Читать книгу My Maasai Life - Robin Wiszowaty - Страница 9

3

My New Family

Weighed down by my s tuffed backpack, I stepped out of the neon-green matatu into the street of Soko, a market town to the southwest near the Great Rift Valley. Morning was just breaking when I had boarded in Nairobi two hours before, but the sun now shone hot and unforgiving. The town was quiet, with the streets mostly vacant except for a few stray dogs, and the merchant stalls were empty. It was Sunday morning, and most Kenyans in this region, being devout Christians, were in church.

I wiped dust from my eyes as I tripped along the uphill road, thankful the rain was still holding off. My feet felt clumsy on the unfamiliar terrain and my pack shifted awkwardly as I staggered under the year’s worth of supplies. The stares of local townspeople made me stumble even more as I made my way from the matatu stage to the main intersection. There gaudy advertisements for Coca-Cola and cell phone company Safaricom splashed across roofs, alongside crates of produce and other wares.

Heading west as I’d been instructed, I found a waiting off-white Toyota pickup truck, its rust and dents speaking of decades of busy transport. A few passengers waited in the back of the pickup while others hovered around, and I felt anxiety begin to burn in my cheeks. This truck, I’d been told, would take me down the valley to Nkoyet-naiborr, the community I’d soon be calling home.

The driver, looking to be in his early forties and wearing a tattered checked sport coat, leaned against the truck’s hood. With my best attempt at a friendly greeting in Swahili, I explained how I hoped to join them on their way into the valley. I described my destination, a church with a name I wasn’t sure I pronounced correctly. The driver eyed me with obvious scepticism. Then, without a word, he took my bag and motioned for me to climb into the pickup’s uncovered bed. I hopped in. Unsure of where to sit between the shaky-looking benches and tightly packed sacks of groceries, I wiped red dust from a side rail and took a seat there. The driver handed back my bag, gave a nod, then returned to his place at the hood.

As time passed without any sign of motion, I began to understand the truck would wait until every visitor to town was ready to go. I tried to make myself comfortable, knowing it could probably be some time before we moved.

Gradually, the truck began to fill with passengers. A pair of young women, each with shaved heads and a child cradled in their arms, joined me in the back. Layers of light fabrics spilled around their bodies, accented with elaborate beadwork in every primary colour adorning their necks, wrists and ankles. The way they spoke in their high-pitched voices seemed almost like a shared game: soft, tender coos between intimate shared giggles, then bursting into a crescendo of laughter and celebratory clasped hands. I couldn’t tell whether their boisterous laughter was directed at me, the stranger almost painfully sticking out, or something else I wasn’t getting.

I felt myself retreating into myself, not knowing how to fit in, what to say or do. But this was clearly a bad time to become shy, so I tried to join the conversation in simple English. I said hello and did my best to make light of my failure to understand, shrugging comically. It seemed to work, and soon we were laughing together.

I settled in and tried to enjoy the scenery while we waited for the truck to depart. Soko was a charming small town, nestled against the green slopes and blue ridges of the Ol Doinyo Hills. Storefronts, some tin, some wooden and some concrete, lined the sides of the paved road, each bearing hand-painted and stencilled signs in English: “Blue Hotel,” “Friend’s Pub,” “Barbershop & Saloon.”

A convenience store was marked with a sign reading “Supermarket.” Supermarket? It looked about the size of my living room back at home, with wooden shelves creating three aisles inside. Definitely different from the aisles of our Dominic’s grocery store back home. Another read “Bookstore.” Bookstore? It was about the size of my first grade classroom, with drab grey concrete walls on the inside—a far cry from the scene on Saturday afternoons thumbing through books in the cozy chairs of Barnes & Noble.

Three older men bearing walking sticks crafted from tree branches came over to greet the truck. The men walked slowly and deliberately, each with bright-red blankets—like the ones I’d seen on the man in Nairobi and which I later learned in my cultural education classes were called shukas—tied loosely across their chests and under one arm. I’d seen these blankets for sale in Nairobi’s markets, but on these aged men they made a much more regal impression. The women in the truck immediately stopped their conversations to stand and bow down to these men, who then lightly touched the tops of each of their heads. The children did the same.

I took my cue to follow suit. The men laughed at my gesture. They and the women began an animated discussion about, I guessed, who this stranger might be. I caught one word I had learned in Swahili class: wetu. “Ours.”

Chuckling hoarsely, the men beckoned for me to lower my head again. One after another they gently touched the top of my head, each repeating the same greeting that I barely understood. I really had to drastically improve my Swahili!

