Among the Maasai Warriors

This morning, Kristin and I had one of those experiences that only comes once in a lifetime.

The dirt road that climbs up from the highway past the AIC Compound where we are staying and the Siyiapei Primary School continues on up into the hills until finally the scrub and acacia give way to the unlikely presence of cedar. It’s prime grazing ground for livestock and there are many big shambas up there, too, all with beautiful views of the hills that roll away to the north and the east and the western edge of the Rift Valley. Up there in that lovely spot is a Maasai manyatta and today we were given the rare privilege of visiting.


It all started yesterday afternoon when Steve Zsako, the young man who cares for the church and the grounds of the AIC compound, took us up to see the manyatta. Of course, being outsiders (and 2 wazungu, to boot) we were stopped at the entrance. A long discourse in kiMaasai followed between Steve and one of the manyatta’s older men. Lots of hand waving and sideways glances at Kristin and I; then the word ‘daktari’ is thrown around and all of a sudden Steve turns to us and says, “You are welcome,” and we pass between two mud homes into the center of the manyatta. Margaret, one of the women, ushers us through her low door and into the pitch black interior of her home where we sit on a cow skin cot, three inches off the floor. Steve tells us the only reason they let us in was because he told them we were both doctors.


Huh.

Word traveled fast through the manyatta and before we knew it, we were invited to come back this morning to take care of all the sick kids. Sooooo . . . 9 a.m. found Kristin and I sitting in the dirt on low wooden stools surrounded by a sea of little Maasai kids and their mothers. The Dispensary in Siyiapei had granted me 3 jugs of meds--paracetamol (Tylenol), amoxicillin and mebendazole for de-worming. It was quite a scene—kids with sores on their legs draining pus, ears draining pus, eyes draining pus, every pus covered site—in addition to lips and eyelids and scalps--absolutely covered (and I am not exaggerating when I say covered) with flies. There were flies everywhere, millions of them, on everyone—including me. Finally, two Maasai women volunteered for the job of flapping their leshus (colorful shawls) around my head so I could stop slapping long enough to examine the kids.




So, you might ask, what is a manyatta? This manyatta—a huge square outlined by long, low, mud/cow dung huts surrounding a big open center within which all the family’s livestock is protected at night—is only temporary. The manyatta, and the 500 plus people who live in it, are here for one year solely for the purpose of the young men to partake in the year-long ceremony that enables them to pass from boyhood to manhood and become Maasai Moran (warriors.) The young men have been accompanied here by their mothers (who built the manyatta), their younger brothers and sisters, their fathers (who teach them how to be honorable Maasai men) and their herds of cows and goats.


Photos of the Moran and the manyatta are absolutely verboten at all times and a breach of this rule is likely to result in a fine or a very large spear driven through one’s camera lens, or both, but we were granted—out of gratitude for treating all the fly-covered pus—a brief moment in which to snap a couple pics. This, you understand, was a huge privilege. The Moran are truly magnificent to behold. These guys—from age 17 to 24—have taken a year off of school and come home to partake in this very important rite of passage. For the whole year, they may eat only the meat of cows, goats or sheep and drink only milk or blood; they may wear only the traditional shuka and are adorned with beads—long strings of beads crisscrossing their bare chests and backs, beaded mirrors around their necks, beaded wallets over their shoulders, layer upon layer of beaded necklaces, spears, swords, rungus in hand, and their hair! Rows and rows of tiny braids, hair molded into yarn-wrapped horns, hair adorned with red ochre. They were truly a magnificent, and somewhat malevolent, sight.


When we were finished with the kids, a group of Moran danced and jumped and did their guttural chanting thing for us. Mesmerizing. And then, the leader of the Moran—who spoke very good English and had come home from the University of Nairobi to partake in this ceremony—invited us back into the hut we had been in yesterday and he and two other Moran told us all about the tradition while his mother served us sweet milky tea boiled over the open fire in the middle of the hut.

I can’t possibly write about everything we learned, but suffice it to say that this morning was one of those very rare privileges in life. Right up there beside lunch with the Buddhist monks in the Nepali gompa and Sunday mass in the Notre Dame cathedral. It was an experience neither Kristin nor I will ever forget.