The 2022 African Journals, Chapter 13: A Moving Day

 Chapter 13

A Moving Day

We have moved four times in the last four months. We were trying to follow the rain – moving according to where the rains were supposed to come. But they haven’t. If the rains don’t come, none of us will survive.”--Farhia Mohamad Geedi, nomadic pastoralist in Africa

The title of this chapter is "A  Moving Day."    I was going to add, "A Moving Day:   In More Ways than One."   I decided not to as that will become apparent in this story.

***

I'm up early to finish last minute packing.   Marg has already left the tent for the main pavilion.   I put my last bag with the rest of our luggage, zip up the tent, and fasten the pulls with a small carabiner.  Vervet-proofing, until those clever monkeys learn how to open the carabiner.

This is the first time we are in camp for  daybreak and I see Mt. Kilimanjaro almost clear of clouds.

The waterhole is seeing early visitors.

An eland

The giraffe arrive and I am finally able to capture the sinuous waterfall from the animal's mouth when it stands after drinking.

Watch the video!

Can't forget to say goodbye to the young impala on the lawn.

Beautiful superb starling.

I take this photo as we head out to get in the vehicles.

A young boy stands beside the highway.   As we near, I hear him cry, "Water."   

I want to throw my water bottle out for him, but I don't.   Instead, while his cry carves deep fissures into my heart,  I think of the morning we spent with Craig, the super tusker elephant.   On the way back, several villagers were heard crying "eeeeeeeeee" and holding out hands.   I finally figured out they were saying "please."

As the guides and drivers say, "If you stop for one, you have to stop for all."

I was  thinking about the starving animals and wondering how the people were coping with the drought.   I didn't know if they were begging just because or if they, too, were starving.

A bit farther on, I saw three young children, perhaps between five and seven years old, herding some walking skeletons out to the road.   I could not believe the cattle, about six or seven of them, could even stand much less be led to whatever feed could be found.

Our driver stopped and held out two apples.   Two kids came running while a third stayed with the small herd.  I looked at him and could see the look of hope on his face.   Our friends's vehicle stopped behind us and held out something for him.

I thought about those young kids having the responsibility of herding the cattle and what would happen if one died?   Would the burden be too much for them to bear?   And then I began comparing their heavy responsibility to the kids in America.  It was not a good thought.

Farther on, two kids are beside the road.   One is eating with a look of happy bliss.   It appears to be fruit, perhaps an apple.

We  turn off the road.   This is the village to which we want to donate some money, in lieu of a village visit.  Most camps offer the option to visit a nearby village for the cultural experience.   There is generally a small fee involved that will assist the village.

Villages are surrounded by a boma, which is a fence made of thorny trees, bushes, and branches.  They are to prevent predators like lions from getting into the village.

At Tawi, we had that option also, at a small charge of $20.00.   Time constraints were considered and we opted out of the visit but arrived at the decision to make a donation.

For me, in additional to being a mosquito magnet, I am also a hawker magnet.    Any street or shop vendor selling something homes in on me with laser beam eyes.   I've been mobbed in China.   Chased down a road in India with the hawker jumping on the rear bumper, still trying to sell me a piece of junk.

Cell phone photos are so unforgiving.

I currently have twelve insect bites on my arms and some on my legs, despite wearing long pants and a long sleeve SPF shirt.   I also have a black eye, courtesy of an insect bite or two.

I can't avoid the hawkers and I have yet to learn how to handle the interaction and not be rude.   Usually, I keep saying "no" and if that doesn't work, I latch on to one of our group for protection.  

Once, when I asked for help, a husband and wife grabbed my arms and escorted me through a large group of hawkers and wouldn't  let anyone near me.

All of us but Randy have done these visits before and there will likely be another chance for him.   We arrived back at camp one day to see a small freight van unloading bales of hay. A man on a motorbike had two bales strapped on his bike.  

We learned that Tawi  Lodge had purchased this load of hay and was giving it to pastoralists.  We talked about donating the $20 for more hay, donating money to a village, and so on.   We settled on donating $20 each and giving it to a village chief because he would know the best use for the funds.

We thought we would pull in, hand the KES1400 (shillings) to the chief, and be on our way.   The chief wasn't having any of that.

A prayer, some dancing, and our village, he promised.

He greets us with a big smile, tucks the cash inside his shuka (a traditional  body wrap similar to  a toga), and launches into his spiel. 

We can see villagers lined up inside the boma, waiting for us.

Oh, dear.   

I think about hiding in the truck.  That won't work, I decide, because I'm not nimble enough to curl up in the footwell, so I get out with the others.  The chief goes on for long minutes, talking about praying, dancing, and seeing the village.

