This week was really bizarre and fascinating. My friend Isaa from Elangata Wuas had invited me to a ceremony, but he didn’t really specify which one it was, except to say that it was related to a rite of passage (which is pretty much all of them). So on Tuesday I headed to Kajiado, then waited for Isaa’s call. I waited and waited, had chai, waited some more – after an hour and a half, I went back to the matatu stage to see if I could just get a ride myself. Chatted with the matatu guys for about an hour, but no matatu for EWuas came. I headed back to Nairobi, disappointed. If these past few months have taught me anything, it’s that you cannot rely on people from rural areas to give you a ride. It’s not necessarily because of irresponsibility, but something always comes up. The roads are terrible and plans change so easily. Unfortunately, if there is no cell phone network, you have no way of knowing about changing plans, so for god’s sake just make your own arrangements.
On Wednesday, I wasn’t sure if I would go back or not, but I decided to take my chances. After fending off a persistent admirer in the matatu (who actually took a picture of the back of my head during the trip – creepy!), I was directed by the same matatu touts of the day before to a spot on the side of the road where a few other people were waiting. When a truck came by, I piled into the cab with a woman and her four children and we were off. A bumpy and dusty hour later, I was dropped off at a junction in the middle of nowhere. A boy of maybe 14 was there as well, waiting for a vehicle to take him back to Kajiado. We chatted for a bit and he helped me flag down the next truck that came by. It’s ridiculous how much I really do depend on the kindness of strangers here. Without almost everyone I met along the way giving me a hand in some way, I never would have made it. The second truckers even refused payment, which was really very generous of them. Living in Nairobi, it sometimes feels like everyone just wants a piece of you. Small gestures and unexpected generosity can really restore your faith in people.
It turned out that the ceremony was actually being held in a town a few hours further than Elangata Wuas – almost at the Tanzanian border! All the guys at the camp were so welcoming and excited that I was coming along. They’re really sweet people. As many of them are working as research assistants for a Canadian post-doc, they had a pickup truck for their research, which seven of us piled into with all of our supplies.
I found out that the ceremony to be performed is called enkipaata. It is done in preparation for male circumcision, which is the rite of passage into adulthood for the Maasai and many other ethnic groups in Kenya. It is also a ceremony to solidify the age group, an age bracket which passes through most of the major rites together and is in the same stage of life. The elders which conduct the enkipaata are considered to be the godfathers of that age group once the ceremony is finished – the boys of that age group will look to those elders for guidance and advice until they become elders themselves. Enkipaata only happens every seven years or so. I was very, very lucky that I was invited and that I was able to make it in the nick of time – even some of my Maasai companions had never seen the ceremony performed, and only one had been through it himself (it is not strictly mandatory to go through enkipaata, though it is ideal).
The ceremony was being held outside of a little town called Torosei, which was extremely remote. It must be held at a boma (homestead) that is big enough to accommodate the large crowd. Sometimes a boma is constructed specifically for the ceremony and abandoned afterwards, but I think this one was actually someone’s home. It had about 25 manyattas (huts), and an enormous cattle enclosure. Almost everyone there was in traditional dress. I was the only foreigner there, and probably even the only non-Maasai. Initially when we asked about photos, the elders refused, which was perfectly fair. The next day, however, they hanged their minds and requested a small fee. Of course, once I pulled out the camera, I was getting constant requests for photos. It never fails, especially with kids. A few of the elders decided that I was their personal photographer and would literally drag me around by the wrist, position me and give me orders in Swahili. I may be a foreigner, but I’m still a woman, and a young one at that, so they did not hesitate to tell me what to do. Those guys run the show around here. Most of them had also had quite a bit to drink – traditionally they take a locally-brewed wine during the proceedings, but nowadays it’s mostly beer and liquor run in from the nearest town. However, there were a few sipping traditional brew from plastic containers. Some of them are so thin and tiny that I’m surprised they were still able to stand after drinking for days straight.
On the evening we arrived, all of the boys came dancing and singing from the forest at dusk. The boys taking part in the ceremony came from seven different towns, and there were hundreds of them – I keep getting different estimates of numbers, but it was something like 550. When they lined up, the queue just stretched on into the forest, with no end in sight. It was astonishing. I’ve never seen anything like it before in my life, and may not see anything like it again. The boys ranged in age from 10 to 16, although many of them looked younger than 10 to me. I’m not sure if that’s because they actually were, or if they were just malnourished. All of them were dressed in shukas (cloths) of brown, orange or red, and were draped in beaded jewelry (which was mostly white, in Tanzanian style). Though the school-going boys had short hair, those who are not in school had grown their hair out into tiny, adorable dreadlocks. Probably about a third had long hair, which goes to show how many of the kids here still aren’t in school – and that’s just the boys. School attendance among girls is even lower. Many of them likely hadn’t seen a foreigner before, and it almost became a staring contest – they were as fascinated by me as I was by them.
That evening, all the boys filtered into the cattle enclosure and formed two circles, which they sealed by holding onto each others’ walking sticks. They sang and danced while the elders who were conducting the ceremony walked around them, giving blessings. At a certain point, women who are having difficulty conceiving entered the circle. It was explained to me that being in the presence of so much blessing could help them conceive. After the entire ceremony, they would also try to steal a shuka or a piece of jewelry from one of the boys, which would then “guarantee” a baby.
That night, the boys were separated into two groups – those who would undergo circumcision shortly after the ceremony, and those who were too young and would have to wait for a year or more. All of the boys were then sent off into the bush to sleep. Those who were to be initiated shortly are supposed to see a lion in the woods. I don’t know how that would be possible, seeing as there aren’t many lions in the area, but I was told that it would have to happen, one way or another.
We went back into the town itself, to sleep in a small dorm near the high school. Had our own little feast of cabbage and ugali, and slept a deep, exhausted sleep.
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