In the Bush: The Masai Warriors
One in a series
Their names are Shadrack, Dexter, Nelson, Posey, Justice, Matthew and GK.
They all have this in common: They’re modern East African men, tracing roots far back to the semi-nomadic Masai tribes that have for eons wandered what is now Kenya and Tanzania.
Today, in this wired generation of hip-hop, WhatsAp and Spotify, they work in the Safari industry as guides and camp workers -- cyber sophisticates whose fingers dance along the keyboards of their smartphones, while the DNA contained deep within them still connects the Masai to this land and its wildness in a gorgeous and profound way.
Their culture at once rich, ancient and relevant, these Masai have long revered the mighty lion. For generations, until new practices were introduced shaggy-maned males were killed in a ceremony to signify a boy’s bravery and passage into manhood.
Yet they have never held themselves up as Kings of the Savanna, but take their own place amid the menagerie of wild creatures which shares this land, not on top, but somewhere in the middle, showing respect to all these living things.
One day, as we bounced along inside a bush vehicle, I asked a Masai driver named Willie about his favorite animal inside Kenya’s Masai Mara National Reserve.
His answer astounded me.
It wasn’t the fleet-footed cheetah or graceful giraffe, but the seemingly-insignificant termite, an insect that builds humongous mounds across the grasslands that the biggest animals — from the elephant to the rhinoceros — use to scratch themselves.
“I like how they work together,” he said simply. “It’s something quite beautiful.”
Later, our Serengeti guide, an elegant 52-year-old veteran named Simon Kissila, told us an enduring Masai fable: how the hippopotamus got his open-mouthed yawn, demonstrating to God — who had allowed him to live in the river and not in a tree — that he was not eating the creator’s fish.
He explained the Tanzanian sentiment of well-being, saying, “I may not know how I am going to feed my children tomorrow, but I am happy.”
And so he was.
As the day ended, he drove along happily across the savanna, singing the lyrics to Jambo Bwana, which means Hello, Sir in Swahili, a Kenyan pop song first recorded in 1982 by the band Them Mushrooms, that has become a national anthem of welcome from the Masai to the outside world.
As he rumbled along the grassland, behind the wheel, belting out the lyrics, smiling theatrically, Simon was the very embodiment of pure unadulterated, priceless joy.
The episodes with Willie and Simon were subtle but telling insights into the character of the Masai, an enduring people who now number 1.1 million, spread across East Africa, mostly near the national parks where many earn a living.
Their traditional language is known as Maa, but they also speak both Swahili and English, so there was no barrier between them and goofball tourist intruders like Homer and me.
One evening, a Masai worker stood by our campfire, ceremonial spear in hand, hip-hop cap on his head, dressed in an iconic shuka—a woven, red cotton blanket used as a body wrap, a modern replacement for the animal skins they wore a half-century ago.
The look is both modern and ancient, emulated by fashion makers like Louis Vuitton. Jewelry designers have also copied such Masai ornamentation as the bright, intricately-beaded necklaces worn by both men and women.
As Homer and I sipped Tusker beers, the Masai worker explained how his culture reveres cows, which are a measurement of wealth, like a Ferrari or snazzy SUV might be for Americans, and gifted by young men to prospective fathers-in-law for their daughter’s hand in marriage.
In ancient Masai folklore, God gifted the animals and the today the Masai view themselves as custodians of the continent’s cattle.
The following day, several Masai demonstrated another lush ritual of their culture — the adamu, or jumping dance, in which young men gather in a semi-circle and take turns jumping into the air, accompanied by whoops and chants.
Let me tell you, those NBA rebounders got nothing on these fellas.
I know, because I joined a few of the guys a few moments later in a photo-op jump, captured by my pal, Homer, which shows four graceful, smiling men, colorfully dressed, enjoying both their life and their athleticism.
The last one, his legs sickeningly-pale, grimaces like a startled, perhaps-constipated geriatric. Well, you know what they say — white men truly cannot jump.
As the days passed, Tom and I fell into an easy camaraderie with the Masai men in our various camps. Normally, I would lift his shirt to show them his missing-link hairy back, perhaps to bring them back to a time when their ancestors hunted Mastodon on this same landscape.
The guys all got our humor, and even posed with their spears, as though they were taking Homer captive for a kill, like the Hawaiians did with the luckless Captain Cook.
Shadrack, our nightly escort and a smiling husband and father, began referring to Homer as “Big Man,” his accent so endearing I am going to make a suggestion to Simpsons show producers that his voiceover be incorporated into upcoming episodes.
Our driver on the Masai Mara Reserve was Julius Kimini, a 40-year-old father of two who grew up in Nairobi and explained how he had gotten into the Safari trade.
When he was a boy, he said, elephants would often drift by his school window, interrupting his lessons. Such a sight would seem to have an effect on any boy. “This was a big animal,” he said, “so you had to take note. It’s not just something you could ignore, like a gazelle or a zebra.”
Yers later, he wants to see his native Kenya balance the great responsibility of wildlife preservation with the pressing need to adequately feed its people.
Julius said many people liken him to the 1970s pro basketball phenom of the same name.
So I, of course, immediately began calling him Doctor J.
The Doctor taught me Swahili slang for responding to my bodily needs on the savanna. Checking the tires meant taking a leak, while checking the bush involved something a bit more time consuming.
Tumbili meant baboon, or monkey, a name I at once instilled upon Homer. And my favorite Swahili phrase, one every journalist should know, was Raffiki ata lipa biliangu, or, My friend will pay the bill.
Julius amazed me with bush trivia, that a group zebra was known as a dazzle and that ornery old Cape Buffalo, having lost their standing within the group, are called Retired Generals.
And he pointed out the symbol of the Masai Mara: the ubiquitous umbrella acacia; solitary, sitting forlornly on the far horizon, offering shade to passing animals like a huge parasol on the bush.
It was a beauty he pledged to protect.
One day, Julius handed Homer and me two apples to chomp down as we drove. When we asked if we could throw the cores out the window, he shook a finger.
The apple seeds, he said, could take root, the resulting tree an invasive species to this special landscape.
And for Doctor J, that was a slam dunk: It would not happen in his watch.
Weeks after our time in East Africa ended, I can still see my new Masai friends, my brothers, my ndugu, dancing and jumping in their traditional native dance.
Shadrack, our young Masai camp guardian, sends me pictures of his life. We text regularly and I can see his hands typing, as fast an any American 8-year-old’s, a smile on his face.
I can still see the Masai bush drivers pause to chat and exchange wildlife sightings with fellow guides, laughing, as relaxed as two cops in their cherry tops shooting the breeze in some donut shop parking lot.
I can hear these same men patiently explain their culture to curious outsiders like Homer and me.
And I can still see our guide Simon’s eyes, which seemed to turn green in the fading light. I can hear his gentle demeanor as he took Chris, our 82-year-old traveling companion, under his wing, massaging her hands, making sure she sat up straight in her seat, guiding her out of the vehicle.
Not just a driver or a tour guide, but a true trusted caretaker of those who visit his homeland, his Africa.