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
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
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