So, here we go.   After the prayer, the dancing starts.   It is delightful to watch and to hear.   Their bodies bob in rhythmic unison and then the jumping begins.   Each warrior tries to jump as high as he can from a flat-footed start.   The warrior who jumps the highest earns the respect of his fellow warriors.

I wonder if the jumping began as a way to spot predators in the grassy savannah where they herd their livestock?

All of a sudden, a warrior comes forward and extends his hands to Randy, luring him into the bobbing and dancing.   Soon,  Randy is in line with the group.

Maasai are polygamous and I wonder if they thought we six women were Randy’s wives and that he should be chosen first..

One by one, a Maasai approaches each of us and repeats the procedure.

Cory and her warrior.

Sylvia and her dance partner.

I am one of the first ones and this time it's by a woman.   A Maasai grabs my camera and starts talking photos.   My camera!   I'm too self-conscious about this to object.  A toddler seems fascinated with me and he becomes my dance partner.

We bob up and down.   There will be no jumping in the air by either of us.

Marg uses her cell phone to take a photo of  the young boy.

Marg and the boy.

Now Virginia is in line.

High-fiving my dance partner.

The woman who selected me tries to tell me her name and keeps saying, "Remember me."    I point to my ears and tell her I am having trouble hearing her because of all the singing.   Odd, I think, that she wants me to remember her.

We are led further into the village.   There are bomas, or kraals, that are pens for the livestock.

I wonder if they have been held back from the herd just to show us.

One day I say, "I can't tell the goats from the sheep."    Others agree.   Marg, the veterinarian, gives us the magic key:   "Tails up--goats.   Tails down--sheep."

We enter one of the huts.   They are made of sticks plastered with elephant dung and glazed with dung and water.   That creates a shell inside and outside.   The roof is elephant grass.  

The huts are built low and that helps protect them from severe winds.  The hut we enter has something akin to an Arctic entry, but without doors.  We walk in a couple steps and make an immediate 180% turn, walk a few more steps to total blackness and we are in the main room.  

I can't see anything.  A bit of light comes in from a very small opening in one wall.   I have the impression that people are stirring across from me.  The Maasai guides me to a bed, which is a low platform covered with a hide.   This is where the parents sleep.  "We don't used mattresses," he says.   

He also says the huts have to be rebuilt every five years.  Dry weather causes the glaze to crack and fall off and it must be re-plastered in the meantime.

I keep waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark but they never do.   There is a small fire on the floor that provides for light and I can make out a pile of branches for firewood.

Typical huts.

The bare exterior of the hut in the middle and to the right make me wondered if this is an abandoned village that has been left to show tourists.   The hole in the side is the only source of light.   On a good note, there are no square corners so anything that slithers inside can find its away outside.,

Africans have exceptional eyesight, especially in darkness.   The hole is for light and to let out the smoke from a fire.

I'm very interested in this hut and wish I had a flashlight.  There is another room for the children, but it is in total darkness.   What I don't see anywhere is evidence of people living here.   There are no personal belongings at all, and my skepticism rises.   Perhaps, I think, he gathered cup the belongings and  dumped them in the kids' room or a neighbor's.

Around the back of the huts are several children who obviously have been gathered for their performance.   In front of them is a rustic wood donation box, marked "for the school."

Out Maasai guides tells us the children cannot go to school, which is about a half mile away, because of elephants.    I don't understand the connection between the kids, school, and donation box.   Nonetheless, a few of us search our pockets for a few dollars.  

Next, some of the warriors are watching from a termite mound.   The chief is standing on the top.

We are introduced to the village doctor, who practices traditional Maasai medicine.   A number of roots, bark, sticks, etc., are on the table in front of him and he explains what most of them are for.    My favorite is the long, dark brown gourd-looking things in the center.   In it are polished lava rocks that are used when couples are bickering.   

I think, to myself, if the rocks don't work he can always hit the couple over their heads with that solid gourd.

The fire-making demonstration is fun.   The longer it takes to get a spark, the more help the fellow gets from other men.

And then the part I was afraid of.   A dozen woman are sitting on blankets with beadwork and other items for sale.   I am being escorted by a Maasai and I cannot get away from him.

I walk as fast as I can without bolting for the truck.    One woman says, "Remember me?"   AH.   The woman who selected me in the dancing line.    The one who told me her name.

  Now I get it.

I hate this part.    I hate refusing again and again.   There are some nice beadwork and dishes but I don't need anything or want to add anything  to my luggage.

Finally, as we near the end of the bazaar, I make a break for the truck.   Free!    I'm free.   I feel guilty.   They are so friendly and courteous.

Not so fast there.   The chief comes to say goodbye.   He is brushing his teeth with the frayed end of a stick,  their traditional toothbrush.

The marks on this man's cheeks are Maasai symbols of his tribe.

And then we are off to Tsavo National Park and the Finch Hatton's lodge.   It will be about a three-hour drive.