Through the Eyes of the Maasai

Written By Unknown on Sabtu, 10 Agustus 2013 | 17.35

Michael Benanav for The New York Times

Salaton Ole Ntutu, a Maasai chief, runs Maji Moto Maasai Cultural Camp. More Photos »

In the market town of Narok, 90 miles west of Nairobi, I was buying a Kenyan SIM card for my cellphone when I heard someone behind me calling my name. He was wearing a bright red shuka, the traditional shawl of the Maasai people. Colorful beaded jewelry circled his neck, hung from his ears and ringed his wrists. At his waist, a short steel sword was sheathed in red leather. His feet were clad in sandals made from old tires.

"Salaton?" I asked.

"Yes! Welcome!" he said, adding, "I'll wait for you outside."

A Maasai chief, Salaton Ole Ntutu had come to take me to his village, Maji Moto, where he runs the Maji Moto Maasai Cultural Camp. There, visitors stay in his tribal community, learning about the ways of the Maasai and getting a feel for the landscape they live within. Though the camp is highly rated on Trip Advisor, I wasn't really sure where the experience would fall on the spectrum between "farcically touristy" and "viscerally authentic" (which aren't official review categories, but perhaps should be). Before we even left Narok, I got my first indicator, as Salaton loaded a brown and white ewe, which he had just bought at the market, into the taxi with us; liking the sheep's looks, he had decided to add it to his flock.

The paved road turned to dirt, then became a muddy track as we cut across the Loita Plains. Herds of Thomson's gazelles, wildebeests and zebras casually grazed on the lush carpet of grass that had sprouted during unusually heavy December rains, which were continuing into early January.

Reaching Maji Moto, I realized it was not a village in the classic sense of the word. Though there is a "town center" with a few basic dry-goods shops, a butcher, a grain mill and a tin shack of a pub serving warm Tusker (Kenya's most popular beer), most Maasai in the area don't live near it. Each family dwells in a manyatta — a small compound of stick-and-mud huts, with wooden pens for herds of cattle, sheep and goats, and no next-door neighbors. Maji Moto's manyattas are spread out over miles of undeveloped semi-arid rangelands at the foot of the Loita Hills and are home to some 3,000 people.

Salaton's camp is basically a manyatta of its own. For $100 a night, guests stay in mud huts that are simple but clean, with comfortable beds, mosquito nets and solar-powered lights — or, for $75, in Coleman tents with mattresses. Meals like stewed goat meat, fried potatoes, pasta, carrot salad and ugali (similar to polenta) are freshly cooked over charcoal or propane by a charming warrior named Sinti, who's as good with a spatula as a spear (and the ritual scarring on his leg, earned when he helped kill a lion, is proof of his skill with the latter). The toilets are well-built outhouses, and showers are gravity-fed from tanks filled with water hauled up from the nearby hot spring that gives Maji Moto — "hot water" in Swahili — its name.

Soon after arriving, Salaton, who speaks fluent English despite never having attended school, told me that a circumcision ceremony would be held the next day at a manyatta about a mile away. Did I want to go? "Sure," I said, as long as the family holding the ceremony didn't mind. I imagined it would bear little resemblance to any Jewish bris that I've attended, especially since the boys being circumcised would be teenagers.

The next morning, we headed out just before dawn. While we walked, the searing orange sun slipped up over the distant horizon. Salaton pointed out animal tracks in the dirt: first a giraffe, then a cheetah, then, a bit later, a lion.

We were a little late, reaching the manyatta just as a boy was being carried into a hut on a cowhide blanket, having just passed into a new stage of his life.

I can't say I had too many regrets about missing the surgical portion of the morning, and there was plenty still to see: a few cows were held down and each was shot in the jugular with a blunt arrow. The blood that spurted from their necks was caught in calabashes, then served to the newly circumcised like an all-natural protein drink, to help them regain their strength. The cows' wounds were stanched and the animals survived, seemingly no worse for the wear. Meanwhile, some family members' faces were being dabbed with white butter and red ocher, and fires were ritually started by rubbing two sticks together.

Michael Benanav, author of "Men of Salt: Crossing the Sahara on the Caravan of White Gold," founded Traditional Cultures Project.


Anda sedang membaca artikel tentang

Through the Eyes of the Maasai

Dengan url

http://travelwisatawan.blogspot.com/2013/08/through-eyes-of-maasai.html

Anda boleh menyebar luaskannya atau mengcopy paste-nya

Through the Eyes of the Maasai

namun jangan lupa untuk meletakkan link

Through the Eyes of the Maasai

sebagai sumbernya

0 komentar:

Posting Komentar

techieblogger.com Techie Blogger Techie Blogger