We’re looking for a hotel in which a Masai with a white wife is apparently staying. I can hardly imagine it, but I’m eager to ask her a few questions. But when we meet them I’m disappointed. This Masai looks just like a ‘normal black’ who doesn’t wear jewellery or traditional clothing but a red made-to-measure suit. He’s a few years older than Lketinga and even his wife is already in her late forties. Everyone starts talking at once, but Ursula, who’s German, says: ‘What? You want to come and live here with this Masai?’ I say yes and ask shyly why not. ‘Do you know?’ she says. ‘My husband and I have been together for fifteen years. He is a lawyer, but he still has enormous difficulty with the German way of thinking. Now look at Lketinga: he’s never been to school, can’t read or write and barely speaks English. He has absolutely no idea of European customs and manners, let alone the Swiss obsession with perfection. That’s doomed from the outset!’ But for her there was simply no question of living in Kenya: women here have no rights. Holidays, on the other hand, are another thing entirely. But I ought to buy Lketinga some clothes; I can’t go around with him like that.
She goes on and on, and my heart sinks with her endless list of problems. Even her husband agrees it would be better if Lketinga came to visit me in Switzerland. But that’s something I can’t imagine and all my feelings would be wrong. All the same, we accept their offer of help and the next day set off to Mombasa to see about getting Lketinga a passport. When I mention my doubts, Lketinga asks if I have a husband back in Switzerland, because if not I can just take him with me. Only ten minutes ago he said he had no intention of leaving Kenya because he had no idea where Switzerland even is or what my family is like.
On the way to the passport office I have doubts that later turn out to have been justified. Our peaceful days in Kenya are over from this moment on, and the stress of dealing with bureaucracy has just begun. All four of us go into the passport office together and stand in a queue for an hour before we’re allowed into the right room. The official who deals with applications is sitting behind a huge mahogany desk. He and Ursula’s husband have a discussion of which neither Lketinga or I understand a word. I just notice how every now and then they glance over at Lketinga in his exotic apparel. After five minutes it’s ‘Let’s go’, and we leave the office. I’m confused and annoyed: standing in line for an hour only to have a five-minute interview appals me.
But that is just the beginning. Ursula’s husband says a few things have to be cleared up straight away. There’s no way that Lketinga can simply get on the plane with me. The earliest opportunity, if there are no problems, would be in a month’s time. First of all we have to get photographs taken, then come back and fill in forms, which at the moment they’ve run out of and will only be available again in five days’ time. I can hardly believe it: ‘What, are you telling me that in a big city like this they have no passport application forms?’ But then it takes us ages to find a photographer, and he tells us that it will take several days before the pictures will be ready. Exhausted by the heat and the perpetual queuing and waiting, we decide to return to the coast. The other couple disappear back into their luxurious hotel, telling us that now we know where the passport office is and if there are problems we also know where to find them.
Because time is running out, we go back to the office three days later with the pictures. Again we have to queue up, for longer than the first time. The closer we come to the door, the more nervous I get, because Lketinga doesn’t feel at all comfortable and I’m self-conscious about my poor English. When finally we get to see the passport officer I explain our case painstakingly. Eventually he looks up from his newspaper and asks what I want to take someone like that – with a dismissive gesture towards Lketinga – to Switzerland for? ‘Holidays,’ I reply. The passport officer laughs and says that until this Masai learns how to put on proper civilized clothes he won’t be getting a passport. And because he has no education and no idea of Europe, I will have to pay a guarantee of one thousand Swiss francs and at the same time buy Lketinga a return ticket. Only when I have done all of that will he even consider giving me an application form.
Annoyed by the arrogance of this lump of lard, I ask him how long it would then take to get the passport, after I’d done all he asked. ‘About two weeks,’ he replies, waving us out of his office and reaching for his newspaper. Such bare-faced cheek leaves me speechless, but instead of giving up all hope, his behaviour makes me want to show him who’s boss. Above all else, I won’t have him denigrate Lketinga, who in any case I’m keen to introduce to my mother.
The whole thing becomes an idée fixe for me, and I make up my mind to take Lketinga, by now impatient and disappointed, into the nearest travel agent’s to sort it all out. We find a friendly Indian who quickly understands the situation and warns me to be careful because a lot of white women have lost their money like this. I agree to deposit the money with him and that he will give me a confirmation of the return ticket and a receipt and promises to return it all if the passport application is rejected.
