Call From the Wild

Drizzle at 7600 feet has the verandah too wet to step out onto. From the East dense somber gray clouds pour down the slopes into this massive Caldera forcing fog up this side into my room at the Serena Lodge on the rim of the Ngorongoro Crater. I’ve left the doors open to one of the World’s Wonders in anticipation of a radiant sunrise. Dawn’s red rays are clearly not going to be seen yet.
There is the sing song whistle of Maasai on the trail below. I’m piped out of bed and the cattle are reassured of the drink to come as they are piped down the 2000 feet to the springs below. Down and up they go day after day on this ritual that never changes. It’s hardly surprising that they’re all so skinny.
Breakfast is hardly done when the sun manages somehow to pierce the gloom ensuring the expected 90*+ day on the Serengeti plains. Heading back to the rooms along the elevated walkway we are unaware of a Cape Buffalo hiding just below in the dense Lantana. A guest pauses to take photographs with a Crater backdrop. She is startled if not jolted by the snorting and crashing as the 1800-pound beast charges up through the brush. Realizing it cannot reach her it turns and bounds off down the hill vanishing as quickly as it appeared. Silence returns but for the twitter of birds and the chest pounding one is left with. Oh! Of course, we’re in Africa, this is the first close call of the day and we’ve not even left the
hotel yet.

Our plan is to head down the escarpment towards a friend’s village and see about the possibility of a walk with some Maasai. Just a leg stretch and, some spontaneous folklore away from the beaten track, then head to Olduvai and cross country to camp under the Umbrella Acacia.
In a cloud of dust we pull up to Raphaeli’s boma. It’s been many moons since I last saw him and it takes a good five minutes to get through the traditional shoulder thumping greeting we always go through. The greeting has in fact simmered some. Twenty years ago when we were both in the warrior age set an average greeting could get quite rough but now that we’re elders, or at least supposed to be, we have to be seen to have cooled some.
I’m informed that a circumcision ceremony has taken place in a village some five miles away. Six girls have been initiated into adulthood according to tradition. This practice is a part of tribal culture throughout Africa but today is not the day to judge from our perspective.

Interestingly this ritual is now actually illegal in Tanzania but it is clearly no easy task to force cultural change.

Raphaeli suggests we join the celebrations although I get the sense that he is feeling jubilant if not mischievous and we’ll be gate crashing this party. Seldom do outsiders get the opportunity to encounter let alone take part in the celebrations and this is an opportunity of a lifetime for us all. “Let’s do it” I say. Raphaeli laughs knowing that I could not refuse the challenge. He now had his free ride to and from the party, drink and roasted goat assured. All he had to do was get us in the door so the challenge has become his and it’s now my turn to laugh. That said, this is but a small challenge for someone who had to kill a Lion to become a man. A tradition that is now no longer allowed.
Clearly we have a long day ahead, so with haste Raphaeli and two other warriors pile into the Cruiser. Fortunately they have no spears unlike the last time I gave a lift to some Maasai when a spear was put straight through the roof.
Putting the Cruiser into gear we tear off across the plains. This has become very exciting and events will now run their course. We circumnavigate the Western slopes of the Volcano,Ol Moti, just off the Olabal Depression. It is a spectacular area close to the Great Tectonic Divide that we did some flying sequences from for Out of Africa back in 1985. A stand of Acacia Kirikii provides good cover for the car and the youngest warrior (Moran) is left to guard it as we strike out on foot.
My guests, three ladies, are not so sure of what we’re getting into. Dust explodes from the impact of each step as Raphaeli and I go through the details of our plan. We need a special ceremonial tobacco for the village chief. I do not want to know what tobacco is required. With that gift we would be welcomed along with hundreds of other Maasai that are coming from all over the mountain side. Once in we would be free to roam, watch, take photos, sing and dance.
I do have some concerns. Maasai warriors often go into a trance during their dancing and flail about uncontrollably with spears. Also, we may be invited to partake in the eating of roasted goat fat and the drinking of blood mixed with milk. None of these are my first choice from a menu but with guests in hand and suddenly vegetarian guess who will have to be polite. Moran help each other look handsome and fierce while the girls paint faces with red ochre to ward off the “evil eye” and pile on mountains of intricate beadwork. This is very much a fashion show Maasai Style. We’re in fact the only ones that have arrived

