Africa, My Passion

  Praise for Corinne Hofmann

  ‘It is the most extraordinary story (as the four million people who have already bought the book in Europe would no doubt agree!)’ – Robert Gwyn Palmer, Sunday Telegraph

  ‘What an amazing story! One of the bravest and most vivid I’ve read in years, I’m not surprised it’s a bestseller’ – Deborah Moggach

  ‘Hofmann is a brilliant observer … a talented writer, describing with unflinching detail the consequences of a passion that combines the element of a holiday romance with troubling fantasies about the noble savage. Gripping’ – Joan Smith, Independent

  ‘It’s an astonishing story of love at first sight. So astonishing, it would become a bestselling book and a hit movie, fascinating readers and audiences around the world. She was white, well-educated, from wealthy Switzerland. He was a Masai warrior from a remote village in the poorest part of Kenya. They didn’t speak the same language, they knew nothing about each other, yet, from the first glance, they just clicked. It sounds like a Mills & Boon romance, doesn’t it, except every word of it is true, even down to the white wedding and a beautiful baby daughter. But now there’s a new twist – the surprising final chapter of The White Masai …’ – 60 Minutes

  ‘It shows the strength of love at first sight’ – Desmond Morris

  ‘Just try to put this down’ – People

  ‘A startling experience with riveting exotica and intriguing human relationships’ – Hollywood Reporter

  ‘An affecting richness … Seekers of romance and adventure will be amply rewarded’ – Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  ‘The hit book The White Masai … an extraordinary story’ – Libby Purves, BBC Midweek

  ‘A deliciously readable book – it really is possible to gulp it down in one long sitting. The White Masai has already sold four million copies and has been turned into a Hollywood film … Corinne Hofmann has struck gold’ – Kathryn Hughes, Mail on Sunday

  ‘At once a captivating romance and a breathtaking travelogue into the Kenyan outback, The White Masai carries us on an epic journey. Based on the autobiography of Corinne Hofmann, one of the most popular books in Europe of the past decade, it tells the unbelievable – yet true – fish-out-of-water tale of a white European woman who becomes the wife of a Masai warrior. The exotic urban jungle of Mombasa – where the two first fall in love – and the tiny village surrounded by majestic landscapes where they make their home provide a backdrop that is nothing short of extraordinary’ – Femail

  ‘A fascinating film, a culture clash of intimate proportions. The view of Samburu life is amazing’ – ABC

  ‘The film is beautifully shot, engrossing, with realistic performances and some genuine moments of charm and horror. A scene in which Carola tries to help a woman who is miscarrying, and Lemalian will not assist because the woman is bewitched, will strike terror in most viewer’s hearts’ – Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘An extraordinary and unputdownable tale’ – Bookseller

  ‘The White Masai has already sold four million copies in Europe and has now been turned into a big Hollywood film. These successes suggest that, in publishing terms at least, Corinne Hofmann has finally struck gold’ – Ireland on Sunday

  ‘An extraordinary and unputdownable tale’ – Bookseller

  ‘It’s a truly riveting read, better than any reality TV show’ – Publishing News

  ‘A dashing tale of love and adventure in contemporary Kenya. Corinne is bewitched by the exotic beauty of a man who lives in a hut in the back of beyond. There are some wonderfully loving and sensual moments … what a story’ – Mavis Cheek, Critic’s Choice, Daily Mail

  AFRICA, MY PASSION

  CORINNE HOFMANN

  Translated from the German by Peter Millar

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Farewell to the White Masai, but it’s still back to Africa

  The hard slog through the Himba homeland

  On my own with two men and two camels

  A new challenge back in Kenya

  Greenery in the midst of the slums

  Jamii Bora

  Kaputiel Town – an African miracle

  Mathare United – the slumdog football stars

  Football superstars in a different universe

  Finally, Napirai makes it to Barsaloi

  A big surprise in Mombasa

  Afterword

  The ‘White Masai’ Kenya Foundation

  Plates

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FAREWELL TO THE WHITE MASAI, BUT IT’S STILL BACK TO AFRICA

  Ten years of being the White Masai was enough, I thought. On 25 October 2008 I did my final book reading in front of an enthusiastic audience in the little town of Lauchhammer in Brandenburg, north-east Germany. When the audience applauded, my emotions were mixed: I left the stage to applause but with a tear as well as a smile in my eye as I sat down at the little table to do my very last book signing. Many of those present came up to me, shook my hand and said, ‘Frau Hoffmann, you have to keep on writing. You have such a fascinating life. How are your African family getting on, and when will your daughter get to meet her father again?’ Throughout the hour I was signing books, I was told time and again that my writing had touched the hearts of the audience and made a country they knew little about fascinating.

  I really did enjoy all those book readings but it had reached a point where I thought I had to put Africa and the White Masai behind me. Two weeks later I set off with a female friend on a four-week trip around India, a country that had always fascinated me. Four weeks obviously isn’t very much time to get to experience an entirely different culture, but it was a start. We decided to concentrate on northern India.

