system.”
Not being Caucasian, her blush didn’t show, but the
expression was the same. I, too, had been embarrassed by the sudden, violent cycles of diarrhea and
constipation, and most of all by the methane, though more recently my
body had begun to adjust.
“I will keep doing it this way,” she insisted. “This is the
way my mother taught me.”
August, 2011 continued
We began to catch up with the refugee caravans by
mid-afternoon. The first contained about fifty people, shuffling along at a
pace of perhaps a kilometer an hour. It was much worse than in Sigor, for they
made no effort to get out of the way of the Land Rover — many, I suspected,
would not have cared if they had been run over — and it took a considerable
length of time to weave our way through them, all the while aware of their eyes
an arm-length outside the windows. Their lighter coloring and thinner features
told me that they were Samburu. They had come even further than we, from the
vicinity of Lake Turkana, where the normally bountiful supplies of fish had
become exhausted from the excessive demand.
At least they were away from the water and its mosquitoes.
Fewer would die from malaria.
In due course we came upon another, somewhat larger group,
readily distinguishable because some of them still carried significant
possessions, either in carts, on packs, or slung on poles. They even drove a
pair of oxen and a few bony cows ahead of them. I noticed four men huddled
around a bowl of milk and blood, a traditional meal of the pastoralists of the
Rift Valley, while a knot of women and children watched, quiet with envy. My
hands, lubed with perspiration, slid along the stock of my rifle. Greg gave me
a glance, and I knew he saw what I did: these tribesmen had enough strength
left to cause trouble should they wish.
Three young men, painfully lean but still muscular, were
very slow to get out of our path. They glowered at us as we passed. I pretended
to be distracted by the constant bouncing from the ruts and chuck holes, but I
could feel their eyes riveted to us. It was like the sensation a woman gets
when a man blatantly undresses her in his mind.
The last obstacle was a boy who strode behind one of the
oxen with a thin whip. For a full two minutes, though it was obvious he knew we
were behind him, he refused to move himself or his animal out of the way.
Finally the track widened and Greg began to pull around. Suddenly the boy began lashing at us. The sound of leather
on metal made me jump. The boy shouted — a guttural, wordless roar. The tip of his lash struck the
steering wheel.
Greg stepped firmly on the throttle, shooting us into the
clear, and didn’t let up until the irregularity of the road shook us more than
our aging bones could tolerate. He eased off, put the .45 back into its holster
on the dash, got out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. The boy, his
image shrinking out of sight in the mirror, was laughing that his whip had
spurred us so well. His poor ox could not have been so vigorous.
“Bloody little blighter,” Greg cursed.
My hands were shaking. I turned to share a sigh of relief
with KoCherop, only to find her gazing ahead, lips pursed, as if nothing of
importance had occurred. Greg noticed and, like mine, his eyebrows drew
together.
Ahead in the distance, well away from the Samburu, an escarpment loomed. “We’ll pull over when we
reach that,” Greg announced, pointing. “Time for a rest.”
September, 2001
We were walking down a trail between two plots of
farmland, one belonging to KoCherop’s uncle, the other to her brother. For
once, the rain had come in full vigor, and neither locusts nor the flocks of
marauding queleas had come to steal the grain. Dozens of tribesmen worked the
fields, the glistening brown backs of both men and women happily bending down
to harvest a bumper crop.
“Why do you do what you do?” KoCherop asked suddenly.
The question had come from out of the blue. “You mean, why
am I
Not being Caucasian, her blush didn’t show, but the
expression was the same. I, too, had been embarrassed by the sudden, violent cycles of diarrhea and
constipation, and most of all by the methane, though more recently my
body had begun to adjust.
“I will keep doing it this way,” she insisted. “This is the
way my mother taught me.”
August, 2011 continued
We began to catch up with the refugee caravans by
mid-afternoon. The first contained about fifty people, shuffling along at a
pace of perhaps a kilometer an hour. It was much worse than in Sigor, for they
made no effort to get out of the way of the Land Rover — many, I suspected,
would not have cared if they had been run over — and it took a considerable
length of time to weave our way through them, all the while aware of their eyes
an arm-length outside the windows. Their lighter coloring and thinner features
told me that they were Samburu. They had come even further than we, from the
vicinity of Lake Turkana, where the normally bountiful supplies of fish had
become exhausted from the excessive demand.
At least they were away from the water and its mosquitoes.
Fewer would die from malaria.
In due course we came upon another, somewhat larger group,
readily distinguishable because some of them still carried significant
possessions, either in carts, on packs, or slung on poles. They even drove a
pair of oxen and a few bony cows ahead of them. I noticed four men huddled
around a bowl of milk and blood, a traditional meal of the pastoralists of the
Rift Valley, while a knot of women and children watched, quiet with envy. My
hands, lubed with perspiration, slid along the stock of my rifle. Greg gave me
a glance, and I knew he saw what I did: these tribesmen had enough strength
left to cause trouble should they wish.
Three young men, painfully lean but still muscular, were
very slow to get out of our path. They glowered at us as we passed. I pretended
to be distracted by the constant bouncing from the ruts and chuck holes, but I
could feel their eyes riveted to us. It was like the sensation a woman gets
when a man blatantly undresses her in his mind.
The last obstacle was a boy who strode behind one of the
oxen with a thin whip. For a full two minutes, though it was obvious he knew we
were behind him, he refused to move himself or his animal out of the way.
Finally the track widened and Greg began to pull around. Suddenly the boy began lashing at us. The sound of leather
on metal made me jump. The boy shouted — a guttural, wordless roar. The tip of his lash struck the
steering wheel.
Greg stepped firmly on the throttle, shooting us into the
clear, and didn’t let up until the irregularity of the road shook us more than
our aging bones could tolerate. He eased off, put the .45 back into its holster
on the dash, got out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. The boy, his
image shrinking out of sight in the mirror, was laughing that his whip had
spurred us so well. His poor ox could not have been so vigorous.
“Bloody little blighter,” Greg cursed.
My hands were shaking. I turned to share a sigh of relief
with KoCherop, only to find her gazing ahead, lips pursed, as if nothing of
importance had occurred. Greg noticed and, like mine, his eyebrows drew
together.
Ahead in the distance, well away from the Samburu, an escarpment loomed. “We’ll pull over when we
reach that,” Greg announced, pointing. “Time for a rest.”
September, 2001
We were walking down a trail between two plots of
farmland, one belonging to KoCherop’s uncle, the other to her brother. For
once, the rain had come in full vigor, and neither locusts nor the flocks of
marauding queleas had come to steal the grain. Dozens of tribesmen worked the
fields, the glistening brown backs of both men and women happily bending down
to harvest a bumper crop.
“Why do you do what you do?” KoCherop asked suddenly.
The question had come from out of the blue. “You mean, why
am I
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