I wrote this piece around 2000 after several visits to the Maasai Mara. It was long-listed in the Brandt Travel Guide travel writing competition.
Dances with warriors
Night on the Mara River – darkness wraps round, close as a Maasai’s blanket. It is cold, too, on the river’s bend. We press closer the campfire, our white faces soon roasting red. No one speaks. There’s too much to listen for. A hyena whoops across the water? It sounds close. It sounds unearthly, sending shock waves through vulnerable bones – mine, conjuring packs of predators, out there, circling our ring of light. And even as I think it the Maasai are on us. Six warriors, spears in hand and naked to the waist. Their leader tosses his ostrich-feather head-dress that looks like a lion’s mane. He is fearless. He is lion.
Then the singing starts, a nasal falsetto that resonates through time and space – the winds’ whine through Mara grasses. The Maasai girls trip lightly into the firelight, their wraps like flames – yellow, red; close-cropped heads hung with beads; chins jutting forward as the crescent necklets – tiny beads so patiently strung – rise and fall on skinny chests. The moran start to leap – higher, faster.
Their dance fires the blood as it was once meant to in the days when the young morani proved their courage by killing a lion; but we see the collecting box left discreetly in the grass. These kids are from the nearby settlements, but before I unravel the question of exploitation – theirs or ours – the dancers pounce, dragging us into a conga, pastoralist-style. I let the Maasai girl take my hand. She’s about fourteen years old and she is boss. After all, this is her land – the big skies and the rippling oat grass, and our small camp in the outer reserve remains there only on her clansmen’s say-so. The hand that grips mine is small and hard.
So I follow her, graceless in the rhythms I cannot fathom, wend with the snake of dancers on and round the camp. The dancers know we’re squeamish and should not be put at risk, so we stray no further than the firelight’s edge, never crossing the bounds of the vast out there.
And of course, being on safari, and staying at a luxury, tented camp, we have been taken to visit the vast out there. We went earlier that day and naturally, being tender wazungu, we ventured only in daylight, with the rising sun at our back, and we went, not on foot, but in the Land Rover whose solid sides we were sure would protect us from too much closeness with the wilderness.
Our driver-guide, Sammy, had decided to take us to the famous river crossing where, over several days, tens of thousands of migrating wildebeest had been piling up, snorting and stamping on the dusty bank. For days they had been steeling themselves to make the seasonal Russian roulette dash that would take them over the river to much needed grazing.
“Perhaps they will cross today,” Sammy said as he found a good vantage point and stopped the Land Rover. At first, infected with the drama of the thing, we scrambled up through the viewing hatch with binoculars and cameras. The beasts unlucky enough to find themselves pushed to the head of the queue, teetered nervously on the brink. Eventually the sheer weight of numbers behind would force the vanguard to cross. It was a case of stand your ground and starve, or risk the gaping reptilian jaws of the massive crocodiles that were watching and waiting in the water. Even leopard, we were told, would dare some daylight hunting and crouch in the brush across the river and wait for lunch to arrive. We did not see one.
But we did see the remnant corpses of earlier wildebeest meals snagged on riverside branches and we did see the flocks of ever-watchful vultures. We also realised that a dozen tourist trucks from other safari camps had now joined ours, their occupants craning with camcorders primed, willing the show to start. In the end we could not look. It was time to leave.
As we drove off our mood was swiftly lightened by a close encounter with the famous wildlife photographer, Jonathan Scott. We could add him instead to the morning’s, ‘seen’ list. He pulled alongside in his jeep to talk Marsh Pride movements with Sammy. After that we headed back to camp for our own feeding time, a large lunch that promised outrageous gluttony compared with the Maasai’s simple milk-based diet.
As we jolted back across the Mara grasslands we marked the pastoralists’ bleak brushwood corrals with their dung-plastered hump-backed huts; saw the distant red dots of herds boys’ shukas; heard the tinkling bells of shifting herds; watched the shaven-headed, much beaded women setting off on their long daily trek for water. And all of them seemingly at ease in the vast out there, walking each day where lion and leopard walk, fetching water, doing washing amongst crocodiles and hippos, sharing the grassland with elephants, buffalo and wildebeest. And all we could wonder was, how? How can they live here, so unchanging, while our world presses round and people like us come in droves on our own seasonal migrations?
