My Maasai Life. Robin Wiszowaty
Cattle grazed in small sections of grassland, attended by young men enwreathed in shukas. We passed traditional huts, which I knew from my orientation classes were called manyattas. They were made of cow dung, mud and sticks. Many were surrounded by protective fences made of thick, thorny branches of the same flat-topped trees found everywhere, planted in circles. Tin structures sat topped with crosses; I realized these were churches.
I did my best to take everything in slowly, aware that the others were closely gauging my reactions. A bump in the road tossed us into the air, and we clutched onto one another, coming down on the side of the truck with a hard thud. I clung to the mama next to me, and we laughed at the ridiculousness of the rough ride. The entire scene felt daunting and enchanting at the same time.
Suddenly something disrupted the lively conversation, and a boy near the cab of the truck called out, pointing. The woman beside me seized my arm to direct my attention to something in the distance. I looked to see large, lean shapes ambling past on the roadside: one, two, three . . . five . . . seven giraffes, chomping dangling tree leaves, less than fifteen metres away.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “I’ve seen them on TV, and at the Brookfield Zoo, but . . . wow! ”
The entire crowd laughed at my amazement, even the children. They obviously saw giraffes all the time, probably more often than my family at home saw deer or any other woodland animals. I tried to reel in my excitement, afraid they were mocking me. But it was clear they simply wanted to share this incredible sight with me, even though for them it was familiar. One girl pointed and gave me a long, animated explanation of . . . something. Once again, I was reminded how I truly needed to become fluent in Swahili, and quickly!
We continued down the rocky road for nearly another hour before the truck began making intermittent stops to offload riders and their bundles of shopping. Luckily, the truck didn’t need to be pushed to start again; then just as the constant stopping and starting began to make me queasy, we reached a church, the location where I’d been told to be dropped off. As the driver braked, I pulled up my pack and hopped out.
“Kwa heri!” I called to my fellow passengers. At least I’d learned how to say goodbye.
The family I was joining were of the Maasai people, an indigenous tribe occupying the southern region of the Great Rift Valley throughout southern Kenya and north central Tanzania. During my orientation in Nairobi, I had done some brief research into this unfamiliar culture.
Giraffes roam the savannah: beautiful, but dangerous if crossed.
Maasai live as traditional pastoralists, herding mostly cattle, but also sheep, donkeys and goats. They are semi-nomadic, meaning their livestock is moved on seasonal rotation and in response to environmental factors, particularly drought. Cattle play a cherished role in their society, both in their economic and personal health. Maasai drink cows’ milk every day as a staple of their diets, and they value not only the meat but even its blood, which they believe holds unique health benefits. However, since a cow represents an enormous financial asset for a family, slaughtering one for meat or blood is typically reserved for ceremonies and special occasions.
Despite the increasing modernization of Africa in recent years, the Maasai have still clung to many of their traditions and beliefs. They speak their own regional dialect, called Maa, though many also speak Swahili and English. Estimates of their current population range wildly, anywhere from only about 150,000 to almost a million throughout sub-Saharan Africa. Yet they still remain mostly marginalized from mainstream Kenyan culture, both economically and politically.
Dr. Jama, my advisor in Nairobi, knew of a Maasai community in the Rift Valley who would welcome a visitor—me. I’d been told that district elders, together with Dr. Jama, had assembled to decide on the family with whom I should live. The father of the family I was joining had past experience with various development organizations working in Kenya, and collectively they had decided how to welcome their American visitor.
The Maasai I’d seen so far—like the man in Nairobi—dressed in distinctively colourful clothing with ornate necklaces and earrings of fine beadwork. Many of them displayed long, pierced and stretched earlobes—a common body modification considered beautiful in their society. I wasn’t sure if this was what I was to expect from my adoptive family. All I knew was that they were eagerly expecting my arrival. I had to rise above my nervous jitters and prepare to throw myself into whatever came my way.
And yet I was hesitant: could I reach out and cross the inevitable cultural gap? Would this family and I be able to joke, or communicate at all? Would the differences simply be too vast? Had my desire to flee a frustrating, ordinary upbringing been too hasty or too extreme?
I started toward the church, where I was to meet my “mama,” the mother of the family with whom I’d be staying for the next year. The father of the family—my “baba”—was a teacher and one of the community’s more educated men. He travelled often and was presently away, doing work with one of the many charities frequenting the region.
Then a stunningly beautiful, tall woman who looked not much older than me came toward me down the roadside. She wore multicoloured shukas draped around her slender shoulders and a bright blue skirt. Her feet were bare, but her face beamed with a brilliant smile. I hoped my own smile was even half as wide.
“My daughter!” she cried in English.
I wasn’t sure how to react. “Mama?” I tried, trying to feign confidence.
“Welcome!” She hugged my shoulders, first on the left, then again on the right: a traditional Maasai embrace. My body was stiff, yet her movements were smooth and easy. She moved deliberately, with purpose.
Against my protests, she hauled my backpack onto her shoulders, then immediately dropped it back on the ground, staggering under its weight. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry,” I cried, coming to her aid. “Let me take that!” Have I brought too much?
I rushed to help her, but Mama then rose and effortlessly tossed my bag over her shoulder and continued ahead, laughing at my stunned expression. Finally I got the joke and hurried to catch up with her. Lacking the right words, I could only laugh to show my appreciation, and soon we were laughing together. I followed her lead toward a narrow, worn footpath running uphill through the brush. With her long legs, she kept a brisk pace, and I pushed hard to keep up with her.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
She looked at me and smiled. “Home.”
I followed Mama up the dirt path, keeping a cautious distance. The long savannah grass and twisted, thorny bushes soon gave way to a clearing heavy with the smell of barn animals. I saw several small huts, then a fenced enclosure. Huddled at a distance, a group of small children watched. I gave them a wave, but they only scurried away.
Before I knew what was happening, Mama began a quick tour. She showed me a small structure made of mud and sticks that had a dirt floor on which stood a pair of small beds with wooden frames and thin blankets: this was the main house where we would sleep. Another smaller hut served as a kitchen, centred around a small, smouldering firepit, with a few wooden shelves and a number of long planks of scrap lumber set as benches. This must be where the family sits at mealtime, I thought to myself. There was a pit toilet, similar to an outhouse, located just outside the fence of replanted branches, roughly assembled from tin sheets nailed together. Nearby was a metre-square concrete block structure with tin sheets for walls, no roof and a large bucket inside. “Bafu,” Mama explained: where we would bathe. This would definitely be interesting!
Continuing our tour, we crossed through another fenced enclosure. Ngombe yetu wanalala hapa, she said: our cattle sleep here. She pointed to an enclosed area for the goats and sheep, another for the cows, indicating they were currently away being herded in community fields. A number of clucking chickens pecked around the yard. Mud caked on the bottom of my battered running shoe with each step, but I fought to show Mama I wasn’t fazed, concentrating