I brought my head back up, unable to wipe the goofy smile from my face. Everyone burst out laughing, talking over one another. One woman gave my arm a friendly squeeze, and I quickly felt less self-conscious. The older men were each given a boost and they, along with a few others, joined us in the back of the pickup. No one seemed concerned at how crowded the bed of the pickup truck was becoming.

Again my mind flooded with questions. Would the truck drag its belly on the road from the weight? Was it safe to load the truck so heavily? I had to stop myself from saying anything and trust they were capable of managing their affairs. After all, I had no idea what I was doing. It was best to fall in with the crowd, release myself of any worries and just sit back and learn.

As the busy chatter continued, my eyes returned to the street. Nearby young boys in both traditional and Western clothes knelt on the ground, playing cards and scratching their stomachs and arms. More stray dogs wandered idly, sniffing at patches of brush. The pace here was much slower than Nairobi’s bustle. People moved more deliberately. I could feel myself being absorbed by the town’s tranquil pace, the gentle grace of the people. It was like exhaling after a long held breath: my pulse quieted, the inner chatter that constantly filled my head seeming to silence itself.

Someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around to find the driver holding out a bottle of Orange Fanta.

He spoke his first words to me, in English: “Take it.”

I could barely respond to this generous offer.

“Take it,” he said again, smiling quietly.

I accepted the bottle, unable to fully express my appreciation as the driver again disappeared. I took a long swig to show my gratitude, then offered the bottle to the child sitting next to me. The other kids in the truck squeezed in around me, and we all took turns sharing this treat.

Over half an hour passed with no movement. The sun stalled overhead, its equatorial heat beating down on us. With the back of my hand I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead. Just when it looked like we were about to leave, someone would hop out, shout something I couldn’t understand, then more women would flock to the truck, loading their weekly shopping: huge bundles of corn flour and plastic bags of beans, cabbages and tomatoes. Men and children took the packages from the women and tossed into the pickup, then carefully arranged each package to optimize space.

People came and went. An hour passed, then another. More and more people crammed in for the ride, some standing. Others perched on a wooden bench arranged over the tires for more seating space, others on empty milk canisters. Some clung to the truck’s roof or balanced themselves on the back bumper. I did a head count: amazingly, we had crammed thirty-four people into this small Toyota truck!

The driver finally returned to his seat, jangling a set of keys. Yes! We were finally actually going! I didn’t know how long the ride would be, but I did know that my bum was already numb from sitting over the rail for so long.

But when the driver went to start the ignition, the truck only made a wheezing sound, refusing to start. The driver tried again. Another unsuccessful wheeze and foul smoke burst forth as the chassis shuddered. Three more attempts, then the driver popped his head out the window and called out something I didn’t understand. Several men piled out, and I moved to follow, but a mama stopped me with a gentle hand. I interpreted this as an instruction to sit back down and did so, grateful that someone was looking out for me.

The driver shifted into neutral as the men pushed the truck forward. We rolled forward, slowly but with mounting speed, until the driver was able to pop the clutch and turn the engine over. Elated shouts rang out as the engine caught. Diesel smoke clouded the air as those pushing jumped back in, resettling themselves as the truck struggled uphill and forward into the valley.

As the wind picked up, the women pulled out more shukas to cover their shaved heads. An old mama wearing intricately beaded earrings smiled at me, again telling me something I didn’t understand. I laughed and told her in English that I didn’t speak Swahili—but I would soon! Whether she understood or not, I didn’t know. But she laughed and outstretched her shuka to cover my head along with hers.

We bounced along the craggy road down into a valley of thorny flat-topped trees, whose yellow bark carried more branches than leaves, and small ponds as red as the soil. Cattle grazed in small sections of grassland, attended by young men enwreathed in shukas. We passed traditional huts, which I knew from my orientation classes were called manyattas. They were made of cow dung, mud and sticks. Many were surrounded by protective fences made of thick, thorny branches of the same flat-topped trees found everywhere, planted in circles. Tin structures sat topped with crosses; I realized these were churches.

I did my best to take everything in slowly, aware that the others were closely gauging my reactions. A bump in the road tossed us into the air, and we clutched onto one another, coming down on the side of the truck with a hard thud. I clung to the mama next to me, and we laughed at the ridiculousness of the rough ride. The entire scene felt daunting and enchanting at the same time.