Somehow or other I understand that this is all reckless but I rely on my instincts for people. The important thing is that Lketinga should know where he has to go when he gets his passport to name the date for his flight. ‘One step further forward,’ I tell myself bravely.
At a nearby market we buy Lketinga trousers, a shirt and shoes, which isn’t easy because we have diametrically opposite tastes. He wants either white or red trousers. I reckon that white is impossible in the bush while red is not exactly a ‘manly’ colour in western clothing. Fate comes to my aid: all the trousers are too short for my six and a half foot man. Eventually we find a pair of jeans that will do. When we get to shoes it’s the same thing again. Up until now he’s only ever worn sandals made of old car tyres. We agree on trainers. Two hours later he’s all dressed up in new clothes, but I don’t like it any better. He, on the other hand, is very proud that for the first time in his life he’s wearing trousers, a shirt and trainers.
Of course, by now it’s too late to go back to the passport office so Lketinga suggests we go over to the north bank. He wants me to meet friends and show me where he lived before he moved in with Priscilla. I’m not sure because it’s already four p.m., and that will mean returning to the south bank in the dark. But once again he says, ‘No problem, Corinne.’ So we wait for a matatu to the north but it’s not until the third bus that we find even a corner to squeeze into, and within seconds I’m dripping sweat.
Luckily we soon come to a big Masai village where for the first time I see women wearing jewellery. They welcome me cheerfully, and there’s a great commotion between the huts. I’m not sure which amazes them more: me or Lketinga’s new outfit. They all finger the material of the shirt, the trousers and are even amazed by the shoes. Slowly but surely the shirt gets darker. Two or three women try to talk to me at once, and I sit there smiling but speechless, understanding nothing.
In the meantime lots of children have come into the huts, and they all either stare at me or giggle. I notice how dirty they all are. Suddenly Lketinga says ‘Wait here,’ and is gone. I’m not very comfortable. A woman offers me milk but, looking at the flies, I decline. Another gives me a Masai armband, which I put on with glee. It would seem they all make jewellery of some sort.
A little later Lketinga comes back and says: ‘You hungry?’ This time I honestly say yes because I really am. We go into the nearest bush restaurant, a bit like the one in Ukunda only bigger. Here there is one area reserved for women and, further away, a separate one for men. Of course I have to go with the women, and Lketinga goes off with the other warriors. I’m not very happy with the situation; I would have preferred to be in my little hut on the south bank. A plate, in which meat and even a few tomatoes swim in a liquid that could almost be a sauce, is put in front of me. On a second plate there is a type of flat bread. I watch another woman with the same ‘menu’ breaking up the bread, dipping it into the sauce, taking a piece of meat and putting the whole lot into her mouth with her hand. I copy her, although I need two hands. All of a sudden it goes quiet; everybody is watching me eat, which irritates me. There are even a dozen or so children gathered around me watching me with big eyes. Then everybody starts talking again all at once, but even so I have the feeling of being watched. I swallow it all down as quickly as possible and hope Lketinga turns up again soon. When there’s nothing left but bones I go to a sort of barrel from which people get water to run over their hands and wash the fat off, although it obviously doesn’t work.
I wait and wait. At last Lketinga turns up. What I really want to do is throw my arms around his neck but he gives me a funny look, almost angry, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done. I can see he’s eaten too, by the state of his shirt. ‘Come,’ he says to me, ‘Come.’ As we walk towards the road I ask him, ‘Lketinga, what’s the problem?’ The expression on his face scares me. It becomes clear that I’m the reason for his displeasure when he takes my left hand and says: ‘This hand no good for food! No eat with this one!’ I understand the words, but why it makes him so angry I have no idea. I ask him why, but he doesn’t answer.
Tired out by all our efforts and disconcerted by this new puzzle, I feel nobody understands me and wish we were back home in our little house on the south bank. I try to tell Lketinga this, saying ‘Let’s go home.’ He gives me a look, but of what sort I have no idea because once again all I can see is the gleaming mother-of-pearl button and the whites of his eyes. ‘No,’ he says. ‘All Masai go to Malindi tonight.’ My heart skips a beat. If I’ve understood him properly, he really intends to go to Malindi tonight for a tourist dance. ‘It’s good business in Malindi,’ I hear him say. He notices that I am less than enthusiastic and in a concerned voice asks me: ‘You are tired?’ Yes, I’m tired. I don’t even know exactly where Malindi is, and I’ve no clean clothes. He says it’s no problem, I can sleep here with the ‘Masai ladies’ and he’ll be back tomorrow. To stay here, alone without him, without being able to talk to anyone, just the idea fills me with panic. ‘No, we go to Malindi together,’ I decide. Lketinga laughs again – at long last – and once again there’s the familiar ‘No problem.’ Along with some other Masai, we get into a public bus, which is a lot more comfortable than the dangerously overcrowded matatus. When I wake again we’re in Malindi.
