To The Land Of Maasai

The adventure began the moment I sat down in Ken’s car, a dashing Tanzanian who would take me all the way from Sister Freda’s to the land of the Maasai.  County after county, Ken explained both the tribal and economic background, all the while answering my ceaseless questions.  The men in the opaque river full of crocodiles?  Harvesting sand for building, “a very dangerous job indeed”.  The reason for the wood planks of inverted 10 inch nails dotting the roadways?  Corrupt police checkpoints: we’d be stopped multiple times.  Why so many adults sitting idly along the road?  Nothing else to do, “there is no work here."
  

Road!

We made our way into Nandi county where the road carved a path through forests of Blue Gum trees and thousands of acres of florescent green tealeaves, one of Kenya’s primary exports.  I was startled to see the roadside idlers disappear, which Ken explained as the direct result of having a water source: here it is both productive and “ever green, Katie, ever green”.  We continued south and slightly east as men chiseled blocks of brick and concrete in the infernal afternoon heat, assuredly for less than a dollar a day.   Women gracefully carried 10 gallon buckets of water atop their heads, while children carried baby siblings home from school, finally back in session after the holidays.  I shuddered at the billboard proudly advertising cockfights, and did my best not to have a heat stroke as I sweated the entirety of my body fluid into Ken’s passenger seat.

I marveled my way through the sublime Rift Valley, ogling the hills that produced fossils of our earliest ancestors.  Then suddenly, finally, gloriously, we arrived; the astounding Transmara.  The bright red of the earth and the even brighter red of the traditional shukas worn by the meandering Maasai was enhanced by the brilliant green of the surrounding landscape.  Hills dotted with acacia trees, grazing herds, and family manyattas were blanketed by fluffy clouds and the hot hot hot sun.  Turkeys waded through ditches of stagnant water as men discretely bathed under the bridge. Roads devolved into muddy hills and valleys of enormous stony holes several feet deep, populated almost exclusively by herds of cows, goats, sheep, and donkeys on their way to be watered at the river.  

Mini Maasai Larusi and His Herd

My View

What I later learned about these fascinating people lent insight into my initial observations.  The Maasai were the only one of 42 Kenyan tribes with a standing army when the British colonized the country in the 19th century: they were Kenya’s warriors and Britain’s fear.  As a result, communal Maasai lands were taken by the government, reservations were created, and their nomadic community was forever changed.  Maasai were kept from political leadership and were last to receive government resources and infrastructure including paved roads, electricity, and indoor plumbing.  This remains true even today; ignorance can take generations to unlearn.

My senses were nearly blown by the time we arrived to Emmanuel’s homestead where I’d be living for the next two weeks.  Emmanuel and his wife Lillian would go on to become dear friends and mentors, people I deeply respect and admire.  In that first evening though, I enjoyed the easy company of their son Shiloh, gave myself a pep talk (or several) about living with critters both real and imagined, and took my first bucket shower.  I was home.