Walking, Dancing, Sharing
by Daudi Msseemmaa • September 2007

[transcript of English audio]

The searing noontime sun soaking into my forehead, the hot dust slipping through my toes, the soft sounds of church songs ringing through the acacias, the escarpment and mountains in the distance — there's just something calm and peaceful about a long walk in the wilderness.

Until we dance.

The group of about 15 Maasai I'm walking with occasionally feel the need to stop and dance. The men come to one side of the dance circle and jump vertically and dance with their shoulders. They pull their shoulders back in a proud pose at the crest of their jump, then slump them down when they hit the ground. The women on the other side mimic this dance, but bouncing instead of jumping. The women sing words in their language, Kimaasai, while most of the men forcefully chant with abrupt stops, “HOIY-huh, HOIY-huh.”

I snap a few pictures before joining the circle. The women really laugh at me, and say they now believe that I am a Maasai. I secure my camera down beneath my elbow. They continue to sing their song — a praise song for great God, whose name in Kimaasai is Lengai. Then at some point the dance time stops and we continue walking.

But the singing continues. Most of the conversation is in Kimaasai, except for the two fellows who are about my age (I'm 25) that are trying to talk to me in Swahili, the national language of Tanzania. They ask about America, and about Chicago. I tell them that it's a beautiful city with lots of extremes — it can be so cold in the winter like the top of Kilimanjaro, but hotter in the summer than even this place. I also tell them that there are places and people with more wealth than the entire Arusha Region, but there are also poor people who have no jobs and really struggle to live. One of the fellows says he had heard that, but the other one can't believe that there's poverty in America. We debated this for a while and talked about many other issues, from families in America to whether or not Americans cane their children. They were surprized to know that Americans eat bananas.

The land around us is really harsh. There's hardly anything green in this dry place, where the world exists in dull shades of brown and gray. Most of the ground is covered by thorn bushes and short thorn trees. They occasionally prick our feet (almost all of us are wearing sandals). The sun-baked dust is deep like powdery snow, but hot like sand on the beach. We walk trails carved by goats and cows. These trails are also traveled by buffalo, impala, elephants, and giraffes — among others.

As we are nearing our destination, one girl in the back of the pack screams and begins to run. It invokes panic among our crew and everyone runs — but just for a moment. Then the girl stops and laughs at us, which invokes laughter and everyone stops and laughs. We run because we think there's a buffalo or something coming toward us. But there's nothing. Just a jumpy girl who got spooked.

Somewhere in this maze of cow trails and between thorn shrub forests, we reach a boma. Here, we are met by an evangelist. He is wearing a black shirt with an official-looking Warrior Security Company badge on the sleeve, and good shoes. He is also the only person (besides me) who wears glasses. We enter the boma singing another praise song, and the family who is there comes to greet us. The women, again, stand on one side of the circle and the men on the other. When the song is over, the evangelist leads us in prayer.

He continues to preach for a while. He uses mostly Kimaasai, but sometimes slipping to Swahili. He is an orator and engages the group. We sing some more songs. A distant storm on the other side of the Rift Valley leaves a bright rainbow behind it, though we continue to bake in the sunshine. I struggle for a while to take a good rainbow picture before dancing with them again.

After some more preaching and a couple readings from the Bible, we thank our hosts and leave. Our next destination is another boma, some distance away. We walk and talk and sing until we reach there.

At that place, we repeat the program from the previous boma. Afterward, we are treated to a big meal of rice and meat. I don't know who to thank for feeding so many of us. I remember learning that they use cow urine to wash the dishes in dry places because it's sterile, and I wonder if my plate was peed on by a cow. Not that it matters — I'm too hungry to be picky. Besides, the donkeys nearby are probably used for carrying water from the river up to here.

I share a giant heaping plate of food with the fellow next to me, who has a nice singing voice and likes teaching me words in Kimaasai that I know I'm bound to forget in two minutes or less. He takes a small share, then makes me eat the rest. I think it's a test to see if I can. I'm game.

It's custom in this country to eat with your hands. We pack the rice between our fingertips and somehow shovel it into our mouths, spilling a few bits as we go (to the dogs' delight). I struggle to suck down every bite until the plate is empty, worried that walking back with an over-full stomach will wear me out. Then they come and scoop more onto my plate.

Then comes chai. Tanzanians make nice, spicy tea. Today's tea is being served from big plastic buckets. The thick milk is so fresh that it smells a little bit like beef. It's almost all milk, with tea leaves, ginger, sugar, and a little bit of chai masala. It's so good. Where did they find enough cups to give each of us our own? I ask one of the women who I should thank. The answer is very unclear, so I thank the whole group of them. We pose for a few pictures, sing a little bit, then walk. It's almost dark and some people have very far to walk.

Around 4:30 p.m., the sun crawled behind the Rift Valley escarpment, leaving the valley floor in shadow. By now, about 6:30 p.m., the sky is also becoming dark. Our group splinters off as people find different paths through the darkness to get home. I walk with two twenty-somethings towards Engaruka Juu. One of them splits off toward his home, leaving just Emmanuel and me to finish the journey.

Along the way we reach Emmanuel's home. It's part of a compound on his father's land. His neighbors in the compound are his brothers and their families. His two children respectfully greet me by bowing their heads to me and saying, “Shikamoo.” I put my hand on each of their heads and reply, “Marahaba.”

Emmanuel wants me to take pictures of his family. It's too dark to make anything special, but I can try. We put a couple kerosene lamps in his home's sitting room and I set the camera on a stack of grain-filled burlap bags for stability. I shoot a few of these, but they're all blurry. Outside, we shoot a few with the flash, then my guide takes me to continue down the road.

As we walk, the moon lights up the path enough to see rocks, piles of cowdung, and thorn branches that are in the path. The moon also lights the escarpment that we've been paralleling the whole day. We reach a point where the road curves, and there we take another little footpath. Here near the river, there's much life — plants, people, frogs, and whatever else we might encounter. Engaruka in its centuries-old history has been famous for snakes. I pick up a stick to carry, just in case I need to whack a slithering something in the head.

We reach Pastor's house next to the church sometime around 8 p.m. His wife brings us tea while Emmanuel and Pastor chat it up. He gives thanks for the tea and we just talk about our day going to the bomas. Then it's time for Emmanuel to go home.

I sleep in one of the only permanent structures in the village. My bed is a wooden frame with a 3-inch mattress. I have nice sheets and go to bed with food in my stomach. There’s a strong smell of guano coming from the roof, and it falls to the floor where there are gaps in the ceiling board. The gurgling river rushes by a few meters from the house. It makes a soothing backdrop for the crickets’ song that lasts till dawn.