When I get back to Switzerland it's time for me to go out on the sales beat on my own. As usual I start out trying to make appointments over the phone but it simply doesn't work. Almost everyone I call comes back with the same answer: ‘We've got all the stuff we need but by all means send us some brochures. The boss never has time to see anyone anyway.’ Or: ‘I'm sorry we're not seeing any new sales reps; we've been using the same ones for years and we get on fine.’
There's only one thing for it, therefore: I've got to go out and knock on doors. But with this sort of customer it's not that easy to get to see the right person. It's nearly always busy at their practices and time and again I get asked: ‘Have you got an appointment?’ Sometimes I get the impression that these women sitting behind the counter see themselves as an impenetrable wall to protect their boss from me.
The best that happens is that occasionally someone will ask me if I'd like to have a cup of coffee and the boss will see me briefly in ten minutes or so. That cheers me up but has me worrying if I'll have the right answers to his questions when he finally sees me. I've never worked in an area where I felt quite so uncertain of myself. But every little order I achieve gives me that extra bit of self-confidence.
Late one afternoon when I return home I find a letter from lames waiting. I'm always pleased when I see from the envelope that I've got mail from Kenya. He'd written this one on 5 January 1997.
Dear Corinne and Napirai,
Best wishes and God bless both of you. I am praying that you survive and enjoy this new year of 1997. Here in Kenya we have no peace any more. People are fighting every day. Lots of the Turkana and Samburu have guns now. This is new for us. Between December 24 and January 3 there was a big battle between the tribes. It took place in Baragoi, Marti, Barsaloi, Opiroi and lots of other places. Many people were killed, eleven alone in Barsaloi, including two of my family, a girl and an old man, but not anybody from our corral. All our animals, the goats, cows and camels were stolen. We have nothing left. Everybody has fled now and we are living in Maralal. There is nobody left now in Barsaloi or the other villages of Baragoi and Opiroi. People are living like refugees, with nothing to eat. We don't even have enough room to live in Maralal. There are too few houses for us all. I think many people will probably die of poverty.
There are no lessons any more as everybody has run away. Even the school in Maralal is empty. Maybe you heard on the radio or in the papers that bandits with a helicopter came and killed our district officer and two policemen. Between Christmas and New Year was a really bad time for us. So we didn't celebrate. My family now lives in Maralal near the school. I hope you can still remember where that is. None of them has a house or any animals any more and have to beg food from other people.
Dear Corinne and Napirai, I hope you are well. Please use my bank account to help us get something to eat. If I get the chance to go to Barsaloi I'll send you photos of a ceremony that took place there last month. But the people there are still fighting. There's no peace anywhere in the Samburu district. Everybody's leaving.
I wish you and Napirai and your friends a happy New Year 1997. May God grant you peace and a good life.
I feel a shiver run down my spine at the thought of how bad things had become for them. My beloved Mama had to flee to Maralal after having lived all her life in the one little village. She never wanted to come along in my car; she thought life in a town was terrible. She loved her Barsaloi and unless a particular ceremony obliged her to make a journey somewhere else, she spent all her time happily around her little manyatta. And now this had happened! They must have had to flee through the dangerous Loriki jungle, and with lots of little children in tow. Thinking about the fate of my Samburu family I realised that had things between me and Lketinga gone better, I too would now be destitute. If I had not given up before, I certainly would have now.
With such thoughts running through my mind I couldn't help feeling a huge sigh of relief that here I was living safe in Switzerland, yet at the same time I still felt forever bound up with these people. It was always those who had the least that suffered the most! I drive straight away round to the bank to send them some money so they can at least buy a few goats and something to eat. Then I pray for them and post a letter of commiseration.
At the beginning of March I'm off on another course, in Holland this time. I'm really impressed by the new range of products and find it easy to identify with them. I come back from Holland full of enthusiasm and can't wait to display my new knowledge. But because I'm going to need a good few minutes of the dentists’ attention now, I change my tactics to avoid being turned away at the reception desk. I go round all the dentists in a particular town trying to arrange appointments over the next few days. As we currently have attractive offers for new customers I succeed in about fifty per cent of the practices. My appointment diary is starting to fill up now and after six months in the job I feel I'm starting to be successful.
One of my neighbors tells me there's a flat in a new block in our village that's still available and up for viewing. Even though the rent seems too dear, I go and take a look. And once again it seems nothing can go wrong, inevitably the inevitable happens: it's absolutely the nicest flat I've seen for ages. It's spacious, open-plan and with big windows. I'm really taken with it even though I've had to find my way round with a torch as there's no electricity yet. All of a sudden the amount of the rent no longer seems important and I decide to take it. And happily I get a promise that this dream flat can be mine. We can move in on April 1. Even so it's hard saying goodbye to our old neighborhood. The girls are like members of a blood sisterhood, and I've enjoyed the company of my neighbors.
It's also not all that easy settling into the new flat. Up until now Napirai has always slept in my bed, whereas now she has a room of her own. Instead of going straight to sleep in the evening now she's calling out every five minutes, ‘Mama, are you still there? I can't see or hear you Mama. I want to go back to our old flat.’ But after a few weeks even these problems fade away and I start to take as much delight in our new flat as if it were a precious jewel. Sitting in front of an open fire in the evening I daydream and think of Africa. It's the smell of the fire that even still reawakens old memories. I imagine myself squatting on the earth in front of a campfire preparing a simple meal or making tea for Lketinga and his warrior friends.
I can still feel that sense of well-being I had in our manyatta which for all its primitiveness still provided protection from the heat, the cold and the wild animals. I realise that I have never had quite the same feeling of safety and security in any of my Swiss flats, no matter how luxurious they might be. On the other hand I have to admit that I'm able to enjoy a bit of luxury again now. When we first came back I wanted to live a life with just the bare minimum essentials. Now I've fitted out the flat with the best modern equipment; I hardly ever go into the second-hand shops any more and am gradually piling up all those things that people here think are absolutely necessary. I've got myself back to the standard of living I enjoyed before I went to Africa, and despite a few misgivings I have to admit I'm proud of it.