hoarsely, the men beckoned for me to lower my head again. One after another they gently touched the top of my head, each repeating the same greeting that I barely understood. I really had to drastically improve my Swahili!
I brought my head back up, unable to wipe the goofy smile from my face. Everyone burst out laughing, talking over one another. One woman gave my arm a friendly squeeze, and I quickly felt less self-conscious. The older men were each given a boost and they, along with a few others, joined us in the back of the pickup. No one seemed concerned at how crowded the bed of the pickup truck was becoming.
Again my mind flooded with questions. Would the truck drag its belly on the road from the weight? Was it safe to load the truck so heavily? I had to stop myself from saying anything and trust they were capable of managing their affairs. After all, I had no idea what I was doing. It was best to fall in with the crowd, release myself of any worries and just sit back and learn.
As the busy chatter continued, my eyes returned to the street. Nearby young boys in both traditional and Western clothes knelt on the ground, playing cards and scratching their stomachs and arms. More stray dogs wandered idly, sniffing at patches of brush. The pace here was much slower than Nairobi’s bustle. People moved more deliberately. I could feel myself being absorbed by the town’s tranquil pace, the gentle grace of the people. It was like exhaling after a long held breath: my pulse quieted, the inner chatter that constantly filled my head seeming to silence itself.
Someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around to find the driver holding out a bottle of Orange Fanta.
He spoke his first words to me, in English: “Take it.”
I could barely respond to this generous offer.
“Take it,” he said again, smiling quietly.
I accepted the bottle, unable to fully express my appreciation as the driver again disappeared. I took a long swig to show my gratitude, then offered the bottle to the child sitting next to me. The other kids in the truck squeezed in around me, and we all took turns sharing this treat.
Over half an hour passed with no movement. The sun stalled overhead, its equatorial heat beating down on us. With the back of my hand I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead. Just when it looked like we were about to leave, someone would hop out, shout something I couldn’t understand, then more women would flock to the truck, loading their weekly shopping: huge bundles of corn flour and plastic bags of beans, cabbages and tomatoes. Men and children took the packages from the women and tossed into the pickup, then carefully arranged each package to optimize space.
People came and went. An hour passed, then another. More and more people crammed in for the ride, some standing. Others perched on a wooden bench arranged over the tires for more seating space, others on empty milk canisters. Some clung to the truck’s roof or balanced themselves on the back bumper. I did a head count: amazingly, we had crammed thirty-four people into this small Toyota truck!
The driver finally returned to his seat, jangling a set of keys. Yes! We were finally actually going! I didn’t know how long the ride would be, but I did know that my bum was already numb from sitting over the rail for so long.
But when the driver went to start the ignition, the truck only made a wheezing sound, refusing to start. The driver tried again. Another unsuccessful wheeze and foul smoke burst forth as the chassis shuddered. Three more attempts, then the driver popped his head out the window and called out something I didn’t understand. Several men piled out, and I moved to follow, but a mama stopped me with a gentle hand. I interpreted this as an instruction to sit back down and did so, grateful that someone was looking out for me.
The driver shifted into neutral as the men pushed the truck forward. We rolled forward, slowly but with mounting speed, until the driver was able to pop the clutch and turn the engine over. Elated shouts rang out as the engine caught. Diesel smoke clouded the air as those pushing jumped back in, resettling themselves as the truck struggled uphill and forward into the valley.
As the wind picked up, the women pulled out more shukas to cover their shaved heads. An old mama wearing intricately beaded earrings smiled at me, again telling me something I didn’t understand. I laughed and told her in English that I didn’t speak Swahili—but I would soon! Whether she understood or not, I didn’t know. But she laughed and outstretched her shuka to cover my head along with hers.
We bounced along the craggy road down into a valley of thorny flat-topped trees, whose yellow bark carried more branches than leaves, and small ponds as red as the soil. Cattle grazed in small sections of grassland, attended by young men enwreathed in shukas. We passed traditional huts, which I knew from my orientation classes were called manyattas. They were made of cow dung, mud and sticks. Many were surrounded by protective fences made of thick, thorny branches of the same flat-topped trees found everywhere, planted in circles. Tin structures sat topped with crosses; I realized these were churches.
I did my best to take everything in slowly, aware that the others were closely gauging my reactions. A bump in the road tossed us into the air, and we clutched onto one another, coming down on the side of the truck with a hard thud. I clung to the mama next to me, and we laughed at the ridiculousness of the rough ride. The entire scene felt daunting and enchanting at the same time.
Suddenly something disrupted the lively conversation, and a boy near the cab of the truck called out, pointing. The woman beside me seized my arm to direct my attention to something in the distance. I looked to see large, lean shapes ambling past on the roadside: one, two, three . . . five . . . seven giraffes, chomping dangling tree leaves, less than fifteen metres away.
“Wow!” I exclaimed. “I’ve seen them on TV, and at the Brookfield Zoo, but . . . wow! ”
The entire crowd laughed at my amazement, even the children. They obviously saw giraffes all the time, probably more often than my family at home saw deer or any other woodland animals. I tried to reel in my excitement, afraid they were mocking me. But it was clear they simply wanted to share this incredible sight with me, even though for them it was familiar. One girl pointed and gave me a long, animated explanation of . . . something. Once again, I was reminded how I truly needed to become fluent in Swahili, and quickly!
We continued down the rocky road for nearly another hour before the truck began making intermittent stops to offload riders and their bundles of shopping. Luckily, the truck didn’t need to be pushed to start again; then just as the constant stopping and starting began to make me queasy, we reached a church, the location where I’d been told to be dropped off. As the driver braked, I pulled up my pack and hopped out.
“Kwa heri!” I called to my fellow passengers. At least I’d learned how to say goodbye.
The family I was joining were of the Maasai people, an indigenous tribe occupying the southern region of the Great Rift Valley throughout southern Kenya and north central Tanzania. During my orientation in Nairobi, I had done some brief research into this unfamiliar culture.
Giraffes roam the savannah: beautiful, but dangerous if crossed.
Maasai live as traditional pastoralists, herding mostly cattle, but also sheep, donkeys and goats. They are semi-nomadic, meaning their livestock is moved on seasonal rotation and in response to environmental factors, particularly drought. Cattle play a cherished role in their society, both in their economic and personal health. Maasai drink cows’ milk every day as a staple of their diets, and they value not only the meat but even its blood, which they believe holds unique health benefits. However, since a cow represents an enormous
