Free Reunion in Barsaloi by Corinne Hofmann Page B

If you look after the money, you need never go hungry. And all of that simply because you once had the courage to marry a white woman. I think that’s the way people look at it, that possibly it makes people envious and a lot of outsiders want to spoil the good relationship we have, by making up nasty things. It’s true that I have a car in Switzerland – I had a car even here in Africa. I don’t own a house, like you say people told you, I pay rent every month for one. And the story about an airplane is just laughable.’
    Despite how unhappy all this mischief-making by other people has made me, I can hardly suppress a smile at the thought of jetting around the place in my own airplane. Lketinga on the other hand looks a bit embarrassed now and in his gruff voice says: ‘It’s okay, now I believe you, really. Now you explain it all to me, I believe you. But sometimes I just don’t know what’s true anymore. Even James tells me all sorts of things and I just have to believe him, even if sometimes I have my doubts. I think that because he went to school he wants to make a career for himself, to become like a government minister. But I’m a Samburu, a proper Samburu, I have my animals and my family. This is okay for me.’
    I take my ex-husband’s hand and look him in the eyes, telling him: ‘I wouldn’t have come back here if I had ever done anything wrong on purpose. When I left, all I was thinking about was saving my life. And I think you can trust your brother. Who else can you trust, if not your own family?’ When I’ve finished I have to turn my head away to conceal my emotions, especially as Albert and Klaus have almost caught up with us.
    In the meantime we’ve reached the dried-up river bed and I’m thankful that there’s a lot going on. Immediately in front of us there’s a low singing sound coming from a waterhole around which a few camels are standing. Two arms appear out of the waterhole throwing buckets of water in a regular rhythm into a hollow lined with plastic sheeting. As soon as it lands the precious liquid is slurped up by the camels. As we come closer the animals turn away and gradually move off. The warrior to whom the arms belong looks up, stops singing and climbs out of the ditch. He looks suspiciously at us, replies to Lketinga’s greeting and trots off after his camels. This is the time of day when from all around girls, boys or warriors bring their herds down to the river. Before long the whole river bed is swarming with goats and a few sheep of different colours. Some two hundred yards away we spot the traces of a small stream. Allaround the line it makes are large patches of dark sand indicating that water is still flowing just beneath the surface. Our ‘washing place’, where Lketinga and I used to wash each other, was a bit farther downstream from here but there’s no water flowing there now.
    We wander over to the herds of goats. The girls in their traditional costumes use their little sticks to try to keep their herds together. A few warriors strut among the herds. I notice that instead of the usual spears some men are carrying rifles. Lketinga explains why: ‘Ever since the bloody conflict with the Turkana many people now have guns.’ This new way of carrying arms makes the atmosphere almost threatening. I notice too that none of the girls are wearing the leather loincloth decorated with glass beads and that instead they all have a European-style, usually chequered skirt. On the other hand they still go bare-breasted wearing only their traditional necklaces.
    There are goats bleating and lowing all over the place. Lketinga exchanges a couple of words here and there with the goatherds, and we stroll up to an unusual enormous tree that hangs over the river bed offering an inviting place to sit and rest. Lketinga and I sit on a giant tree root and from this slightly raised vantage point watch all the good-natured commotion. Klaus is thrilled to get such wonderful footage of