after all, I know what it’s like – but after all these months I could do with some physical contact.
We stroll around Maralal, and I keep a respectable distance, as this seems the thing to do. Every now and then he talks to other warriors ora few girls. The girls are all young and with pretty jewellery and quickly cast a curious glance in my direction and then giggle, whereas the warriors look me over in more detail. I seem to be the subject of most of the conversations, which makes me uncomfortable because I don’t know what anyone’s saying. I can hardly wait for it to get dark.
At the market Lketinga buys a little plastic bag with red powder, pointing at his hair and his war paint. On one of the other stalls someone is selling little stalks with leaves, tied together in bundles about eight inches long. There’s a real argument going on between the five or six men examining them.
Lketinga heads for this stall too. The salesman takes some newspaper and wraps up two bundles. Lketinga pays a fat price for them and quickly sticks them under the kanga cloth wrapped around him. On the way back to the boarding house he buys at least ten sticks of chewing gum. When we get to the room I ask him about the plant. He beams at me and says: ‘ Miraa , it’s very good. You eat this, no sleeping!’ He gets everything out, pops a bit of chewing gum in his mouth and separates the leaves from the stalks. He uses his teeth to strip the bark from the stalks and chews it along with the gum. I watch in fascination how elegantly his beautiful long thin hands move. I have a go, but it’s far too bitter for me, and I spit it out immediately. I lie down on the bed and feel happy just watching him and holding his hand. I feel as if I could hug the entire world. I’ve attained my goal. I’ve found my one great love again, and tomorrow we’ll go back to Mombasa and start our wonderful life together.
I must have fallen asleep only to wake up and find Lketinga still sitting there, chewing away. The floor looks like a bin or worse with leaves, stripped stalks and spat-out green lumps all over the place. He looks at me with a steady gaze, strokes my hair and says: ‘No problem, Corinne, you tired, you sleep, tomorrow safari.’ ‘And you?’ I ask him. ‘You not tired?’ No, he says, before a long journey he can’t sleep, that’s why he’s eating miraa .
The way he says it, I get the impression that this miraa is the equivalent of Dutch courage, for Masai warriors are not allowed to touch alcohol. I can understand that he needs courage because he doesn’t know what lies ahead of us, and his experience of Mombasa was not exactly the best. This is his world. Mombasa may be in Kenya, but it’s not where his tribe comes from. I’ll help him, I tell myself, and go back to sleep.
The next morning we have to get up early to get seats on the only bus that goes to Nyahururu. But as Lketinga hasn’t been to bed, that’s not a problem. I’m amazed by how fit he is and the way he can just set out on such a long journey spontaneously with no luggage, wearing just jewellery and some cloth and carrying his stick.
This is just the first stage. Lketinga has secreted the rest of the miraa somewhere and chews on the same piece. He’s quiet, and somehow there isn’t the same atmosphere as on the bus Jutta and I arrived on.
Once again the bus lurches through thousands of potholes. Lketinga has pulled his second kanga cloth over his head so that only his eyes can be seen, and his beautiful hair is protected from the dust. I hold a handkerchief against my nose and mouth so that I can halfway breathe. About half way Lketinga nudges me and points to a long grey hill. It’s only when I take a longer look that I realize that I’m looking at hundreds of elephants. It’s a phenomenal sight: these giant creatures as far as the eye can see with their little ones among them. The bus comes alive with chatter as everyone stares at the vast herd; from
We stroll around Maralal, and I keep a respectable distance, as this seems the thing to do. Every now and then he talks to other warriors ora few girls. The girls are all young and with pretty jewellery and quickly cast a curious glance in my direction and then giggle, whereas the warriors look me over in more detail. I seem to be the subject of most of the conversations, which makes me uncomfortable because I don’t know what anyone’s saying. I can hardly wait for it to get dark.
At the market Lketinga buys a little plastic bag with red powder, pointing at his hair and his war paint. On one of the other stalls someone is selling little stalks with leaves, tied together in bundles about eight inches long. There’s a real argument going on between the five or six men examining them.
Lketinga heads for this stall too. The salesman takes some newspaper and wraps up two bundles. Lketinga pays a fat price for them and quickly sticks them under the kanga cloth wrapped around him. On the way back to the boarding house he buys at least ten sticks of chewing gum. When we get to the room I ask him about the plant. He beams at me and says: ‘ Miraa , it’s very good. You eat this, no sleeping!’ He gets everything out, pops a bit of chewing gum in his mouth and separates the leaves from the stalks. He uses his teeth to strip the bark from the stalks and chews it along with the gum. I watch in fascination how elegantly his beautiful long thin hands move. I have a go, but it’s far too bitter for me, and I spit it out immediately. I lie down on the bed and feel happy just watching him and holding his hand. I feel as if I could hug the entire world. I’ve attained my goal. I’ve found my one great love again, and tomorrow we’ll go back to Mombasa and start our wonderful life together.
I must have fallen asleep only to wake up and find Lketinga still sitting there, chewing away. The floor looks like a bin or worse with leaves, stripped stalks and spat-out green lumps all over the place. He looks at me with a steady gaze, strokes my hair and says: ‘No problem, Corinne, you tired, you sleep, tomorrow safari.’ ‘And you?’ I ask him. ‘You not tired?’ No, he says, before a long journey he can’t sleep, that’s why he’s eating miraa .
The way he says it, I get the impression that this miraa is the equivalent of Dutch courage, for Masai warriors are not allowed to touch alcohol. I can understand that he needs courage because he doesn’t know what lies ahead of us, and his experience of Mombasa was not exactly the best. This is his world. Mombasa may be in Kenya, but it’s not where his tribe comes from. I’ll help him, I tell myself, and go back to sleep.
The next morning we have to get up early to get seats on the only bus that goes to Nyahururu. But as Lketinga hasn’t been to bed, that’s not a problem. I’m amazed by how fit he is and the way he can just set out on such a long journey spontaneously with no luggage, wearing just jewellery and some cloth and carrying his stick.
This is just the first stage. Lketinga has secreted the rest of the miraa somewhere and chews on the same piece. He’s quiet, and somehow there isn’t the same atmosphere as on the bus Jutta and I arrived on.
Once again the bus lurches through thousands of potholes. Lketinga has pulled his second kanga cloth over his head so that only his eyes can be seen, and his beautiful hair is protected from the dust. I hold a handkerchief against my nose and mouth so that I can halfway breathe. About half way Lketinga nudges me and points to a long grey hill. It’s only when I take a longer look that I realize that I’m looking at hundreds of elephants. It’s a phenomenal sight: these giant creatures as far as the eye can see with their little ones among them. The bus comes alive with chatter as everyone stares at the vast herd; from
Similar Books
