My Maasai Life. Robin Wiszowaty
transport. A few passengers waited in the back of the pickup while others hovered around, and I felt anxiety begin to burn in my cheeks. This truck, I’d been told, would take me down the valley to Nkoyet-naiborr, the community I’d soon be calling home.
The driver, looking to be in his early forties and wearing a tattered checked sport coat, leaned against the truck’s hood. With my best attempt at a friendly greeting in Swahili, I explained how I hoped to join them on their way into the valley. I described my destination, a church with a name I wasn’t sure I pronounced correctly. The driver eyed me with obvious scepticism. Then, without a word, he took my bag and motioned for me to climb into the pickup’s uncovered bed. I hopped in. Unsure of where to sit between the shaky-looking benches and tightly packed sacks of groceries, I wiped red dust from a side rail and took a seat there. The driver handed back my bag, gave a nod, then returned to his place at the hood.
As time passed without any sign of motion, I began to understand the truck would wait until every visitor to town was ready to go. I tried to make myself comfortable, knowing it could probably be some time before we moved.
Gradually, the truck began to fill with passengers. A pair of young women, each with shaved heads and a child cradled in their arms, joined me in the back. Layers of light fabrics spilled around their bodies, accented with elaborate beadwork in every primary colour adorning their necks, wrists and ankles. The way they spoke in their high-pitched voices seemed almost like a shared game: soft, tender coos between intimate shared giggles, then bursting into a crescendo of laughter and celebratory clasped hands. I couldn’t tell whether their boisterous laughter was directed at me, the stranger almost painfully sticking out, or something else I wasn’t getting.
I felt myself retreating into myself, not knowing how to fit in, what to say or do. But this was clearly a bad time to become shy, so I tried to join the conversation in simple English. I said hello and did my best to make light of my failure to understand, shrugging comically. It seemed to work, and soon we were laughing together.
I settled in and tried to enjoy the scenery while we waited for the truck to depart. Soko was a charming small town, nestled against the green slopes and blue ridges of the Ol Doinyo Hills. Storefronts, some tin, some wooden and some concrete, lined the sides of the paved road, each bearing hand-painted and stencilled signs in English: “Blue Hotel,” “Friend’s Pub,” “Barbershop & Saloon.”
A convenience store was marked with a sign reading “Supermarket.” Supermarket? It looked about the size of my living room back at home, with wooden shelves creating three aisles inside. Definitely different from the aisles of our Dominic’s grocery store back home. Another read “Bookstore.” Bookstore? It was about the size of my first grade classroom, with drab grey concrete walls on the inside—a far cry from the scene on Saturday afternoons thumbing through books in the cozy chairs of Barnes & Noble.
Three older men bearing walking sticks crafted from tree branches came over to greet the truck. The men walked slowly and deliberately, each with bright-red blankets—like the ones I’d seen on the man in Nairobi and which I later learned in my cultural education classes were called shukas—tied loosely across their chests and under one arm. I’d seen these blankets for sale in Nairobi’s markets, but on these aged men they made a much more regal impression. The women in the truck immediately stopped their conversations to stand and bow down to these men, who then lightly touched the tops of each of their heads. The children did the same.
I took my cue to follow suit. The men laughed at my gesture. They and the women began an animated discussion about, I guessed, who this stranger might be. I caught one word I had learned in Swahili class: wetu. “Ours.”
Chuckling hoarsely, the men beckoned for me to lower my head again. One after another they gently touched the top of my head, each repeating the same greeting that I barely understood. I really had to drastically improve my Swahili!
I brought my head back up, unable to wipe the goofy smile from my face. Everyone burst out laughing, talking over one another. One woman gave my arm a friendly squeeze, and I quickly felt less self-conscious. The older men were each given a boost and they, along with a few others, joined us in the back of the pickup. No one seemed concerned at how crowded the bed of the pickup truck was becoming.
Again my mind flooded with questions. Would the truck drag its belly on the road from the weight? Was it safe to load the truck so heavily? I had to stop myself from saying anything and trust they were capable of managing their affairs. After all, I had no idea what I was doing. It was best to fall in with the crowd, release myself of any worries and just sit back and learn.
As the busy chatter continued, my eyes returned to the street. Nearby young boys in both traditional and Western clothes knelt on the ground, playing cards and scratching their stomachs and arms. More stray dogs wandered idly, sniffing at patches of brush. The pace here was much slower than Nairobi’s bustle. People moved more deliberately. I could feel myself being absorbed by the town’s tranquil pace, the gentle grace of the people. It was like exhaling after a long held breath: my pulse quieted, the inner chatter that constantly filled my head seeming to silence itself.
Someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around to find the driver holding out a bottle of Orange Fanta.
He spoke his first words to me, in English: “Take it.”
I could barely respond to this generous offer.
“Take it,” he said again, smiling quietly.
I accepted the bottle, unable to fully express my appreciation as the driver again disappeared. I took a long swig to show my gratitude, then offered the bottle to the child sitting next to me. The other kids in the truck squeezed in around me, and we all took turns sharing this treat.
Over half an hour passed with no movement. The sun stalled overhead, its equatorial heat beating down on us. With the back of my hand I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead. Just when it looked like we were about to leave, someone would hop out, shout something I couldn’t understand, then more women would flock to the truck, loading their weekly shopping: huge bundles of corn flour and plastic bags of beans, cabbages and tomatoes. Men and children took the packages from the women and tossed into the pickup, then carefully arranged each package to optimize space.
People came and went. An hour passed, then another. More and more people crammed in for the ride, some standing. Others perched on a wooden bench arranged over the tires for more seating space, others on empty milk canisters. Some clung to the truck’s roof or balanced themselves on the back bumper. I did a head count: amazingly, we had crammed thirty-four people into this small Toyota truck!
The driver finally returned to his seat, jangling a set of keys. Yes! We were finally actually going! I didn’t know how long the ride would be, but I did know that my bum was already numb from sitting over the rail for so long.
But when the driver went to start the ignition, the truck only made a wheezing sound, refusing to start. The driver tried again. Another unsuccessful wheeze and foul smoke burst forth as the chassis shuddered. Three more attempts, then the driver popped his head out the window and called out something I didn’t understand. Several men piled out, and I moved to follow, but a mama stopped me with a gentle hand. I interpreted this as an instruction to sit back down and did so, grateful that someone was looking out for me.
The driver shifted into neutral as the men pushed the truck forward. We rolled forward, slowly but with mounting speed, until the driver was able to pop the clutch and turn the engine over. Elated shouts rang out as the engine caught. Diesel smoke clouded the air as those pushing jumped back in, resettling themselves as the truck struggled uphill and forward into the valley.
As the wind picked up, the women pulled out more shukas to cover their shaved heads. An old mama wearing intricately beaded earrings smiled at me, again telling me something I didn’t understand. I laughed and told her in English that I didn’t speak Swahili—but I would soon! Whether she understood or not, I didn’t know. But she laughed and outstretched her shuka to cover my head along with hers.
We bounced along the craggy road down into a valley of thorny flat-topped trees,