Reunion in Barsaloi Read Free Page A

out in the distance to a few thorn acacia trees and the red ochre earth. Looking at this view I get the first feeling that this really is home. At last this is something I recognize of the Kenya I love. The colour of the earth, the shapes of the trees and the sensation of overwhelming space reminds me of Barsaloi and a wave of happiness washes over me, pulling me onwards. But we still have a long way to travel before we reach my African home.
    It is evening by the time we get to Nyahururu, which at 8, 081 feet above sea level is the highest city in Kenya. On the right hand side of the street I recognize the old lodging house we used to use, the Nyahururu Space Haven Hotel, although the blue-painted façade is now pink. It’simmediately opposite the bus station so it’s incredibly busy around now. Minibus drivers parp their horns to attract customers. This is a major transport hub. Arriving here from Maralal used to be like reaching the first outpost in Kenya of the ‘big wide world’. Spending the night in Nyahururu on the way back from Nairobi was for me always a milestone marking the end of civilization, though I was always happy because I knew that in just sixteen miles I would be in Samburu country, my African family’s homeland.
    I absolutely have to go into the bus station to try to find the old bus I used to take. The appearance of three white people with photographic equipment and video cameras immediately creates a stir and we’re surrounded by people asking questions or trying to sell things. I ask after the brightly painted old Maralal bus and am disappointed to be told that only matatus make the journey nowadays. It’s a shame because I had imagined myself getting on that very bus next morning for the four-hour trip to Maralal just like in the old days. Even the process of loading up the bus used to fascinate me: the way they packed tables, cupboards, mattresses, water containers, boxes and other random possessions inside and on top of the bus. Now and then there would be an extra frisson to find the first few brightly decorated warriors with their long red hair mixing with the other passengers.
    That was what I had been looking forward to: arriving in Maralal along with a jolly bunch of locals. Every trip was an adventure, not even knowing if we’d get there. How often had I sat there in the dirt by the side of the road out in the wilderness, the only white woman amongst all the Africans, stranded because our bus had got stuck in the mud? We would cut down branches from the shrubs to lay under the wheels until they could get purchase on them and we could get going again.
    Such a pity that the bus, which has so many memories for me, is no longer there. Like it or lump it, I would have to make the journey in the comparative comfort of our Land Cruiser. With a last look around the square we set off to Thomson’s Falls Lodging, where white people normally stay around here. It is an unpretentious but well-appointed lodging house, and as soon as we reach the entrance women from the souvenir shops are already swarming around us: ‘Jambo, customer, how are you? I’m Esther. Come to my shop!’ More women join in, all trying to impress their name upon us to make sure we go to the right shoptomorrow and buy the right thing. Their problem is that tomorrow is Sunday and therefore from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon they will be in church, so they want us to wait so as not to disappoint them. I’m afraid there’s no chance of that: I have a family in Barsaloi who’ve already been waiting for fourteen years.
    Before our departure we go to see Thomson’s Falls, the famous 236-feet high waterfall. It’s funny that I’ve done this trip so many times and until now never thought to stop and see the tourist sights.
    After our visit to the waterfall we manage to escape relatively easily as the women have locked up the souvenir shops. This is where it really begins to get interesting for me as our