  Our first stop is the huge metropolis of Delhi, a city where we feel swamped by the sheer mass of people. We hire a car and a driver to get us safely between the swarms of rickshaws and bicycle taxis as we move from one sight to another. It’s fascinating but I realise that travelling like this means we have little contact with ordinary people.

  As we pass a market I ask the driver to stop so I can get out and explore on foot. Before I can really get to know a country, I need to drink in the smells, tastes and feel of it, experience it for myself, rather than seeing it all through the dusty windows of a cab. The driver isn’t keen. ‘Even as an Indian I wouldn’t get out and walk around here.’ Nonetheless, we get out and all of a sudden I feel better even though there are hundreds of people staring at us.

  One man has lots of large fish laid out on the ground underneath a little table, on which a huge variety of seafood is laid out for sale, while he himself squats on the table next to it all. The crabs, mussels and little fish are lying there right next to his naked feet, while hordes of people walk past only a few inches away. A little further on a man in a white apron is cooking something in various pots, while men sit on the road in front of him waiting to be fed. People with heavily laden handcarts constantly push past us, while beggars hold out their hands to us. Smells of every description fill the air, from spicy cooked food to brackish dirty water, and everywhere the smell of fish.

  We spot one butcher with hacked-up hunks of meat in heaps in front of him. There are three bloody heads of animals with blue-painted horns lying on a sheet of plastic, their severed hooves next to them, while behind them another plastic sheet, red this time, serves as a display counter for the rest of the meat. The stench of blood fills the air. The butcher hacks at the rest of the corpse with an axe, while his young son, who looks about nine, helps him. We find ourselves treading in guts and entrails lying all over the ground.

  It may not exactly be what we would call hygienic, but there is no doubt that it reeks of life. My heart leaps
with memories of ‘my’ Africa; this reminds me of Nairobi.

  During the rest of our trip we visit wonderful palaces, museums and lots of other sights, including a wedding that feels like something out of a fairy tale from the The Arabian Tales. I enjoy it all, but the constant feeling nags at me that I am seeing it through the eyes of a tourist.

  Things change however when we travel towards Pushkar, a beautiful little town on the edge of the Thar Desert with the little holy Lake Pushkar at its heart. On the way there I notice changes in the landscape as it becomes more arid. I see women wandering along in bright red or pink saris and it all reminds me of Barsaloi, my home in Kenya for all those years. The colours and the wild landscape trigger a longing deep within me. It is incredible how strongly my past calls out to me. And the call becomes stronger with every kilometre. I begin to see parallels with the Samburu country everywhere, particularly the sight of women struggling to fill jugs or canisters with water and then carry them home on their heads. It is as if I am right back home.

  It is crazy. Coming to India was meant to release me from the pull I feel towards Africa, but it makes me feel as if I am right back in Kenya. I know that I am starting to get on my friend’s nerves. ‘Corinne, we’re in India, not Africa,’ she says tetchily.

  ‘I know,’ I reply. ‘But there’s something pulling on my heartstrings. Up until now I’ve been amazed by the things we’ve seen, but none of them has moved me like this.’

  Our next destination, an hour’s flying time from Pushkar, is Mumbai. It comes as a bit of culture shock to see the women and girls here dressed so fashionably and behaving so normally. Welcome to the modern world! Getting about this overpopulated megacity is exciting but very stressful, and we decide to reward ourselves with a four-day break at a magnificent beach resort in southern India.

  On the way to the hotel we are astonished to see so many heavily armed police outside the building. Every car is being thoroughly searched. Both we and our luggage have to be scanned. We can only assume some VIP is staying in the building. It’s only later that we find out from the television about the terrible terrorist attack that hit Mumbai just after we left, with hostages taken and numerous fatalities. Several people were even killed in one of the bars we had used. We watch the news reports in horror with our hearts racing, thanking God that we are still alive. My guardian angel watched over me again.

  In late November I return to my home in Lugano, Switzerland. India fascinated me but didn’t move me like Africa. Perhaps I should have stayed longer and taken more time at each destination. But I think it is just that Africa is unique. The minute you step off the plane you can feel the vibrations in the air. Just travelling around you are embraced by pulsating energy and by the warmth of the people. That was something I didn’t encounter in India.

  December arrives with a chill. While everybody is getting ready for Christmas, I have to make a mental adjustment: there was no run-up to Christmas in India.

  For me, as no doubt for many, the year’s end brings poignant thoughts to mind, of what has happened over the last twelve months and what the new year may bring. Unfortunately the India trip didn’t give me any fresh ideas about what to do with my life, but then, I am lucky enough that I don’t need to worry about money. I can take my time.

  On the evening of 30 December I’m lying in bed flicking through a travel magazine with a superb picture of India on the cover, when suddenly I spot an advert that immediately grabs my attention: ‘Where the world is still wild: Nature photographer and adventurer seeks author or travel companion for expeditions; currently setting off on a camel trek. Any interest?’

  Any interest! One of my great loves is mountain walking. I lie awake much of the night wondering what might lie behind the ad. What does the person who put it in mean by ‘wild’ and ‘adventurer’? My own experiences in the African bush mean I’m not easily impressed. But next morning my mind is made up. Corinne, I tell myself, write to this man and you’re bound to get some sort of interesting reaction. It’s got to be a good way to start the new year.