The first thing we do is find a Native Lodging House, because after the show it’s likely everything will be booked out. There’s not much choice. We find one where other Masai have already booked in and get the last empty room. It’s barely ten feet by twelve. In each corner between two concrete walls stands an iron bed with thin sagging mattresses and two wool blankets. A naked bulb hangs from the ceiling, and there are two chairs sitting as if they were lost in the middle of the room. At least it costs next to nothing, about four Swiss francs a night, roughly. We still have half an hour before the Masai dancers’ performance begins. I go to get a Coke.
When I come back into the room a few minutes later I can hardly believe my eyes. Lketinga is sitting on one of the mattresses, his jeans down to his knees, pulling and tearing at them. Clearly he’s trying to get them off because we have to leave and he clearly can’t go on stage in European clothes. It’s all I can do to hold back the laughter. He can’t get the jeans off because he still has his trainers on and he can’t get them over them. As a result, the trousers are halfway down his legs and he can’t get them either up or down. Laughing, I bend down and try to pull the shoes out of the jeans. But he shouts: ‘No, no Corinne, out with this,’ pointing at the trousers. ‘Yes, yes,’ I reply and try to make him understand that he has to get back into them and then take his shoes off before he can get out of the jeans.
The half hour is long gone, and we rush to the hotel. I like him a thousand times better in his usual outfit. He’s already got huge blisters on his heels from the new shoes, which he obviously wears without socks. We get to the show just in time, and I take a place among the white audience, a few of whom give me black looks. I’m still wearing the same clothes that I put on this morning and they certainly haven’t got any cleaner or more attractive. Nor do I smell quite as fresh as these white people straight from their showers, and that’s saying nothing about my long greasy hair. Even so, I am probably the proudest woman in the room. As I watch these men dance I am overcome once again by the familiar feeling of belonging.
It’s almost midnight by the time the dance and show are over. The only thing I want to do is sleep. Back at the lodging I feel I really have to wash, but Lketinga comes into our room followed by another Masai and reckons his friend can sleep in the second bed. I’m not exactly overjoyed by the idea of sharing this ten-by-twelve room with a strange man, but I say nothing for fear of seeming impolite. So still in my clothes I squeeze into the small sagging bed next to Lketinga and, despite everything, fall asleep.
In the morning I get to shower at last, even if it’s hardly luxurious with an intermittent water flow, and ice-cold at that. Despite the dirty clothes I feel a bit better on the trip back to the south bank.
In Mombasa I buy a simple dress because we want to call by the passport office and see if we can get the forms. Today it works. After checking the provisional ticket and confirmation that the guarantee money has been lodged we are finally given an application form. But as we start trying to answer the rows of questions, I realize that I hardly understand most of them and decide to get the help of Ursula and her husband.
After another five-hour journey we are at long last back at our little hut on the south bank. Priscilla has been very worried because she didn’t know where we spent the night. Lketinga has to explain to her why he’s wearing European clothing. I go to lie down for a bit because it’s really hot outside. I’m sure I’ve already lost several pounds.
There are just six days left before I’m due to fly home, and I still haven’t spoken to Lketinga about our future together in Kenya. All our efforts are directed towards getting this stupid passport. I start thinking about what I could work at here. Living on these modest means certainly doesn’t require much money, but even so I need something to do and a bit of income. That’s when I get the idea of looking for a shop in one of the hotels. I could employ one or two seamstresses, bring in a few patterns from Switzerland and run a little dressmaker’s. There are more than enough fine fabrics to be had, good seamstresses too who would work for three hundred francs a month or so, and selling is what I do best.
Excited by my idea, I call Lketinga into the hut and try to explain to him, but I soon realize that he doesn’t understand. But to me it’s important so I call Priscilla. She translates while Lketinga just nods now and again. Priscilla explains to me that, without getting married or a work permit, my idea is impossible. But the idea is good because she knows some people who make good money from made-to-measure clothing. I ask Lketinga if he might be interested in getting married. Contrary to my expectations, his reaction is restrained. With a certain degree of common sense, he says that if I have such a good business in Switzerland, I shouldn’t sell it but instead come to Kenya two or three times a year for ‘holidays’ and he would always be waiting for me.
