Our 4x4 clunked through a challenge of rocky, weaving paths, lined with looming mmesera (baobab trees) and a variety of vegetation, whose medicinal properties our soft-spoken guide, Solomon, knew fully. The boma (village) of Olekitayemuni lay atop a daunting ascent to Monduli town. I smiled, whispering the same prayer for the transmission to make it up to Monduli Juu (Upper Monduli) that I prayed for the Saturn to make it up icy Gorman Mountain on so many Pine Swamp November mornings.
Safe (comme toujours) behind a closed window, I could not tell if the poverty enclosed beneath Monduli’s rusty tin roofs was easier to digest or more infuriating than that of the last town we passed. Babies carrying babies march past the car and I uneasily settle on fury. Baby-steps across Tanzania in Maasai clothes, across Mali in Dogon clothes, across Ghana in Osu clothes – why is this infant strapped to this toddler’s back? I feel guilty for feeling guilty and I stay up till all hours reading and writing words that may never matter to anyone or make any difference and I see them and…and I feel like I’m going in circles.
A few pit stops on the road to Olekitayemuni intensified the transition from witness to participant (does this change the level of accountability of the third person?), first into the dark and smoky hut of the Monduli medicine man. Dark not for dramatic effect, but for lack of electricity. We tiptoed in, hunched over and single file, greeting the daktari at his post beside the door. The sunlight followed us reluctantly through the small entrance in his windowless hut. I groped around for a seat on an empty piece of earth, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dark. As I began to register the inner hut scene – two of six wives sit as attendants, another man as assistant, a baby breastfeeds with loud sucks and a terrible cough – I trie to interpret his actions, not completely translatable by Solomon. He throws herbs, shouts to Ongai (God), shakes his calabash violently, letting the rocks from Mt. Olongai (Mountain where Maasai warriors can communicate with God) spill out onto his cow skin mat. In between long pauses of silence and long swigs of Konyagi (local spirit and yes it comes in packets), he quite intently and disappointingly tells us very little about our futures or our fortunes. Intently probably for dramatic effect, as he got drunk and took our money.
I felt cheated, and walking out I crossed my arms and furrowed my brow. But within minutes I was once again bombarded with thoughts that purge any selfish frustrations. We stopped in the local dispensary, a small building serving as a clinic for over 10,000 people in the surrounding three villages, and my calculations begin: One doctor. The nearest District Hospital is 14 kilometers away. No one drives here, even if there were cars, the roads are a mess. The doctor and two specialists at her side confirm the trouble of transportation, particularly in regard to home-based caregivers and traveling medical assistants. Are these staff mostly men or women? I inquire. She looks to the two women beside her. Looks right back at me.
We circle back to Monduli town and (behind the glass again) we drive away from a young boy, arms crossed; a toddler, carrying an infant, forehead furrowed.
The hike to Olekitayemuni up grassy hills and through paths of deep brush quickly became a mental adventure, easily satisfying this prisoner of Big Apple Island. I floated my fingers freely through the waving wheat around my thighs. Again out from behind the glass, Solomon could share his knowledge with us by demonstration; he takes some ologoni bark for nutrients and digestion (the Maasai strictly meat and dairy diet requires some extra vitamins taken from specific plants), heart shaped leaves of oleyabia for cleaning the bowels, asenon as a toothbrush. Solomon’s hushed voice shares any information as if a secret, and I felt pleasantly involved with the world he is bringing me into, not intrusive, not a tourist. He attempts not to sell but to share.
As I silently practiced my proper KiMaa (language spoken by the Maasai) greetings and responses (“Yeayotakwenya!”…”Iko” “Sobai!...Eba!”) we paseds through several abandoned construction projects. Weathered posters for Celtel and Vodacom mobile service plaster the half-walls with “Making life Better” and “Hapa kwa ajili yako” (Here for you). My stomach contracts but I don’t laugh.
Upon reaching the boma, my four British comrades and I wade through herds of cattle, goat, sheep, and sidestep strutting chickens to be greeted by the lioni and endito (small boys and girls), covered in flies. I grab tissues from my bag to wipe their mucusy faces, but hesitate to imply any disrespect to their parents as my initial greeting, and step back. And rather than witness only poverty in the three-day stay, I am witness to an incredible culture of unity, resourcefulness, and respect. Everything in the environment is used fully and with a purpose. Every member of the community has clearly understood roles and responsibilities.
Djimon Hounsou states in the latest issue of Vanity Fair (check it out for Alicia and Iman representing Keep A Child Alive!), "The goal of the African people is to become self-sufficient." A week ago I would have nodded vigorously in agreement. Now I can’t help but shout, “Become?” The Maasai always were.
Taking part in the healing ritual of orpul revealed to me even further that what I perceived as self-sufficiency was in fact a detailed and deep-rooted reliance on nature and Ongai. A traditional healing retreat of the Maasai warrior, orpul revealed how this reliance is alive in both Maasai tradition as well my own Christian experiences in the expression of sacrifice as love. Orpul requires the morani (warriors) to pray and purify by leaving the normal community, and retreat to the woods to consume only medicinal plants and a sacrificed goat. What initially seems exotic (have you ever witnessed the suffocation of a living being? A horrifying thrash, tremble, concession.) becomes familiar once you let your eyes adjust. Our animal led himself to slaughter, our group processed behind. The warriors consumed the raw body and blood of the sacrificed animal. They told stories around the fire: lessons on how to faithfully tend cattle, how to fight and defeat lions, be strong, faithful.
And the Maasai morani who so (seemingly) brutally suffocated and devoured our goat is the same man who, back in the engaji (circular hut), consumes my gaze, as he gently caresses and kisses his infant son’s face. Solomon smiles at my naïve shock that women bathe children once every three months. These are the same women who trek an hour uphill to nearest spring everyday.
I trust that taking time to allow my eyes to adjust - or honoring a reliance upon trusted eyes already aware of what is going on – will not only help me more accurately remember these experiences, but help me more fully make sense and use of them. Solomon is careful to point out the Oreteti Tree to our small group on our way out of the boma. “God is living here on this tree,” he whispered.
I touch the bark and pray for adjustment time: to be aware of what is used to construct the circles and what lies enclosed; to recognize some circles must be preserved, and some broken; to appreciate this rhythm without getting stuck on one track.
1 comment:
Living in America, you can become very selfish and naive to the fact that outside this country there are masses of different cultures that actually exist and are more than what you may read about in history class. Worlds that don't include ripped jeans and the latest gadgets.
Taking in your experiences at first made me feel like these people are stuck back a few centuries. But then I thought, maybe they aren't. Maybe they are satisfied living simply. They are grateful for what they have and I'm the one stuck in a world where wants are pursued more often than needs. And maybe I just don't appreciate that I can walk into a dark room and flip a switch to make it bright.
I feel like the Maasai have something I lack.
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