Greeted by Masai

Some curious Masai ilkeliani stopped by to watch our plane land. Photos by David Lansing.

Hamish spun the Caravan around, guiding it toward a pair of gnarled brown olive trees that stuck out on the otherwise barren field like two elephants on an ice-skating rink. A safari vehicle was parked in the shade of the trees and next to it was a smiling man in a green fleece vest and red velour kufi prayer cap, hands clasped in front of him, standing next to a white cloth covered camp-table. On the table were several glasses of what looked like orange juice just waiting for us. A bit distant from the trees were six Masai ilkeliani, or young warriors, the red ocher in their hair signifying that they had been initiated into adulthood through circumcision, the close-cropped hair an indication that they were not yet morani or warriors.

The mom of one of the young warriors.

At a distance, behind the boys, were three bald Masai women, probably the mothers of the young warriors. Most of the boys had small sticks, the size of golf tees, pushing through the tops of their ears but had not yet had the lobes of their ears pierced, like their mothers, who had decorated the stretched skin with glass beads. One mother was decorated with several beaded necklaces and attached to the string was a key ring with at least a dozen small keys on it, god knows for what.

Pete being Pete the first thing he does is go over to the young warriors and give them a soul shake. “Habari?” he asks the boys and they shake his hand and laugh and within minutes he is taking their pictures and posing for him while their mothers slowly move closer, both curious and protective. In years past you did not take photos of the Masai but these boys are obviously habituated to the practice and while they don’t preen in front of the camera the way many youth will, neither are they intimidated.

One of the moms also lets me take her photo but then makes it clear, by removing the adze from her shoulder and waving it at me in mock threat, that one photo is enough. If this woman’s mother was here she would, no doubt, mock her daughter for allowing me to take even a single picture. And she’d be disgusted by her grandchild for allowing a mzungu to steal his soul. That is how quickly the Masai culture is changing. In less than a generation, it’s quite possible that all the traditions of becoming a morani—a warrior—will be gone as well.