Suddenly something disrupted the lively conversation, and a boy near the cab of the truck called out, pointing. The woman beside me seized my arm to direct my attention to something in the distance. I looked to see large, lean shapes ambling past on the roadside: one, two, three . . . five . . . seven giraffes, chomping dangling tree leaves, less than fifteen metres away.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “I’ve seen them on TV, and at the Brookfield Zoo, but . . . wow! ”

The entire crowd laughed at my amazement, even the children. They obviously saw giraffes all the time, probably more often than my family at home saw deer or any other woodland animals. I tried to reel in my excitement, afraid they were mocking me. But it was clear they simply wanted to share this incredible sight with me, even though for them it was familiar. One girl pointed and gave me a long, animated explanation of . . . something. Once again, I was reminded how I truly needed to become fluent in Swahili, and quickly!

We continued down the rocky road for nearly another hour before the truck began making intermittent stops to offload riders and their bundles of shopping. Luckily, the truck didn’t need to be pushed to start again; then just as the constant stopping and starting began to make me queasy, we reached a church, the location where I’d been told to be dropped off. As the driver braked, I pulled up my pack and hopped out.

“Kwa heri!” I called to my fellow passengers. At least I’d learned how to say goodbye.

The family I was joining were of the Maasai people, an indigenous tribe occupying the southern region of the Great Rift Valley throughout southern Kenya and north central Tanzania. During my orientation in Nairobi, I had done some brief research into this unfamiliar culture.

Giraffes roam the savannah: beautiful, but dangerous if crossed.

Maasai live as traditional pastoralists, herding mostly cattle, but also sheep, donkeys and goats. They are semi-nomadic, meaning their livestock is moved on seasonal rotation and in response to environmental factors, particularly drought. Cattle play a cherished role in their society, both in their economic and personal health. Maasai drink cows’ milk every day as a staple of their diets, and they value not only the meat but even its blood, which they believe holds unique health benefits. However, since a cow represents an enormous financial asset for a family, slaughtering one for meat or blood is typically reserved for ceremonies and special occasions.

Despite the increasing modernization of Africa in recent years, the Maasai have still clung to many of their traditions and beliefs. They speak their own regional dialect, called Maa, though many also speak Swahili and English. Estimates of their current population range wildly, anywhere from only about 150,000 to almost a million throughout sub-Saharan Africa. Yet they still remain mostly marginalized from mainstream Kenyan culture, both economically and politically.

Dr. Jama, my advisor in Nairobi, knew of a Maasai community in the Rift Valley who would welcome a visitor—me. I’d been told that district elders, together with Dr. Jama, had assembled to decide on the family with whom I should live. The father of the family I was joining had past experience with various development organizations working in Kenya, and collectively they had decided how to welcome their American visitor.

The Maasai I’d seen so far—like the man in Nairobi—dressed in distinctively colourful clothing with ornate necklaces and earrings of fine beadwork. Many of them displayed long, pierced and stretched earlobes—a common body modification considered beautiful in their society. I wasn’t sure if this was what I was to expect from my adoptive family. All I knew was that they were eagerly expecting my arrival. I had to rise above my nervous jitters and prepare to throw myself into whatever came my way.

And yet I was hesitant: could I reach out and cross the inevitable cultural gap? Would this family and I be able to joke, or communicate at all? Would the differences simply be too vast? Had my desire to flee a frustrating, ordinary upbringing been too hasty or too extreme?

I started toward the church, where I was to meet my “mama,” the mother of the family with whom I’d be staying for the next year. The father of the family—my “baba”—was a teacher and one of the community’s more educated men. He travelled often and was presently away, doing work with one of the many charities frequenting the region.

Then a stunningly beautiful, tall woman who looked not much older than me came toward me down the roadside. She wore multicoloured shukas draped around her slender shoulders and a bright blue skirt. Her feet were bare, but her face beamed with a brilliant smile. I hoped my own smile was even half as wide.

“My daughter!” she cried in English.

I wasn’t sure how to react. “Mama?” I tried, trying to feign confidence.

“Welcome!” She hugged my shoulders, first on the left, then again on the right: a traditional Maasai embrace. My body was stiff, yet her movements were smooth and easy. She moved deliberately, with purpose.

Against my protests, she hauled my backpack onto her shoulders, then immediately dropped it back on the ground, staggering under its weight. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry,” I cried, coming to her aid. “Let me take that!” Have I brought too much?

I rushed to help her, but Mama then rose and effortlessly tossed my bag over her shoulder and continued ahead, laughing at my stunned expression. Finally I got the joke and hurried to catch up with her. Lacking the right words, I could only laugh to show my appreciation, and soon we were laughing together. I followed her lead toward a narrow, worn footpath running uphill through the brush. With her long legs, she kept a brisk pace, and I pushed hard to keep up with her.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

She looked at me and smiled. “Home.”

