Heroes

We had our first spear-throwing lesson the other day. After a couple throws, I really got the hang of it; between experience from volleyball, basketball, lacrosse, tennis, baseball, and generally just tossing anything around, it wasn't to difficult to get the feel for it. It felt kind of like serve-shooting a really heavy lacrosse stick in fact.

The spear is about six feet long. In the center there is a dark wood handle flanked on one side by a metal point and on the other by a long metal knife. You can throw with either end forward, though if you are really hunting or trying to kill something you would throw with the knife end forward. As I mentioned before, one good throw can pierce an elephant and kill it.

Daniel, our Swahili teacher and a Maasai, was instructing us, and in demonstration hurled his spear about 45 yards with a running start. Needless to say I'm not quite there yet, but I'm confident it will come. I'm thinking that practicing in Dunster courtyard might be good to keep my skills sharp throughout the year.

Anyway, the Maasai are really the most interesting people, from the spear-throwing abilities to their deep, deep knowledge about the land on which they live. Out forty plus tribal groups in Kenya, the Maasai are unique in that they are among the few who have refused to modernize, and largely retained their pastoralist, semi-nomadic lifestyle.

There is a lot about them that remind me of the Greek heroes that I studied this past semester. Even their type of dress for men is based off of the Greco-Roman toga (apparently this is because they immigrated from the Roman-occupied North Africa).

They divide themselves into different age classes: young boys, older boys, warriors (murrans), junior elders, and elders. (This is mostly in reference to the men, as once women marry they become the age set of their husband, regardless of what their age actually is.) The murran stage is one of the most interesting.

To be initiated into the murran stage (at ages of around 17-25), all of the boys come together for a big ceremony in which they are publicly circumcized. If they show any signs of pain during the circumcision, they are outcast by the community, though once the circumcision is over, they are allowed to react however they like.

Following circumcision (which nowadays can be performed in hospitals to ensure cleanliness of the operation), the murrans have about three months to recover, and then move away from their boma (homestead) to a special training camp with other murrans and senior elders. They live there for a few years training and basically form the standing army of the Maasai people. With more Maasai going to schools, they basically attend school like other Kenyans, and then when they are on break they will go join the camp of murrans (if they are in that stage) and continue with life as usual there, until it is time to go back to school.

During this period, they are never allowed to eat alone, or in the presence of women. They braid their hair and paint it with red dye. Currently, we are waiting for the time of circumcisions, so I haven't yet seen any murrans, but the ceremony is supposed to be occurring sometime within the month.

That is about all I've got for now. On Tuesday we leave to camp out at Tsavo National Park for a week, where I will not have internet access, so you will have to just wait for a bit to hear my next news brief. I have a feeling it will be an exciting one as we are not allowed to go to the bathrooms alone at the camp site after dark because of animal attacks, and apparently when you go you just see eyes everywhere looking at you. Students apparently get nightmares pretty commonly--not surprising if there are lions walking in between your tents when you're asleep.

Tin Dancing

I've been selected to be an official, 24- hour on-call backup dancer for the musical group known as Tin!

Let me explain: two guys, Mike and Will, formed a musical percussion group titled Tin. It all started when we were waiting on line to wash our dishes after dinner, and Mike started up an impromptu rhythm chain with the tin plates on which we eat with our tin silverware.

From these origins, Tin was born. The band has continued with this musical tradition, and hits include "Kiswahili," "Spears," and "Wash All Day."

On Monday, after lots of hype, the group held their first performance after dinner had finished. They jammed in the shadows of tree, while the rest of us grooved to their sweet rhythms. I knew right then from the way their music spoke to me: I was born to dance for this band.

So I made inquiries with their manager (Jesse, also my banda-mate) about the possibility of auditioning for the role of back-up dancer for the band with Cybil, my partner in crime. After lots of urging, the band finally decided to hold auditions last night.

Cybil and I were VERY nervous. After all, this was Tin we were talking about, and the audition was pretty much do or die for us. I mean, auditions hardly ever come all the way to Kimana where we live. So we worked ourselves to the bone in preparation, and eventually, though still nervous, we felt ok about it.

And then it was time. We watched two more groups audition before us. The nerves were pretty serious, and we made sure to pray a lot before getting up there. But it was our time to shine in the study banda.