Now I’m a bit up in the air. I’ve been ready and willing to give up everything back home for him, and he’s talking about holidays! I’m disappointed. He notices immediately and says, correctly of course, that he doesn’t really know me very well, or my family at all. He needs time to think. And I should take my time too, and anyway he might come to Switzerland. I say simply, ‘Lketinga, when I do something, I don’t do it by halves!’ Either he feels the way I do and wants me to come, or I’ll try to forget everything that’s happened between us.
The next day we go to the hotel to find Ursula and her husband to fill out the form. But we miss them because they’ve gone off on a safari for several days. Once again I curse my poor command of English. We look for someone else to translate for us. Lketinga will only have a Masai; he doesn’t trust anyone else.
We go back to Ukunda and spend hours in the teahouse until a Masai turns up who can read, write and speak English. His attitude of superiority annoys me, but he sits down with Lketinga and fills it all out. His opinion, however, is that nothing here works without bribery. Since he shows me his own passport and has apparently been twice to Germany, I have to believe him. He adds that my white skin will push the size of the bribe up at least fivefold. For a little compensation he will go to Mombasa with Lketinga the next day and fix everything. I agree with bad grace, but I’m gradually losing my patience and can’t face arguing with that arrogant passport official anymore. For just fifty francs he will sort everything out: even go with Lketinga to the airport. I hand over a bit of extra cash for bribes, and the pair set off to Mombasa.
At long last I retire to the beach and spoil myself with a lie in the sun and good hotel food that of course costs ten times what you’d pay in a local restaurant. In the evening I go back to the hut and find a furious Lketinga waiting for me. I ask him excitedly what happened in Mombasa, but all he wants to know is where I’ve been. I answer with a laugh: ‘On the beach and at the hotel for a meal.’ He wants to know who I talked to. I think nothing of it and say Edy and a couple of other Masai with whom I exchanged a few words on the beach. Only slowly does the dark cloud disappear from his face, and he tells me matter-of-factly that the passport will take three to four weeks.
I’m pleased and try to tell him about Switzerland and my family. He lets me know he likes Eric but doesn’t know about other people. I reflect that I’m not exactly sure how the people in Biel will react to him either. And he’s going to be confused by the traffic in the streets, the exotic pubs and restaurants and the general luxury.
My last few days in Kenya are spent somewhat more quietly. We stroll into the hotel from time to time, or along the beach or spend the whole day in the village with different people, drinking tea or cooking. When the last day dawns I’m sad and try hard to keep my composure. Even Lketinga is nervous. Lots of people bring me little presents, mostly bits of Masai jewellery. My arms are draped in bangles almost up to my elbows.
Lketinga washes my hair for me once more, helps me pack and keeps asking: ‘Corinne, really you will come back to me?’ He doesn’t seem to believe that I’ll come back. He says lots of white women say that but never come back, or if they do, they go off with another man next time. ‘Lketinga, I don’t want another man. Only you!’ I repeat again and again. I’ll write lots, send photos and tell him when I’ve settled everything. I still have to find someone to buy the shop from me and take over my flat and all the furniture.
He should let me know via Priscilla when he plans to come, if he gets his passport. ‘If it doesn’t work out or you decide you don’t want to come to Switzerland, just tell me,’ I say to him. I will need about three months to deal with everything. He asks me how long three months is: ‘How many full moons?’ ‘Three full moons,’ I reply, laughing.
We spend every minute of the last day together and decide to go to the Bush Baby Disco until four in the morning and not sleep but make the most of our time. We talk in language, signs and signals all night long and it’s always the same question: will I really come back? I promise for the twentieth time and realize how genuinely worked up Lketinga is too.
Half an hour before my departure we turn up at the hotel, accompanied by two other Masai. The whites waiting for us, tired from the early start, look at us with obvious irritation. With my suitcase and the three Masai with their rungu clubs we must make a curious picture. Then it’s time for me to get on board the coach. Lketinga and I fall into each other’s arms one more time and he says: ‘No problem, Corinne. I wait here, or I come to you!’ And then – I can hardly believe it – he kisses me on the mouth. I’m moved. I climb on board and wave goodbye to the three figures vanishing in the darkness.