On the fifth overcast day the first raindrops began to fall. A Sunday, our day off, and we rush to spread plastic sheeting over the manyatta, not an easy task in the rapidly rising wind. Mama is struggling with her hut just like we are with ours. Then the rain pours down, a rainstorm the like of which I have never experienced before. Before long everything is under water, the wind blows damp into every crack, and we have to extinguish the fire to stop sparks from being blown everywhere. I put on every warm piece of clothing I have. Within an hour the first drops of water are already falling inside our hut, despite the plastic sheeting. I can only imagine what it must be like for Mama and Saguna!
The water is creeping in the door towards our sleeping space, and I use a cup to scoop the earth into a dam. The wind is tugging the plastic sheeting, and I imagine it being ripped off at any moment. It sounds as if there’s a river raging outside. The water’s coming in through the sides of the hut now, and I do my best to get things off the ground. I stuff our blankets into my travel bag so that at least they will remain dry.
Suddenly, after two hours, the torrent ceases. We crawl out of the hut, but I no longer recognize the landscape. A few huts have been all but swept away. The goats are running around in confusion. Mama is standing, soaked to the skin, outside her hut, which looks flooded with Saguna standing in one corner shivering and crying. I bring her over and put one of my dry sweaters on her; at least she can wrap herself up in it. Everyone is coming out now to see the streams the water has carved rushing down towards the river. Suddenly we hear a loud bang. I turn to Lketinga in shock to ask what it is. Wrapped in his red blanket, he just laughs and says the floodwater in the river will have reached the edge of the cliffs, and indeed there’s a roaring as if from a giant waterfall.
Lketinga and I are keen to go down to the big river, but Mama says no; it’s far too dangerous, she insists. So we go down to the other side where the lorry became stuck in the sand. This river is some seventy-five feet across; the other one maybe three times that. Lketinga has pulled his woollen blanket up to cover his head, and for the first time up here I’ve got my jeans, a pullover and jacket on. The few people we bump into stare at my appearance. They’ve never seen a woman in trousers before. I have to watch that they don’t fall down, as I can no longer do them up across my stomach.
The roaring keeps getting louder to the point where we can hardly hear each other speak. Then all of a sudden I see the rolling river. It’s impossible to believe how much it’s changed! A brown mass of water carrying all before it, including bushes and stones. I’m left speechless by this demonstration of the power of nature. Then I think I hear a cry and ask Lketinga if he heard it too. He says no, but I can hear it quite clearly now, someone shouting out, and now he hears it too. Where can it be coming from? We run along the upper riverbank, taking care not to slip.
After just a few yards we see a terrible sight – two children up to their necks in water hanging on to a few rocks in the middle of the raging river. Lketinga doesn’t waste a second: he shouts something to them as he clambers down the bank. It looks terrifying. Every other second their heads are submerged by the onrushing torrent, but their hands cling tightly to the rocks. I know my husband can’t swim and is afraid of deep water. If he loses his footing in the rushing torrent, he’s done for. Even so I can understand why he’s trying to save these children, and I’m proud of him.
He grabs a long stick and uses it to fight his way through the river to the rocks, all the time shouting to the children. I’m just standing there, praying to my guardian angel. He reaches the rocks, throws the girl across his back and fights his way back. I watch in spellbound horror as the boy clings on, his head barely visible now. I rush down into the water to meet my husband and take the girl off him so he can go back straight away. The child is heavy, and it’s a real effort to carry her the seven feet back to the riverbank. I lay her down and immediately throw my jacket over her. She’s cold as ice. My darling has saved the little boy too who’s now spitting out water as Lketinga massages him. I do the same for the girl, and slowly her stiff limbs begin to regain warmth. But the boy’s gone listless and can’t walk. Lketinga carries him home while I let the girl lean on me. I’m horrified to think how close both children came to dying.
Mama frowns when she hears the story and tells the children off. Apparently they were out with the goats and were crossing the riverbed when the flood struck. Many of the goats were washed away, although a few made it to the bank. My husband tells me the first wave’s always taller than a man and comes over the cliff edge so suddenly and quickly that nobody who’s at the river stands a chance. Every year several animals and people are drowned. The children stay with us awhile but we’ve no hot tea, because all the firewood is soaked.
We go to take a look at the shop. The veranda is covered in a thick layer of sludge; inside is dry except for a couple of puddles. Then we go down to the chai-house, but there’s no tea to be had there either. The roaring of the big river is really loud, and we go to take a look. It’s frightening to see. Fathers Roberto and Giuliani are there too, staring at the power of the water. I mention what happened at the other river, and Giuliani for the first time comes up to my husband and takes him by the hand in thanks.
On the way back we fetch the little stove and charcoal to bring home so that at least we can make hot tea for everybody. It’s an uncomfortable night because everything is so damp, but in the morning the sun’s out again, and we spread our clothes and blankets to dry on the thorn bushes in the heat.
A day later the landscape changes once again, but this time it’s soft and gentle: grass sprouting everywhere and flowers here and there springing up from the earth so quickly we can almost watch them grow. Thousands of tiny white butterflies cover the ground like snowflakes. It’s a magnificent site to watch life suddenly bloom in this harsh landscape. Within a week all of Barsaloi has become a sea of little purple flowers.
But there’s a downside too. There are awful numbers of mosquitoes swarming around in the evening. Not only do we sleep under the mosquito net, but it’s so bad I even light one of the repellent coils in the manyatta.
Ten days after the rains we’re still cut off from the outside world by the two rivers in flood. It’s already possible in some places to get across on foot, but it would be unwise to risk it in a car. Giuliani expressly warned me: several vehicles have already been caught in the river and you could watch the quicksand swallow them up.
A few days later we risk a journey to Maralal, taking the long route because the jungle route is wet and slippery. This time there isn’t a lorry available straight away, and we have to hang around for four days. We drop in on Sophia, who’s well. She’s already so fat she can hardly bend over. She hasn’t heard from Jutta.
My husband and I spend a lot of time in the Tourist Lodge because, as we have the time, it’s absolutely fascinating to watch the wild animals’ watering hole. On the last day we buy a bed with a mattress, a table with four chairs and a little cupboard. The furniture isn’t as nice as the stuff in Mombasa, and it’s dearer. The lorry driver is unimpressed when he hears he’s supposed to pick this lot up too, but I’m paying the bill! We drive behind him, and this time the trip back to Barsaloi takes almost six hours but with no problems: not even a flat tyre to change. First of all we put the furniture out in the back room then get on with the usual unloading.