I followed Mama up the dirt path, keeping a cautious distance. The long savannah grass and twisted, thorny bushes soon gave way to a clearing heavy with the smell of barn animals. I saw several small huts, then a fenced enclosure. Huddled at a distance, a group of small children watched. I gave them a wave, but they only scurried away.

Before I knew what was happening, Mama began a quick tour. She showed me a small structure made of mud and sticks that had a dirt floor on which stood a pair of small beds with wooden frames and thin blankets: this was the main house where we would sleep. Another smaller hut served as a kitchen, centred around a small, smouldering firepit, with a few wooden shelves and a number of long planks of scrap lumber set as benches. This must be where the family sits at mealtime, I thought to myself. There was a pit toilet, similar to an outhouse, located just outside the fence of replanted branches, roughly assembled from tin sheets nailed together. Nearby was a metre-square concrete block structure with tin sheets for walls, no roof and a large bucket inside. “Bafu,” Mama explained: where we would bathe. This would definitely be interesting!

Continuing our tour, we crossed through another fenced enclosure. Ngombe yetu wanalala hapa, she said: our cattle sleep here. She pointed to an enclosed area for the goats and sheep, another for the cows, indicating they were currently away being herded in community fields. A number of clucking chickens pecked around the yard. Mud caked on the bottom of my battered running shoe with each step, but I fought to show Mama I wasn’t fazed, concentrating on each step.

Squish-sh-sh-sh. Something warm melted over my foot—I looked down and found my shoe sinking into the slurping quicksand of a huge cow patty. Oops! I raised my knee to try and save my shoe, but the suction was too strong. I pulled harder, forcing it out, and my foot came free—sending a spray of manure flinging into the air with its release.

Mama, ahead at the compound’s edge, turned back. I snapped to attention and smiled as best I could, trying to regain composure even with manure splattered on my legs. A burst of high-pitched giggles broke out nearby. But when I turned, my small crowd of shy observers again fled before I could greet them.

Everything was hitting me so fast, I could barely process it. The isolation. The fire. A new bed. A new family. The powerful stink. What exactly was I getting myself into here?

“Tuende uoge,” Mama said, directing me to take a shower. After the long journey, I was more than ready to clean up.

By the bafu Mama arranged a bucket of water and swung a thin, threadbare towel over the tin siding. A yellow brick of soap sat on a narrow, wooden shelf. I closed the swinging door behind me, fastening it by twisting a bent nail over the doorframe. Stripping naked, I stood exposed to the open sky above.

My heart pounded from the day’s frenzy of activity. This village was far from Nairobi’s neon lights, pumping music and constant advertising. But I still felt overwhelmed.

With a deep breath, I splashed myself with water from the bucket and lathered up with the soap. Getting clean after the afternoon’s long, dusty ride felt good, and I shut my eyes to review the day in my head. The bright red and blue of the women’s clothes. The high-pitched chatter of a dozen competing conversations. The diesel smoke contrasting with the fresh air all around. The scratch of thorns in the tall, dry savannah grass.

Then I knew I wasn’t alone. Turning, I was startled to see a cow’s head was poking at my feet—and it was now drinking from my bucket of bathwater! I almost swore out loud in surprise. How could I shoo the cow away without someone hearing my distress and then coming to my rescue, only to find me naked?

“Go away!” I hissed at the cow. I bopped it lightly on its head and, to my relief, it began to slowly back out, trailing saliva from its mouth to my bucket.

I stood there, hands on hips under the open sky, afraid to look down at my bucket, now mixed with globs of cow saliva. Should I remain soapy, or rinse with water goopy with cow saliva? I could only chuckle to myself. Here was a choice I would never imagined having to make.

After my bucket shower, Mama resumed her tour. Past the manure field, we came across a second hut made of cow dung, sticks and mud, no taller than one-and-a-half metres high and three metres square.

“Kokoo! ” Mama called. “Hodi! ” Hello!

“Karibu! ” Welcome! A hoarse, older voice whispered from inside. Mama lowered her head and went inside, motioning for me to follow. I felt my way into the darkness, unable to see more than a metre ahead. A small fire roared in the centre of the manyatta and the stifling heat was overpowering. Stumbling forward, I accidentally kicked over an empty canister.

“Oh!” I cried, cursing my clumsiness.

Laughing, Mama took my hand and guided me to a mattress made of tightly woven sticks beneath a cow hide. Blind in the dark, I could only follow Mama’s voice.

“Your grandmother,” she said. “We say Kokoo.”

My eyes gradually adjusted to the darkened scene, the only ventilation a thirty-by-two-centimetre window along the mud wall. Behind the fire, a small woman sat on a wooden stool. Squinting through the smoke, I discerned her tiny figure, wrapped in a ragged shuka with frayed edges, her shaven head shining in the firelight.