  So, on the very last day of the old year, I send an email to the advertiser expressing my interest and within two hours I have an answer. It turns out that he is planning a six-week desert trek through northern Namibia. Africa again! My heart leaps. Even before I head out for a New Year’s Eve party in Zurich, I’m bursting with enthusiasm for a new adventure.

  Namibia borders South Africa to the south and Angola to the north, with the Kunene as the northern border where, in the so-called Kaoko Veldt, the Himba tribe lives. They happen to be a tribe that has fascinated me for a long time. Along with the Samburu and the Masai they are among the last semi-nomadic tribes in Africa. For ages I’ve had two large photographs of beautiful Himba women hanging in my flat. They immediately grab the attention with their skin painted red, their hair dyed red and woven into tight braids.

  A week later I finally meet up with my ‘adventurer’. I get on well with him, even if at times he seems a bit domineering, but his outline of the planned trip seems to be well thought out. We will trek through the veldt, led by a local camel herder who will supply us with a couple of camels to carry our bags. Travelling like this will give us lots of opportunity to make contact with the Himba, not least because they are unfamiliar with camels in the north. We talk over the details and I make my mind up that the trip is for me. Six weeks trekking, cooking on a campfire, sleeping in the open, making our way across the veldt and watching the wild animals – just what I’m looking for. Obviously there could be personal problems. I will be committing myself to travelling with two men I’ve never met before in a wilderness with no mobile phone reception.

  But I’ve never been timid, and I can always take a satellite phone in case of emergencies. Ten days later I let the adventurer know that I will be coming along, not as an author but as a travelling companion.

  Obviously a lot of my friends and relatives are keen to tell me I’ve been a bit premature in making up my mind so quickly. But that’s just the way I am. When I go for something, I go for it straight away. Apart from anything else this is the first time in years I haven’t had anything else on my plate. There are no book readings to turn up for, no contracts to adhere to. My daughter has finished her make-up course and is now studying hairdressing with the aim of getting into the cinema, television or fashion world.

  I tell myself that walking for days on end across a desert, far from civilisation, in the company of a couple of good-natured docile camels will give me a new perspective on life. A long walk is like meditation: good for the soul.

  THE HARD SLOG THROUGH THE HIMBA HOMELAND

  We finally set off on 15 May 2009. I fly to Windhoek, although even that does not go as smoothly as planned. Just three hours before departure the Swiss airline flight is cancelled and they tell me to come back the next day. That’s no good, because I am booked on a ten-day warm-up programme that starts tomorrow. Over the ten days, we are going to visit the famed Etosha National Park and then take a six-day trek along the Kunene River. Four others, including my two companions on the expedition, are also going on the trek and it seemed sensible to join them to get acclimatised and get to know the pair better before setting off with them on my own. I therefore really have to get on a flight today.

  After a flurry of telephone calls I dash up to Frankfurt and manage to catch a flight with Lufthansa. Four hours later we’re flying over Kenya and my heart is thumping. It has been six years since I last saw my family there. But I have made up my mind that I’m only going to go back when my daughter is interested enough to discover her African roots. How on earth could I ever explain to her father and her dear old grandmother why I had turned up again on my own? In just a year’s time I will indeed be back there, not least because of the influence of this Namibian trip.

  We land at Windhoek but after waiting for what seems for ever, I have to accept that my luggage didn’t come with me. Hardly an auspicious beginning, setting out on a trek without any of t
he stuff I brought with me. At least I’m wearing my sturdy walking shoes and have packed my expensive sleeping bag in my hand baggage. But it’s hardly an ideal situation as we’re setting off first thing in the morning on a journey of several hundred kilometres. And I’m going to need rather more than the clothes on my back over the next two months. Nonetheless, there’s no alternative but to climb into the waiting minibus and drive off.

  Windhoek is completely different to the cities I know in East Africa. Lots of the streets, bakeries, bookshops and other businesses still have German names. And there aren’t the hordes of people I’m used to seeing bustling along the streets. No sooner have we left the city, however, than the minibus comes to a spluttering halt at the side of the road. The accelerator pedal has broken. To make matters worse, it’s Sunday. I’m beginning to think this trip is doomed. First the flight is cancelled, then my luggage goes astray and now there’s problem number three. What else can possibly go wrong?

  The expedition leader makes a few phone calls and eventually the minibus gets towed to a garage where a couple of mechanics in their Sunday best crawl under the car and weld the accelerator back on. At last we’re off again.

  We head north along a well-made tarmac road that runs straight as a ruler. There are fences on either side of the highway as far as the eye can see. A few kilometres further on the style and colour of the fencing changes, indicating that we’re travelling over somebody else’s land. I learn that the land is mostly owned by cattle farmers who make the most of their vast land-holdings by running safaris on the side.

  We hardly see another human being apart from those in passing cars. Namibia is very thinly populated, with a total of barely two million inhabitants, in a country twice the size of Germany. It’s several hours before we come across the first pedestrians, and shortly after that we come into a small village. It’s been pouring with rain over the past few days and there’s substantial flooding.