Ostriches on Safari Pt.6, Or Cattle, Cacti, Culmination

Camp 6 & 7: Eight days are left on our cross country journey. We spend three nights at a campground about 20km from where we will have our final stay. The camp is run by village members, all of which are Maasai. The day of Halloween, we have our final exam. It takes about an hour, and after it's over we decide to kick our boots off and relax a bit.

(*Note: Any vegetarians reading this paragraph should think twice about it. On one hand, what you are about to read is not exactly the most animal friendly experience I have encountered. It is, on the other hand, truth, and a truth that has been practiced for longer than vegetarians have existed). Relaxation was quickly thrown out the window, however with the news that our hosts would be slaughtering a goat very near us, a ritualistic tradition. Maasai used to depend entirely on their livestock (goats and cows). They would eat and drink nothing but blood, meat and milk. Economy was strictly based around the amount of cows a man owned. We really knew not what to expect, but I think the majority of us envisioned a quick but probably quite bloody death. In reality, the process took quite a long time with no initial blood spill. They choked the goat out, its bulging eyes slowly dilating. Maybe I'm just a naive kid from the suburbs, but the sound of a choking goat is much like that of a choking child. It's not something that should be experienced without warning. After five or so minutes (what seemed more like a 3 hr. slow smother), the life was snuffed from the Maasai's sacrifice. The neck was then delicately opened, so as not to pierce the muscle and spring a leak. Once an appropriate amount of skin was sheared to make a ladle, however, the jugular was pierced and out flowed the blood into the basin made of skin. One by one the Maasai leaned over the goat and began to slurp loudly from the throat, each arising with a bloodied nose tip. We were then offered the chance to sample the blood. Only four of us found the courage (or stupidity? I'm not quite sure which) to try it out. I was the last of the four.

"Just do it, Tim, you wimp," I thought to myself. "You will never in your life have this opportunity". Josh, Thad's nephew looked on with uneasy contentment. He's lived with in Tanzania his entire life. He has gone to warrior camp with Maasai warriors. He has never tried goat blood. An unsettling precursor to my soon to be delicacy. I lean over the goat, I swear to God I could feel it breathe. As I dip my lips into the, lets just say much warmer than expected, red liquid and begin to sip, I catch something between my pursed lips that stops up the drinking process. I suck harder. A large chunk, later discovered to be a blood clot, flies to the back of my mouth. I wince, but not enough to show discontent. Rule #1 when trying someone else's food culture: You may hate it, but you never show it. This is their freakin' livelihood, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna hate on it. The taste is that of luke warm chicken broth, but goat-ier?...honestly, there's no other way to explain it.

The rest of the night was wonderful; it was Halloween after all. My good friend Nate and I decided to be lounge lizards from a dingy club. We splayed our collars, slicked our hair back, found the perfect pairs of creepy shades, and extenuated our mustaches with mascara (something I may have forgotten to mention entirely. The four boys, excuse me, men, on the trip decided to go through safari with mustaches. I got a head start, and haven't shaved or trimmed mine since September. Have I mentioned this?) In the end, we looked more like Columbian cocaine lords, so that's what we rolled with.

The next day we packed up and headed two hours (again, only 20km) down the road and ended in the village of Ololosokwan. After a night of preparation, our Maasai mamas came to gather us. We were told to line up in a semi circle as our mamas sang and danced, slowly in our direction. Once the song finished, they scrambled to pick one of us, like captains of a middle school dodgeball team. All I could think was "don't get picked last, Tim, let's not re-live seventh grade". I puffed out my chest and stood up straight for once, trying to look like a real morani (warrior). A beautiful woman picked me (albeit her secondary choice) named Norpiaia (pronounced nor.pee.EYE.ah). She was about 35 (although an exact age isn't really relevant in Maasai culture) with long earlobes, stretched over the years, a shaved head, piercing wise eyes, and more homemade jewelry on than a DIY craft center. She spoke no English and a bit of broken Swahili. Mostly just maasai. The entire walk consisted of her pointing at objects, and telling me what they were in her language. I'm embarrassed but all I remember is the word for thunder (injoon) and shoes (nahmokai).

We walked about 5 miles back to the boma. Once inside, well initially, nothing happened, and nothing really could happen, for that matter. It was pitch black dark. The boma, as all bomas in the village, was set up as such: First room for young livestock. I was thankful to not have this room full of goats as many of my classmates did. Next, a hallway half the width of my shoulders, weaves around a few corners and opens into the kitchen/bedroom/living room (hint: they are one in the same). The room is so smoky, my father the fire chief would declare it unsuitable conditions for human life. I cried of smoke poisoning the entire five days. My mother's bed and my bed (my practically non-existent father's bed) were on opposite sides of the room, with a campfire in the middle. Bathrooms? Anywhere and everywhere, my friends. No "room" was designated for such activities, but if you could find a bush, you could claim it as your own.