I explained that the inspiration for our dance troupe, The Fifth Leg (from the bush), came from the stimuli around us: animals, tourism, the bush itself. Equipped with our high 80s pony-tails and patterned headbands courtesy of Cybil, sunglasses, and bikini tops over our shirts (see the tourism influence?), we began the choreographed portion of the audition with cloths bought from the local markets. We then continued with a lot of mechanical spirit fingers and robotic-animal moves, finishing with a bang with the SNL Spartans-through-the-legs move. It was fierce.

For the improv section of the audition, Tin actually played! To make the setting more realistic of their actual performance venue, they turned off the overhead lights in the study banda and lit the stage area with the strobe headlamp light. The band played "Wash all day," and we delighted with some interpretive washing moves, the wave, and some swing kicks, making sure to use all levels.

Then it was done, and it was just a waiting game. Tonight after dinner, the band posted the audition results, and I admit I couldn't bring myself to look at it at first. But then when Mike and Will started making serious positive hints (like Will telling me "congratulations"), I figured things probably went pretty well.

And they did! We made the official back-up dancer position! It's a pretty grueling touring schedule from now on, but I think I'm up for the challenge. I can't wait for the future as an official back-up dancer for the triple dung-platinum recording artists, Tin!

(Oh, and in case you're wondering, we have the entire audition on video.)

Wazungu, give me sweets

I figure that it's about time to talk about some of the people that I've encountered here, since they have been as integral to my experience in Africa as the wildlife and landscapes.

Firstly, I've had a lot of great opportunities to work on my princess wave. Whenever we drive anywhere in our Cruisers, people always stop and stare. But the reaction of children is by far the best; put simply, they love us. They would just stop and wave at us all day. And some get so excited that they run after our cars as fast as their little legs will carry them. And we just wave and wave and wave.

I feel that I have to make a confession here: I'd say that at least half of the time, these kids run after us yelling two main things: "give me sweets" or "give me money" with a bit of "hello, how are you?" and just some plain old whooping at the top of their lungs. We basically either ignore those pleas, or just respond to them "hakuna sweets," which means "there are no sweets." After three weeks here, it still hasn't gotten old.

When we're on the ground in towns or villages, we tend to create a similar sort of stir. In our local village, the mamas (Maasai women) start swarming our cars before we've even stopped moving, preparing to bombard us with sales pitches for their jewelry. On market days, they literally will not leave us alone, following us around wherever we go.

The kids will follow us around too. Without the distance of the car between us any longer, they are slightly more shy, although they warm up pretty quickly. Since I really like playing with them, I'll have foot races against them or make up hand games to play or show them how to pound and explode it. It's really fun to play with kids that are so interested in you.

One day, we drove to a school outside of Loitokitok town to help a local hospital group serve the community. We weighed babies, gave out vitamins and deworming mediation, and administered vaccinations. We were arrived, before we had even gotten out of our cars, we heard a group of mamas walking out way and singing together. As they sang, we went through their long receiving line, shaking each of their hands, and the hands of the children around them. They led us singing into the schoolyard.

When they had finished singing, they lined up all of the kids (there must have been at least 70 of them, but maybe more than 100) to sing to us too, though I think that yelling is a more appropriate description of their serenade. When they had finished, it was expected that we sing something for them (which was not surprising since when we visited a Maasai boma or homestead, pretty much the same thing had happened by way of greeting). So we treated them to a bit of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," "Ain't No Mountain High," the Hokey Pokey (which was a HUGE hit, probably because we did the dance moves to it too), and finally the Macarena.

That last one was my idea, because I thought we could get the kids to do it with us. They didn't really get that they were supposed to copy us, so I ventured up to their mass and took one of their hands in mine and did it for her. Then all of the sudden I had a crowd swarming around me, reaching their hands towards me, asking me to show them next. I finally got them all doing it, and some of my fellow American students followed my lead and got the other kids to do it too.

I think that most of the kinds just really liked touching me because I'm American and look different from them. So I let them. I went through the crowd and tried to offer my hands to as many as possible. If I stopped and sat, some were so bold as to touch my hair. (They are really fascinated by hair here, as pretty much everyone, men, women, and children, shave their heads.) I admit that I always thought it was weird watching politicians wade through crowds offering their hands out to everyone, but when I was there, I could just tell that it would mean so much to these kids, that I wanted to give some of myself to them.

On the other side of things, yesterday we went out into the field to conduct interviews of the local community about farming and agriculture, and one little kid who had never seen white people (wazungu) before started bawling at the sight of us.

There is so much more to write about the people whom I've encountered (particularly about the Maasai and their beliefs and traditions), but I feel I have already written a lot for now. I will leave you with the knowledge that I received my Maasai spear today, which if thrown properly will kill an elephant, giraffe, lion, etc. with one blow. Lessons are pending.

