Free The White Masai by Corinne Hofmann Page B

possible husband. I want to go home to Mombasa. Who knows, maybe he’s turned up in the meantime. One way or another, I’ve been back in Kenya a month now.

Jutta
    W e spend one more night in the hut and head back to Mombasa the next day. I stride toward the village with my heart in my mouth. Even at a distance I can hear unfamiliar voices, and Priscilla calls out: ‘ Jambo , Jutta!’ My heart takes a little leap of joy at her words: after nearly two weeks with barely any conversation the arrival of a white woman is welcome.
    She greets me coolly, however, and speaks to Priscilla in Swahili. Once again I’m left understanding nothing! But then she turns to me with a smile and says in German, ‘So, how do you like life in the bush? If you weren’t covered in dirt, I wouldn’t have believed you were up to it,’ and she looks me up and down with a critical eye. I tell her that I’m glad to be back here because my hair itches and I’ve been bitten all over. Jutta laughs: ‘Fleas and lice, that’s all that’s wrong with you! But if you go into the hut with them you’ll never get them out!’
    She says the best way to deal with fleas is to take a dip in the sea and then a shower in one of the hotels, a luxury she makes the most of whenever she’s in Mombasa. I ask doubtfully if that’s possible as I’m not staying in one of them, but she dismisses my fears: ‘There are so many white people that you can get away without being noticed.’ She even goes to get food at the hotel buffets, although not always the same one of course. I’m impressed by Jutta and amazed by all her little tricks. She promises to come with me later and disappears into her hut.
    Priscilla tries to unbraid my hair. It hurts terribly. The hairs have all become matted and stuck together with smoke and dirt. I’ve never been so dirty in my life and feel as bad as I look. After more than an hour – and hair falling in clumps – we succeed: all the plaits are undone. I look likeI’ve been struck by lightning. Armed with soap, shampoo and fresh clothes, I call for Jutta and we go off together. She has pencils and a sketchpad with her. When I ask her why, she says ‘To earn money. It’s easy to make money in Mombasa, that’s why I’m here for a couple of weeks.’
    ‘How?’ I ask.
    ‘I draw caricatures of tourists. It takes ten to fifteen minutes, and I make ten francs a picture. If I can do four or five people in a day, I can make a decent living.’
    For five years now she’s been getting along like this; she knows every trick and comes across as hugely self-confident. I’m in awe of her.
    When we get to the beach I plunge straight into the refreshing brine and don’t come out for an hour. When I do, Jutta shows me the money she has made in the meantime. ‘Okay, let’s go shower,’ she says with a laugh. ‘You just have to relax and walk past the beach guard with an air of self-confidence, because we’re white, you always have to remember that!’ It works! I spend ages under the shower washing my hair maybe five times over until I finally feel clean. Then I put on a little light summer dress, and we go off for the traditional four-o’clock tea. All for nothing.
    That’s when Jutta asks what I’m doing in the village. I tell her my story, and she listens attentively before giving me her advice: ‘If you really are determined to stay here and want your Masai, then there are a few things that are necessary. For a start you have to rent your own hut – that costs next to nothing, and you’ll have peace. Secondly you should hang on to the money you’ve brought and start earning: for example, get customers for me to draw, and we’ll share the proceeds. Thirdly, don’t listen to any black on the coast. When you get down to it all they want is money. To find out if your Lketinga is really worth it, tomorrow we’ll go to the travel agent’s and see if the money you left is still there. If it is, then the tourist industry