I was supposed to return to Nairobi on Thursday morning, but it was evident once I was in Torosei that there was not way I was leaving on Thursday, and nor did I want to. The main event was on Thursday, so nobody was leaving. I was stuck, and felt very lucky to be stuck there, though I was a bit anxious about not being able to call work or George to let them know that I was stuck in shaggz (sheng for the rural areas). Still, they’re all Kenyans and I’m sure they’ve all experienced being stuck somewhere in the country from time to time.
We drove back to the manyatta very early in the morning, before the boys came back from the bush. In the cattle enclosure, a bull was being killed, a bull selected specifically for its size and colouring – it must be a large bull which is black, with a white belly. The bull is suffocated, and an incision is made along the throat. The skin there is pulled back to form a sort of trough, where the blood collects. This blood is mixed with a locally-brewed alcohol and milk.
When the boys came back from the forest, again in song and dance, they all lined up and took a turn drinking the blood-milk-alcohol mixture directly from the neck of the bull. Some of them took long drinks, others only a tiny sip. All of them looked a bit disoriented after standing up, and some made faces despite themselves – they are just young boys, after all, it’s probably their first taste of alcohol and I’m sure the blood isn’t too sweet either. But all of them took a sip, being blessed all the while. The older ones had been smeared with white ocher during the night, and looked quite striking. I didn’t hear about whether or not they had been graced by the presence of a lion, though.
After all of them had had a sip of the blood mixture, which took hours because of the sheer number of boys, they went back into the bush to eat. I went with them, and was greeted by the biggest pile of meat I have ever seen. Chunks of meat were lying atop piles of leaves, and some were hung in tree branches, and others were boiling away in giant pots to make soup. Skulls and hooves were lying strewn about everywhere. Coming from a culture where all we see are the nice clean cuts at the market or butcher, I was a bit disconcerted that I really could not identify most of the bits of meat. There was so much fat and gristle and bone and weird dangly bits. It wasn’t terribly appetizing.
The boys lined up to receive their chunk of meat, which they devoured with great relish, hacking away at it with their pangas (machetes) or just ripping it up with their teeth. I was with a group of people from a Maasai NGO called MPIDO, Mainyoito Pastoralist Integrated Development Organization, and we were given a few chunks of meat skewered on a sharpened branch. One of the men tried to be really nice by slicing off pieces of tongue for me, which is meant to be appealing as it’s the softest part. He even peeled off the tough exterior tissue for me. What a gentleman. It actually wasn’t too bad, though it could have used some seasoning. Meanwhile, the boys lined up for their soup. Those who had finished eating were sleeping or dancing or just rough-housing. They had to be careful, though, because their shukas were sometimes quite short – once in awhile you’d see a flash of bum as a boy chased his buddy into the woods. Whoops!
I embarrassed myself by taking part in some of the dancing. One of the most distinct features of Maasai dance is the jumping – men will jump straight up into the air, sometimes looking as if they will shoot right up into the sky. I was invited to try my hand at jumping, to much hilarity. I was able to best one of the boys, though – never mind that he came up to about my chin and was as skinny as a rake. The boys were also fascinated by my hair. I had it up in a ponytail and under a hat to keep it relatively dust-free (as if such a thing were possible), but at one point I was completely encircled by boys wanting to see my hair. I shook it out for them, and it was like Christmas morning. All my efforts at cleanliness were dashed as I felt dozens of small hands on my head.
After napping and dancing, the boys returned to the boma. Upon entering, they had their faces smeared with cow fat by an old mama as a blessing. All of the boys sat in two circles, and waited for the meat. The bull whose blood they had drunk in the morning had been butchered. The skin, which was stretched out and hammered into the ground by the women, was lying inside-up for drying. The meat was being roasted on a wooden platform which had been constructed over a fire. The organs were also around. I don’t know what they were all to be used for, but apparently nothing would be thrown away.
Once the meat was roasted, it was taken around the circle to each boy in turn. The meat was held by the elders, and the boys were meant to take one bite from each piece, without touching it with their hands. The elders holding the meat is symbolic of their guiding and providing for the boys of this age group, while the fact that each boy was eating the same meat is mean to unite them and solidify their bond. Blessings were given throughout. The meat is also smeared on their faces before they take a bite. Of course, under all of the ceremony, these were still young boys. They were giggling and joking around throughout – it wasn’t exactly a solemn occasion.
That evening, I was lucky enough to get a ride with the guys from MPIDO, who were heading back to Nairobi. Apparently that night the boys would sleep outside again. It was so windy and dusty at night that I wonder how they managed, but they did seem to be perfectly comfortable sleeping on the ground. Some of these boys will be circumcised later this year, possibly even within the week. Traditionally after circumcision they are meant to enter a period of initiation during which they become morans, warriors, and live out in the bush, learning about different herbs, how to hunt and survive in the wilderness, and so on. Now this is becoming less common because many of the boys will have to return to school in September. Still, many are not in school and will continue with the tradition.
I felt very blessed myself to have had the opportunity to witness such a rare ceremony. Now that I’m back in Nairobi, I will have most of the photos printed out and hopefully they will get back to the proper people. Living in such an urban area, it is easy to forget that such ceremonies are still performed and are still incredibly valued. But this week really confirmed that in some areas, tradition is still thriving, for better or for worse.
(photos are up on flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/stateofwonder)
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