Killing for class and eating

I warn everyone reading this that I'm about to be fairly graphic, so if you don't want to hear about it, don't keep reading.

We just killed a goat a few hours ago. I saw the life of a goat taken as its legs were tied up, as two men held it down, as a third sawed at its throat with a knife. I saw the red blood sit poetically splattered on green leaves and grass. I heard one faint bleat, watched it struggle, and slowly stop moving. I saw after moments of stillness, its legs begin to curl and stretch, and the body to convulse, to shake--a reaction of the nervous system. When it stopped moving, we began to cut.

We were killing this goat mainly so that we could examine the contents of its stomach, in order to truly understand what rumination was, how it worked, and why it has proven to be such a successful adaptation for grazers. We were killing this goat, examining the contents of its body, and then we were going to eat it.

The skinning began. The askaris (guards of our camp, they are basically super-Maasai) moved about deftly with their knives, starting at joints on the legs and under the shoulders. They gently tapped along the skin membranes to separate the layer of fur from the coveted innards. One by one, students moved forward to try their hand at skinning.

Would I try? I didn't want to touch the goat, and I had had difficulty watching the killing itself as well as the skinning, but I wanted to be able to say that I had done it. All in.

I tried my hand at it. Pulling the already dislocated skin away from the meat with one hand, I tapped at the seams of pelt and tissue with the knife, carefully bending my wrist repeatedly like the nodding of a head. I worked around the stomach, peeling the skin closer towards the spine, and along a leg. The white, thin connective tissue easily gave way to my knife, while the pinkish-yellow muscle required a more persuasive force.

Later, I held a cut-off hoof. It was still very warm, and I couldn't bear to hold it. I tried to get rid of it as quickly as possible, eventually just throwing it on the ground.

I watched as the askaris cut open the abdomen, blood pooled inside, as they removed the organs. the stomach expanded and expanded. The intestines spilled out. The smell. I forced myself to watch.

They passed around the heart and lungs. I touched them, did not hold them, got blood on my hands. I held the liver, which was still warm, but not covered in blood. I watched them go through and open the four chambers of the stomach, seeing and understanding all that we had studied about rumination.

And then, we went to the fire pit and roasted the pieces. The guys in the group ate the testicles (the Maasai believe it gives them strength); the females were not allowed to do so. I do not like the taste of goat, though I definitely prefer the liver to the regular muscle-meat.

I had never seen a life taken from so close up before. I had never so directly seen where my meat comes from before. I'm glad that I made myself watch, touch, and taste.

I'm in love

Friday was just another normal day of class. We got up, went on a nature walk for Wildlife Ecology class, had lunch, and then went on safari. Ain't no thing like a chicken wing.

At the gate of Amboseli National Park, we opened up the roof windows of our Land Cruisers (one for each of the three back rows), kicked off our shoes, and stood up on our seats, now ready with our binoculars, cameras, notebooks, and field guides for some animal observation.

We saw ostriches, impala, wildebeest, gazelle (Thomson's and Grant's), elephants, an oryx, wart hogs (they look exactly like Pumba from The Lion King, which, incidentally, means wart hog), hyenas, giraffe, buffalo, zebras, hippos, and lions, among others. I got a bruise on my life side from where I was leaning against the opening of the roof, but that didn't matter--we were zooming around wide open spaces.

Having grown up in New York City surrounded by tall buildings, what struck me most was all of that wide open space and blue, blue sky. We zoomed through the roads, wind whipping through the planes, stirring up my hair into awful knots and coating it in dust. Grasslands, barelands, wetlands, wooded lands, dry lands, swamplands, we passed through it all. Freedom in the watchful eye of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

And there were the animals. If I thought that we saw a lot of ostrich and wildebeest and zebra close to the entrance of the park, that was nothing to the immense volume of animals we saw at the swamps (which were really just more like watering holes) that are the park's lifeline. Around the water were grazing literally thousands of animals, mixed in peacefully together while the water glittered blue and white in the hot sun. A Maasai herded his sheep and goats (or shoats as they're called here) through the mass of wild animals, while elephants and hippos reposed deep in the waters.

It was the most amazing feeling. And truthfully, my mind kept casting itself back to The Lion King, which really was my only reference point for anything on this scale. I didn't need my iPod, "The Circle of Life" kept playing itself through my head. Something about that song really does capture the rhythm of the life out there.

Wonderful.