Once my eyes adjusted, I realized there were at least four children hangin' out in the boma. I was first introduced to Paolo, my eight year old (or so) brother. For the next four days, I would learn with Paolo, the family cattle herder. Paolo was quite pensive, quiet at first. He spoke Swahili very fluently, but didn't really know what to make of my presence. That night, my father came by, a drunken man named Torpiwu. My "Central Track and Field" shirt I wore conveniently displayed a rocket, which I pointed to and said "TORPEDO!" I then pointed to my father, "TORPIWU". They found this most entertaining, and from then on, became my me and my father's only talking point.

The marriage, gender, equal rights issue here is quite complex. From what I have gained, it goes like this. Maasai are polygamist. The men start as cattle herders from the time they are five or so, till they're about 16. Then a rigorous warrior training is initiated, and taa daa, you are a morani, fighting lions and ransacking other tribes, or at least that's how it used to be. Now they just kind of mess around, throwing sticks at various plants, drinking, hooking up with 14 year olds. After a good ten years as a morani, you become an elder, and your responsibilities are to

look over the village. And drink. A lot. Women on the other hand, have no "age sets". They work from the time they are able to walk, till the time they are no longer able to walk. Their entire life. They build their own houses. They cook for 7+ children, including the children of other wives in the family. They carry 20 liter jugs on their head, everyday. They are wonder women. My father would come by every morning, bright and happy, glad to see me. He would return at night, drunk and sad, swaying like a punching bag. At one point my mother dragged him outside and yelled at him for being so drunk, at which point he sobbed and snorted like a toddler given rum in his bottle. It was, to say the least, pathetic.

The next morning, Paolo and I woke up at 6 to herd cattle. We were quite silent until he handed me a carved stick, bulging on one end, sharp on the other. We began a target practice at the invasive cacti species, sticking our spears in to the succulent plant. We quickly bonded, playing soccer games, piggy back rides (a new thing for Paolo), chopping down trees for fences, running through the forest. He was fascinated with my watch, telling time in Swahili obviously a newly learned subject in school. Over the next few days, we became quite talkative; I would read my journal to him, he would read his homework. I went out for an extensive herding journey with a few of his eight year old friends, all of them loin clothed and weaponed to the brim. As we hunted lizards and threw sticks at cacti, I felt as if I had found myself with a bunch of feral children, hunting for their survival. Of all the people I have met on this trip, I will miss Paolo the most.

Each day I was required to wear and carry a number of items. First, without debate, I had to wear my Maasai blanket. My mother tied it around my neck as if I was a super hero, then turned my plaid cape around so it covered by front side, much like a flannel hospital gown. i was then given a machete, a bow and poison arrows, a number of clubs and throwing sticks, and a small knife. I was my own army. Finally, I was given half of my mother's jewelry. It was so honest, though, so earnest. When dressed up in Tumbe, I was paraded around the village like a float, like a poodle with a goofy new hair cut. Here, it was just protocol;the people were so proud to have me apart of their culture. I felt at home (although hindsight, I could never live like the Maasai, I'm just not that strong).

My goodbye was an odd one, one I wish I could have done over. First, I had to pack up and leave without saying goodbye to Paolo. In a place without hours, the cattle herders job is never done. He left me his prized throwing stick, his absolute favorite. He wanted me to take it home. My mother decorated me with bracelets and necklaces she had made. I walked back to camp with her, saddened by the concept of leaving these wonderful people. The final decision by the trip leaders was to finish up with a "market hour" with the mothers, in which we could buy accessories from our mamas. It was a terrible way to end it all. Here we were, after a week with families, and now we had to leave on a business note. I was quite disappointed.

I could go on for days on end about my amazing time in Ololosokwan. What I picked up most from my time here was the fact that happiness is much simpler than we would wish to believe in the states. We believe their are many levels of happiness, acquired through time and strife for the best new thing, that you can always be HAPPIER. Paolo was fascinated by my watch, but he was exponentially happier while throwing sticks at cacti. My mother enjoyed looking at pictures of my family, but enjoyed more thoroughly listening to me and four children define words from Maasai to Swahili to English. No matter where you go in the world, you will find the same emotions; maybe the means to these emotions differ, but the core of the feeling is completely the same. Each person wants to laugh, love, learn, be understood, be fed, and feel accomplished. Happiness is not a product of the iphone's upgradeable happiness ap, but of such simple emotions.

Four people ended up winning the Smell Off: Ben, Chelsea, Gareth, and Sam. Congratulations. Enjoy the parasites.

I want to say more, but c'mon, these are freakin long posts.

More to come,

Tim