s already sitting talking to the producer Günter Rohrbach. We greet one another with hearty hellos and he asks me for my first impressions. For now all I can comment on, I tell him with a laugh, is the mzungu bit as I haven’t been on the actual set yet. He offers to show us the corral straight away and says tomorrow he’ll take us to where they’ve built a replica of Barsaloi. It takes just a few minutes’ drive for us to get to the corral they’ve built for filming. I’m enormously impressed. Everything is absolutely perfect; the manyattas look just like Mama’s back in Barsaloi.

  Given that the Samburu extras actually live here, obviously the way of life is absolutely authentic too. Mothers with their little babies are sitting around outside their huts, some cleaning the children, others washing kangas. There are various items of clothing laid out on the thorn stockade to dry. That is the only different I notice initially: everybody – adults and children – has clean clothes, almost certainly because they have access to the water that’s brought in daily in tankers for the film crew.

  Apart from that, the manyatta village looks as if the people have been living here for years. Everything is perfect down to the last detail. I’m really pleased to see that nothing’s been bodged. Girls in pretty traditional costume pass by, but I notice that instead of bird feathers they’ve got plastic flowers in their hair. This looks ridiculous to me but I realize that for them plastic is something new and different and both the girls and their warriors see it has something special and luxurious.

  We wander around the corral, attracting minor interest and some slight amusement from the inhabitants. None of them know that I’m the one w
ho used to live like this among their tribe or that it’s my story that’s being acted out here. Before long we come to a manyatta that’s not lived in and is slightly bigger than the others. It’s explained to me that this is the one they use for internal shots and is supposed to represent the one I used to live in. Obviously I simply have to crawl inside and am delighted once again to see that everything has been recreated as accurately as possible. These first impressions reassure me that at least the film will show, and in some little way preserve, the unique culture of the Samburu, which I fear may not last much longer in its present form.

  It’s teatime, and once again we’re presented with a luxurious assortment of juices, tea, coffee and various titbits. We’ve got out of the habit of having such a spread laid out in front of us but enjoy it all the more. Word has gradually got around the camp that the ‘real white Masai’ has turned up. Someone says to me: ‘It’s really nice to meet you in person. You’ve had an extraordinary life. I’m in awe of you. If it hadn’t been for your courage back then, none of us would be here now to see this magnificent landscape and get to know the wonderful Samburu people. Thank you so much.’ I’m very moved by all this but haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to say in response.

  I wish now that Lketinga could see this side of things for once, to understand how many people all over the world have shared our story and wish the best to him and his family. I experience all this daily back home reading all my post and emails, or in person when I do readings, or people stop me in the street. But back in Barsaloi it seems all he gets is bad news. I feel a bit sorry that he’s not here to see and hear all this. I console myself with the thought that I can tell him all about it at the party and send him pictures later.