Reunion in Barsaloi Read Online Free

forty-gallon canister. When we got home I had to decide where to store it, given that there were always fires in and around the manyattas . Thank God Father Giuliani helped out, letting us store it in the Mission. The filling stations today are obviously a godsend to everyone who has a car. But then back then there were no more than ten cars in the whole district.
    We drive slowly in our Land Cruisers past the market, which hasn’t changed much. There are still lots of wooden stalls next to one another with colourful pretty Masai blankets and cloth waving in the wind. Behind, as ever, is the post office. Only later do I find out, to my astonishment, that it contains four computers that people from the Mission and former schoolchildren can use to access the internet and the wider world.
    We drive as slowly as possible, looking out for James. I suggest we drive once around the whole town, as a group of white people will stand out and James will be sure to hear of our arrival.
    The centre of Maralal is unchanged despite the fact that the town has grown in all directions. We pass my Italian friend Sophia’s little house and memories of her come flooding back. She was a good friend to me back then. We were lucky enough to both be pregnant at the same time and give birth to our daughters the same week. We were the first white women to have children in this area and were able to share a room in the hospital in Wamba. It was thanks to Sophia and her Italian cooking that I was able to put on the 22 pounds I needed in the last month of pregnancy to reach the 150 pounds that was considered the minimum weight for giving birth. Nowadays, at five foot nine, I weigh substantially more even when not in the ninth month of pregnancy. How I wish I could see Sophia and her daughter again!
    When we’ve done our tour of the town we park in front of the lodging house where I used to spend the night with Lketinga. No sooner have we got out of the cars than we’re surrounded by at least eight young men trying to sell us things. One of them tells us that just a few weeks ago, here in this very lodging house, they were making a film, called The White Masai . He asks if we’ve ever heard of it. One of the others nods in agreement and asks if we’re part of the film crew. We say no to everything and go on into the restaurant.
    The décor is different to how I remember it. The centre of the room is dominated by a bar counter with a wire grille in front of it. We get a cola passed through. The young men from outside have piled in after us, a few of them smelling of beer. One of them asks me my name and I give one at random. I don’t want to declare myself to be the original ‘white Masai’ not least because I have no idea how welcome the film crew were in Maralal. On the other hand, what if James were to walk in at any moment?
    To change the subject I ask if there are any samosas to be had. Immediately one of the men runs off and come back in a few minutes to lay ten samosas wrapped in old newspaper on the table. I wolf down three of them happily. My companions Albert and Klaus, however, seem to lose their appetite at the sight of the printer’s ink soaked in fat.
    But what about James? After half an hour he still hasn’t turned up. What if he didn’t get my last letter? Not that I specified an exact meeting place. Maralal was clear enough in my memory.
    Meanwhile the samosas on the table have been joined by a mountain of tourist souvenirs, handmade Masai jewellery, little wooden headrestsand even rungus – the warrior’s fighting clubs. The atmosphere, however, is getting less comfortable. We pay up, an enormous sum in local terms, for the samosas and leave the remainder to the other guests. Outside there’s still no sign of James so we decide to drive up to the Safari Lodge to check in to our rooms.
    I have very specific memories of this Lodge. I sat out on the terrace here the first time I came to Maralal looking for my husband-to-be. For