Speaking to Mama in soft, almost whispered Maa over the fire’s crackle, Kokoo expertly prepared tea for us. Her dishes—cups, plates, a Thermos and pots—were kept on top of a pile of firewood that doubled as a drying rack and storage cupboard. She removed a steaming pot from the fire and dug out a plastic container, pouring a sugar-like powder into the pot.

I was staring at Kokoo’s dangling stretched earlobes when she broke into a chuckle, catching me off guard. This was the first time we’d looked one another in the eye, and even through the darkness I was stunned by the glassy bluish hue of her eyes.

“Ngoo shai,” she said, reaching over the fire to pass a mug brimming with hot milky tea. I thanked her and accepted the mug. The three of us sipped from our cups, eyeing one another through the rising smoke. Mama and Kokoo continued speaking, clearly discussing something related to my arrival. Then they both turned to me with expectant smiles.

“You must be given a Maasai name,” Mama decreed.

Mama turned to Kokoo, prompting her. Kokoo looked at me as if she were the proud grandmother and I the grandchild, taking her first steps.

“We have decided on yours,” Mama said. “Naserian. It means ‘peaceful person.’”

Naserian. I repeated the name in my mind.

Kokoo cocked her head and repeated the word to herself, as if getting used to connecting my face to that name.

“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

“Naserian, tuende!” Mama said, gesturing for me to come with her. I bid Kokoo farewell and followed Mama back out into the blinding light of day.

As my eyes adjusted to the sun’s glare, we were met by those children who had before skittered away but now were gathered round. As Mama introduced them one by one, I was surprised to discover all of them lived in the compound with us.

Three boys stood leaning on one another: Saigilu, twelve; Parsinte, ten; and Morio, only five. Mama introduced another older boy as Kipulel, fifteen; she explained in English that they’d taken him in a few years ago, after his own parents’ death, but she didn’t explain the circumstances.

A girl cowered behind them, squatting on the ground with her skirt tucked under her knees, averting her eyes. Each of her features were perfectly proportioned on her slim frame; she carried a certain wisdom in her deep-set brown eyes despite her apparent youth. This was Mama’s youngest sister, Faith—though at only thirteen she was more like her daughter. She’d come to live here several years ago to assist Mama with the sprawling family.

Suddenly I had four new brothers and a sister. No—two sisters! A tiny head squealing with glee poked from behind Faith. The daughter of a faraway relative, Metengo was four years old and lived with Kokoo.

As then Mama turned to explain the situation to the boys in Maa, I tried to gauge their personalities. Saigilu stood tall and slender, slightly in front of his brothers, respectfully nodding as Mama spoke, resting his hand protectively on Morio’s shoulder. Parsinte, clearly the most animated of the bunch, laughed loudly, fidgeting playfully with his walking stick. He was about thirty centimetres shorter than Saigilu yet obviously had half the attention span.

Swatting away a fly, Parsinte accidentally bumped into Kipulel, who was leaning against the kitchen with his arms crossed. Kipulel quickly spread his arms and jokingly threatened to push back. This sent Parsinte and Morio into another fit of giggles as Kipulel eased back into his cool pose, a teasing half-smile on his face.

Morio bounced eagerly up and down, his arms swinging loosely in time to a song playing only in his head. His smile was mischievous as he tried to stare me down. When I squinted back, Morio exploded into giggles and let loose his song, singing loudly through the spittle forming on the sides of his mouth. Saigilu reached out to cover Morio’s mouth and Morio dutifully stepped back in line, trying to stifle the laughter. I would have walloped Erin if she’d ever tried to quiet me that way in front of a stranger. Yet Morio seemed to find the attention he was looking for in Saigilu’s mild reprimand.

Under Mama’s watchful attention, the children’s wariness of me as a new stranger gradually evaporated. Saigilu was the first to approach me, extending a hand in greeting. Parsinte and Kipulel followed close behind. Faith was last in line. She timidly shielded her eyes with one hand while extending the other to shake.

Morio danced around me, babbling giddily in Maa as he clutched my hand, making a game of not letting go. I played along, overwhelmed at all these new names and faces.

Mama concluded by introducing me to them: “Naserian.”

All of the children echoed it back in unison: “Naserian!”

They led me to a plot of shade under a thorny tree near the kitchen. Saigilu saw me eyeing the tree and slowly annunciated: A-ca-cia, pointing upward. When I repeated after him, he laughed out loud, unable to hide his amusement. The kids gathered around me, tugging playfully at my blonde hair, fascinated by this unfamiliar colour, baffled by this strange person who had come to live with them.

This was my new family.