But then, when we look more carefully, we can see changes. There’s a big thatched house that is not at all traditional and with an old jeep parked outside. There is talk of the womenfolk settling in one place (while their husbands move the cattle herds) so the children can go to the schools and clinics that tourist dollars fund. Near our camp is a new stone-built trading centre where the Maasai sell chickens and beer.
For a people so long resistant to change even these small innovations seem remarkable. Ever since1883 when Scottish explorer, Joseph Thomson, introduced red blankets and coloured glass beads to the Maasai, in return for safe conduct across their territory, outsiders have tried to “develop” the Maasai. Now, it seems, they are doing it for themselves and in their own way. And so it is fitting that, before we leave Maasailand, we visit the Mara curio shop and, in a bid to hang on to the spirit of place we are drawn to buy red ‘Maasai’ blankets (polyester, made in China) and locally beaded jewellery. As I hug the tacky blanket and put on the beaded bracelet, I begin to smile deep down. The absurdity of my transactions is pleasing: somehow the dance has come full circle.
© Tish Farrell 2011
17 thoughts on “…of Maasailand”
Love your observations on life ‘out there’, Tish. I find it impossible to imagine but I was as pleased as you with the little purchase at the end. 🙂
Thank you for reading, Jo. 😀
I enjoyed being transported in time and space. This reminded me of backpacking in Vietnam in a little place called Sapa. There were these beautiful girls from mountain tribes, and at some point in our time there we realised that they were very aware of being cultural fodder. Now I wonder if it was a sort of trafficking going on – there were only girls and they all stayed together. Or were they in control? I don’t know, but it was uncomfortable.
Your antennae doubtless picked up something unpleasant, Ali. There can be dire things going on wherever there are tourists.
Your writing always strikes the right tone for me Tish; informative and insightful, never bombastic no matter how important the issue.
Thanks for that, Su.
Would love to go someday.
I just read your text today (February 2019) and then came here by clicking on the link.
With each of your words I have “seen” images
With each of your words, I have “heard” the wild animals
At each of your words I danced with the Masai warriors
Thank you, thank you very much because going to Kenya was a dream of my mother and I have it too but I know that I will not go there because of lack of financial means.
thank you for making me dream
That is one lovely comment, Yoshimi. Thank you so much. I hope one day you will find a way to realise your dream.
I’ve walked enough in Africa to know I wouldn’t have the courage to live with the constant challenges they do. I really hope they can continue to live life just how they choose.
I think life has become pretty hard for the Maasai. Erratic climate events have a huge impact, and these days they no longer have the run of the Rift Valley if they need better water supplies and grazing. And then there’s the wrangle of whether or not, or how much to educate their children, especially daughters. So yes, Gilly, rather them than me doing daily chores in the bush, sharing their watering and wood gathering spaces with lions and buffalo for starters.
Your description of the “vast out there” resonates with me. We just returned from a trip to Fiji on one of the outer islands and visited some of the local people. These cultures have such a long history and their people are so justifiably proud of their independence. I admire that. The tug to modernize is also working its way through the culture. Diabetes and heart disease have increased dramatically with the consumption of soft drinks and fast food. The double-edged sword of modernization!
That sounds like an amazing trip, Patti. And I concur on the double-edged sword. I remember watching a Kenyan doctor on local TV not long before we left Nairobi saying 30% of the population suffered from diabetes, the diet of the farming populations having changed from a range of nutritious traditional grains and vegetables to maize porridge (introduced in colonial times as payment in kind for farmhands) which is filling but of low nutrition, factory made sweetened white bread and ultra sweet sodas courtesy of you know who.
So sad, isn’t it? I believe the rate of diabetes in Fiji is very high…their #1 health risk.