unadorned and I realize that in our society we would not even get through the door dressed in safari drab. Obviously I need to work on the safari-clothing list.
We approach the Boma through a deep ravine and as we wait for Raphaeli to procure tobacco for the Headman we find ourselves very much a center of attraction. We can no longer really decide what exactly it is we will do or experience while here. Ngai has control and like puppets on strings we float along with the wave.
This is in fact the “magic potion” in a safari. We come to view and observe and yet find ourselves being observed. The whole safari experience is one that we cannot stay outside of, cannot view with immunity. Inevitably one becomes intricately woven into the very fabric of events becoming one with the whole and actually feeling just fine with that. It is only later in retrospect and wonder that the experience unfolds in consciousness for what it was. One that we were very much a part of and that is now but a memory. This is as true for the Maasai as it is for us.
Warriors are still busy working on their looks, elders getting tanked up on the local brew and Raphaeli probably testing the tobacco to be sure it will pass muster. I can’t help thinking that the Headman will have a hard time standing by the time he gets it and will not know a good brand from a bad one.
Glassy eyed our ticket to the party arrives with a grin on his face and we’re in. Within no time my guests are dancing with a crowd of women and are being adorned with beaded necklaces.
It is fascinating to see these Maasai today; their acceptance if not contentment with their lifestyle is absolute. It is during such ceremonies that one sees the entrenched tradition that twenty years of Socialism failed to eradicate. Today they seal that loyalty to heritage and secure it’s future by being as they want to be, as they always have.
The sun has beaten back the dreary dawn and is now hammering down on us all. Flies, cattle dung and Acacia Thorns are the deco for this arena and all events. We’re surrounded, transported, and watch the Warriors file into the main Boma chanting and stomping dirt as they come, aware that all eyes are upon them.
Raphaeli is worried and cautions us back to the thorn wall but we’re hesitant. Not because we’re not concerned about the warriors going wild but rather having to stand in the untrodden dung. They start their dances with little order, or so it seems, but they know that the thermostat will be turned up and they will be going on for many hours into the early light of dawn. We will not be staying that long. Soon enough, hot showers and the lure of

chilled sundowners will have us back through the mirror.
Time, where has it gone? Suddenly we’re hustled off to meet the Headman. He’s managed to gather himself and is ready to welcome us officially. Outside his hut we stand face to face while greetings, presentations and additional gifts are laid forth. At our feet, oblivious of the proceedings, is one of the elders rolling in the dust and dung absolutely plastered. He is unable to get up but still wants his mug filled with their favorite warm beer. The beer Muratina is made using sausages from the Kigalia africana.
I’m doing my best to respectably focus on the lingo without cracking up at this bizarre scenario. There is great debate and the thought crosses my mind that Raphaeli is going to have the last laugh. Has he kept the good tobacco and slid the old man a Mickey? We’ll soon find out and if all hell breaks loose I’ll just have to forget about the appearance of being an elder. Once again the Survival of the Fittest Rules for Africa prevail and we may have to muscle our way through this with attitude. I’m better at this anyway and prepared for any eventuality, at least mentally. Fortunately my guests and friends are not aware of the potential predicament and we’ll keep it that way for as long as possible.
Then out of the blue, as if on cue the Gods come to our rescue. A thunder-clap and down comes heat driven rain defusing the situation. I know that all I have to do now is stand unflinching in the rain for longer than they are willing and I’ve won. Eyes to the heavens as steam floats from heated shoulders and all is wrapped up with smiles and gracious eloquence. Is this man’s medicine stronger than we thought, they’re wondering, so better not tempt fate besides the beer is getting cold. Warriors cannot break the dance or break dance for that matter so under a couple of psychedelic umbrellas that appear as magically as the rain we watch in silence while they strut their stuff.
With a wink Raphaeli takes off with a promises to return. He’s done his bit and knows that he’d better get some meat and beer because we’ll be heading back soon. My unspoken end of the deal is to allow him that.
It’s one of those times when one can only live in the moment, nothing needs to be said and nothing is.
As suddenly as it came the rain is no more and light is changing. Golden light of late afternoon paints the whole mountain side and it is already time to start to weave our way through the boma to the main exit. Raphaeli and John return with a huge hunk of goat fat and meat on a skewer, a gift from the Headman. We make our exit, wave our goodbyes and down the hill we tread.

The bone dry smiling young warrior guard is still at our Cruiser. Turns out he got under the car during the rain and is, no doubt, very proud of it given our bedraggled state. He is happy to see us and even happier to see the meat. Machete drawn it is announced that we should eat the meat right away and so begins the slicing of bits and a good deal of chewing. I do my best but my days of eating goat meat with the Maasai are done. Too many meals at Le Bernadin I suppose.
We have a long way to go and another fabric of the safari is to be woven. So off we are in the Cruiser with our Maasai friends thrilled and chanting. They fill the car with deep voices and the same chant we heard from the warriors in the boma. The chant to Ngai, the God of Everywhere and Everything. To the “She” to whom we give thanks for benevolence and good fortune.
Safari Njema. (Journey Safely)