twende safari!

Monkeys are racist, apparently. They have no fear of white people. If you walk alone, they will attack and try to steal your things. Only black men can chase them away.

Baby elephants are awkward. One is about three months old and stubbles along beside his mother. He lifts his trunk to nurse and seems to rest his chin against her leg. Their ears flap back and forth to flick away the tsetse flies, and I can see thick veins cover the undersides. When they are sick or sad or in pain their ears bend over, like the dolphins’ fins do in captivity. They have long lashes and make intense eye contact and it’s intimidating. They seem judge us all.

Giraffes are polite, I’m told, like me. I have always traveled to learn different perspectives, new ways of seeing the world. I want to try to expand my understanding and education to include the animals also. Perhaps I behave like the giraffes, not they like me. The street children have much in common with the baboons I spot wrestling and spying on us from treetops.

Bright yellow butterflies—Jackos—leap from ruts in the road like fallen leaves in gentle wind. Vast plains spread out in all directions, covered with high grass and exotic trees. Legend says the baobab once angered god. It was thrown to the earth and planted upside down, made to stand on its head for hundreds, even thousands of years, while elephants slowly scratch away into its soft bark. The sun fades over endless sky, smearing pastel streaks into the horizon. A waxing moon glows silver white between nearby branches, soon so bright that it drowns out the stars. Insect and bird calls join the whispers and thrushes of trembling reeds. When it rains it smells of the earth’s sacred birth in deep caves and tall grass and old furniture.

Morning brings its freshness and soft light. Two Masai men guide us into the hillside. One speaks no English. He is wrapped in the traditional bright red blankets--four—which means he is a rich man and well respected. I have heard the color is the same as the sun at its strongest points just after it rises and before it sets, when it has the most energy, which the Masai draw upon. The man, Papa, has very dark skin and a bright beautiful smile. He is tall and shy and handsome. His feet are covered with sandals made of recycled tires, curved at the bottom like boats, that makes him glide rather than walk. He carries a sharp steel spear, which traded for goats. He has used for hunting lions and for snakes. Both the black mamba and the green mamba live in these grasslands.

His companion Emna is a modern Masai, “more than Masai,” he says. As we walk, he tells me stories of his people, his village.

The dress is different for every age. For the young boys who are not circumcised, they are called Lions. They wear white. The fabric is thin because the blood is warm. The older ones who are circumcised and have become men are called Moranis. They wear red. The fabric is thick because of the cold. The number of the blankets depends on the cattle. A man with few cattle wears only two. A man with many cattle may wear four, even in heat.

For us it doesn’t matter to choose the beautiful, you can choose any girl. Sometimes the parents can chose for you. If the girl is beautiful the men will pay many cattle. If a man has many cattle he can take many wives—perhaps three. For example, the grandfather of my papi had eight.

Emna does not know who to marry or how he will marry. He later tells me if I come back with a Muzungu woman he will bring me a Masai man.

The Masai does not like to go to school. They believe they are only for cattle and the cattle are only for them. When a girl is married she is taken from school to start the family.

Papa is engaged. The girl gave him a bracelet so that everyone knows, but he has left it home, in the village. They are waiting to wed until she finishes primary school. I ask Emna if he goes to school. He says he visits when he can, that he likes learning. I ask what he wants to do with his life, what he wants to be.

I want to be maybe a leader; to go to school and study a lot and then to change people. To live all right all the ladies and gentlemen, not the gentlemen first, like now. The ladies build the house, work hard.

They build the boma from grass and sticks, mud and animal dung. When a man dies he is left in the boma and the women will move away and build a new house. Each family lives separately. If a friend comes to visit, he will stay in one home and be given one or two of the wives.

We pass a marulla tree, which is loved by the birds. Nests cover its branches, little patches of sticks that don’t seem to have an opening at all. Its trunk is straight and used by the Masai people to make traditional chairs. The terminallia has purple seed pods and bitter fruit. Acacias, flat like umbrellas, seem the best for hiding from the sun. Sodum apples have bright yellow fruits shaped like tomatoes and hairy leaves. The fruits are cut in half and rubbed on gums to relieve tooth pain. The roots are ground up to relieve nausea. The leaves are used by Masai for toilet paper.

Masai people are peaceful warriors. They do not fight other tribes. They do not eat the wild animals, only cows, sheep, and goats. When the lions threaten or attack the cattle the men will hunt them. The man from the boma that throws the first spear, without pausing, is the warrior. He cuts off the tail so that the entire village knows his spear first hit the lion. Other bomas will give him cows, because he has protected the herds. Cows are sacred. They are everyone’s favorite African animal.

When women are pregnant they eat no fat. No milk. No meat. Only porridge. This way, the baby growing inside them will stay small, and when they deliver it will be easier. They all have home births. Older women come to help them. The men go away for a while. Masai people are slender and tall.

The young boys—lions— watch the goats all day. They do not eat from dawn until dusk. In the mornings they will have porridge before they leave the house. If their mami likes them, she will put food, a little porridge, in a jar for them to take to the field. The papi does not like this if he finds out. They want the boys to fast and be strong. If the children are very hungry they will suckle the goats.

Masai medicine is dark liquid made from the roots of some plants and the bark of others. Medicine from the hospital is poison. Everything is mixed together to cure anything. There is no need for diagnosis. The medicine is at once familiar and foreign; it tastes of liquorish and honey, stone stoves and warm water.

The witch doctor speaks to God. We believe he can see far. He can also see inside your body. What makes you sick.

We believe there are two gods. One with good face and one with bad face. The good one makes rain. Grass grows and feeds the cattle. The bad one brings calamity, disease. The gods are in the ground and also in the sky. The people dance and pray for the good god to send rain. They give sacrifice a sheep, high up on the mountain. Always with skin of one color only. May be black or white or red but only one color.

Papa thrusts his spear into the earth. He points at tracks. Impala, Emna tells us. Nearby, there are hyena droppings, white with the calcium of bones. Warthogs swish their tails back and forth as they trot through the tall grass. The people—not the Masai, the modern Africans—say they are like American flags. Their butts swag back and forth with purpose. Like the local women, whose rumps hold children up while they tie them on with printed khangas. Columbus monkeys, which look like flying skunks, make the strangest noises I’ve ever heard. Rubbery laughs echo through the forests. I think “Mr. Cook” just bellowed back to them, but I can’t tell man from animal or mud from blood anymore.