Friday, 6/6. Maasai Land.
In the late afternoon, we drive to a Maasai boma (village), the final stop on our tour. Robust greetings and hugs between Godwin, who is Maasai by birth, and tribal men. The late sun is hot and glares in my face as we’re taken to a spot where the tribal men do their traditional dance of jumping in place. Falsetto yelps, giggling and goofing among the men – as if they’re aware of the artificiality of performing an ancient tradition before five pale, sunburned gringos with oversized cameras.
The men wear traditional shukas and carry walking sticks. I’m somehow comforted by this scene of cultural integrity, until I notice several men carrying cell phones. They seem to use them as walkie-talkies from one end of the boma to another. But what do I know? Maybe they’re ordering pizzas from the nearby village.
It’s hot. The flies are thick and pester my legs. The ground is covered with goat shit. We’re escorted from field to corral to field to witness the herding of goats, the nursing of baby goats and the milking of cows. Our grinning guide is solicitous and proud of every aspect. I can’t help but wonder, “Does he think we’ve never cows before?”
Later, we’re taken to our camp site in the bush. Godwin passes beers around a campfire and the food is adequate. Tomorrow is the last day, and I feel more than ready to be off the road.
Maasai man with cell phone. “Hold the anchovies.”