A TOUCH OF AFRICA

The three of us stood on the wind weathered shore of Lake Turkana, awaiting the arrival of the El Molo. Behind us, filed and chiseled, stretched a mute landscape, testimony of the epochs of ill treatment. In the midst of all this volcanic ruin was a solitary oasis, which betrayed a lone source of water, Loiyangallani. The bandy-legged El Molo pushed into the Lake and onto a rocky island by warring mainland tribes, was probably one of Africa’s smallest groups. Their language, like their origin had been lost long ago. A few old men remembered the secrets of the past. How will people ever know they were here? I was accompanying Maeve and a medical Sister who were going over to their island to treat the remnants of the tribe, whose numbers were less than two hundred.

Two dom palm rafts arrived, poled by El Molo lads who greeted us with ivory white smiles. The rafts were simple affairs…. two logs lashed together with strips of palm fibers. I was to man the rubber raft with the medical sister and several boxes of supplies. Seemed like a normal request until the Padre handed me a rubber bladder. I had seen the likes of these toy boats in backyard swimming pools over the years and even then shook my head. Once blown up, it looked like a like a pillow that someone had sat on. With plastic paddles secured in the oarlocks, I loaded up the medicines along with the Sister who appeared very uncomfortable with the arrangement. Her silence was my first clue. I eased myself into the stern and set my rifle across my lap. The bladder sank to within inches of the waterline. Meanwhile, Maeve was busy adjusting herself in the middle of one of the narrow log rafts, barely able to keep her legs out of water. We shoved off and I wondered if a similar sight had once inspired Jerome K. Jerome. The raft pressed ahead and the shore fell behind. This was no quiet inland sea since prevailing easterlies ploughed its surface and threatened our craft with every wave. The lads ahead of us used short, deft strokes as they thrust their poles into the murky bottom leaving me bobbing behind. My plastic oars skimmed the surface with little evidence of our passing.  It would hardly be a contest.

It wasn’t long before Maeve was in a dilemma. The raft was unable to sustain her one hundred pounds and continued to sink until only her upper body was exposed. One might say the raft was shipping water at a distressing rate.  She gave the impression of a floating torso. Throwing her sandals over to us, and following an impulse doubtless born on the rocky shores of western Ireland, she slipped into the water and swam effortlessly alongside of us, keeping up a conversation all the while. Crocodile infested waters?  Our trust was in the El Molo who assured us that no ‘mamba’ lurked nearby.

Thirty El Molo, a good portion of the tribe greeted us. Bare breasted women with bottoms covered in discarded netting along with scantily clad elders led us to an area cleared of rocks. Their huts were flimsy pieces of work, lashed together with dom palm leafs carried over from the mainland, with thatched roofs weighed down with turtle shells which also served as drinking cups. This volcanic outgrowth called an island was devoid of greenery and we knew it was the fishing and relative safety from the mainland raiders which made the place attractive to the El Molo.  Amidst smoldering ashes, charred remains of enormous Nile perch lay strewn about, picked so clean that even the flies felt cheated. Gaping crocodile skulls, teeth intact, stared lifelessly through hollow, charred sockets. It was a desperate place indeed, as high above us, soared winged predators pinned in an up draught.

My neck burned as rivulets ran down my back. Finally, the headman who acted as chief, called the group together and the three of us found ourselves in the middle of a semi circle next to the medicines. Squatting on their heels, the El Molo waited patiently for the ‘barazza’ to begin. Each person was called before us. The patient would then gesture and in rapid-fire Samburu and relate the nature of the complaint to the chief. Few present remembered or understood the practically extinct El Molo language. (I couldn’t imagine another language being thrown into the proceedings.) Everyone sat hushed in concern as the drama unfolded on center stage. Only when the tale of suffering was complete, did the spectators turn to one another nodding their approval. The chief would then turn to the medical Sister and translate the nature of the complaint into KiSwahili.