The White Masai: My Exotic Tale of Love and Adventure
The runaway international bestseller is now an American must-read for lovers of adventure, travel writing, and romance. Corinne Hofmann tells how she falls in love with an African warrior while on holiday in Kenya. After overcoming severe obstacles, she moves into a tiny hut with him and his mother, and spends four years in his Kenyan village. Slowly but surely, the dream starts to crumble, and she hatches a plan to return home with her daughter, a baby born of the seemingly indestructible love between a white European woman and a Masai. Compulsively readable, The White Masai is at once a hopelessly romantic love story, a gripping adventure yarn, and a fine piece of meticulously observed social anthropology.
manages to persuade her. We agree to set off the next day. First we go to the local garage, run by a Somali, to buy two empty canisters that will fit into the back of the Land Rover. When we have fastened them down with ropes I feel well equipped for future journeys and we’re happy to be on the road again. The girl, however, seems even smaller and quieter and holds on to the canisters in fear. For ages we trundle along the dusty, bumpy road without seeing any other traffic. From time to time we
about the mosquitoes. He has fewer problems in his well-built house and makes do with a spray. He says the best thing would be to build a house: it wouldn’t cost much and the local government man could allocate us a piece of land which we’d then have to register in Maralal. I can’t get the idea out of my head: it would be tremendous to have a properly built hut. Taken with the idea I go back to the manyatta and tell Lketinga, but he’s not so sure. He doesn’t know if he’d feel at home in a house.
all okay, Corinne. I’m just glad you’re still alive. I was about to go to the police and make a missing person report. I had almost given up hope of ever seeing you again. Can I get you something to eat?’ Without waiting for an answer he goes out and comes back with a plate piled high. It looks delicious, and for his sake I eat as much as I can. He waits until we’ve finished before he asks: ‘Well, did you at least find him?’ ‘Yes,’ I say and tell him everything. He looks at me and says: ‘You’re
by the river. I wash clothes, and he cleans the car. Eventually we have time for our ritual of washing each other, just like before, and I think back nostalgically. Of course, I like the shop, and we have more variety in our meals, but we don’t have as much time for ourselves. Everything is much more hectic. Even so, after each Sunday I’m pleased about the shop; I’ve made friends with some of the town women and a few of their husbands who speak English. Gradually I’m getting to know who belongs
wheel for the trip to Maralal and as always when my husband is with me, the trip is uneventful. We’re able to book a lorry for the next day already. In the boarding house I count out the money that Lketinga has brought and to my horror find we’re several thousand Kenyan shillings short of being able to pay for the load. I ask Lketinga about it, and he just says he left some behind in the store. So there’s nothing for me to do but draw more money out of the bank instead of paying in our profits.