Danger, danger! High voltage.

Transcript of my notes from Part II of our safety lecture from the Student Affairs Manager about the danger of animals here in Kenya. Since the electric fence that surrounds our camp and the lands around it is no longer functional because people could not afford to pay for it, we have to look out for lots of animals not only in the field and camping out, but literally every day and night at KBC. Vigilance is the key.

Crocodiles.
Can launch selves nine feet out of the water

Buffalo.
Most dangerous. Pure muscle, big. Stupid. Try to avoid completely. Like to hide in bushes. Very aggressive.

Hippos.
Biggest killer of tourists in East Africa. Big, but fast for their small legs. Very mean. Ok when they’re in the water, very dangerous when you’re on land, especially if you’re between them and the water (their comfort zone).

Lions and predators.
Look them straight in the eye, stare them down. Slowly back away. When at a safe distance, turn and run like hell. Pretend like you’re bigger and more aggressive until you run.

Elephants.
Like buffalos, most aggressive ones are lone males, and mothers with babies. Don’t climb a tree, they can knock them down. Apparently run in zigzag, which confuses them. Can be very aggressive, particularly in parks.

Baboons and Monkeys.
In tourist sites they are very aggressive. They will take your Tupperware, open it, and eat it. In general will take your food if you hold it out. Best to just give it to them if they go for it. Close car openings because they will take it and leave their feces. Nothing you can do, don’t try to scare them off. They will scratch, bit, and give diseases.

Rhinos.
Run like hell.

Snakes. Askaris (guards) have to kill venomous snakes in student areas because they are very territorial, and they will come back. Have found Black Mambas at the Center. Back away from the snakes, don’t go running after them, don’t put face near them (apparently a lot of students have put themselves into serious danger by doing this). Baby snakes can be more dangerous because they’re still learning how to control their venom. Best thing to do if bitten is to fly you to Nairobi, but it takes 45 min to drive to the airstrip, then 1-2 hours flying, and some venom will kill you in 45 minutes.

Black Mamba.
Can strike from one yard away. Most dangerous if backed into tight corners. Not necessarily black. Easily confused with Brown House snake.

Egyptian Cobra.
Can spit, if it goes into your eyes it can cause you to go blind. Some say best treatment for spit on eyes in putting urine on eyes, but they don’t recommend it. Should just wash eyes with water.

Puff Adder.
Might not react to first person to come across it, but can get annoyed and attack next person.

If bitten: most of the time, venom is not released. Do not elevate the bitten limb. Apply pressure to limb, above and below bite area but not to tourniquet.


Avoidance: be aware of where you’re walking. Stick to paths at night. Wear closed-toed shores and long pants. Use flashlight. Leave tent and banda doors closed.

Other biting/stinging critters:

Scorpions.
Most not deathly, but might make you wish you’re dead from pain of bit.

Hairy caterpillars.
Hairs can get stuck in your skin.

Safari Ants.
Bites are painful. Don’t stand on anthills, they will crawl up your legs.

Vegetation.
Everything is pointy or thorny. Some (Acacia thorns) have poisons; wash and cover as response to puncture wounds.
________

Well that was about it. Unless you were wondering what Part I of this lecture was about. In case you are curious, it was all of the diseases we can get, from African Sleeping Sickness to Yellow Fever to Malaria--well, you get the picture.

Jambo

I'm here. It took forever (43 hours to be exact), but I'm here. Honestly there is too much to write--I feel like a computer that's been overloaded with data--but I will try to give some highlights.

During my 12-hour layover in Heathrow, I went in to London. After a mini sightseeing self-guided tour, I went to meet Caroline (who is studying at Oxford this semester) for lunch. We ate in Notting Hill, and it was a fantastic last little jaunt in "civilization," complete with an amble along Portobello Road, where we wandered into the most amazing antique shops I have ever seen; my favorite of them was, of course, the one with the pith helmets and binoculars and trunks and brown riding boots, or, in other words, the one with all of the safari gear.

Well, about fifteen hours later, I found myself in Kenya. At first glance, the country seemed really similar to the developing countries that I've been to in Central America, but then, all of the sudden, this funny thing started to happen. I started seeing animals. And I'm not talking about the cows and goats which, though certainly slightly funny looking, are also found in Latin America. Visible from the Kenyan highway (which is by no means as big or well-groomed as the highways traversed by Jack Kerouac and the rest of us in the U.S.), were animals. Our heavy-duty Land Cruiser (definitely not the type of SUV you see in the states; these ones seat ten, and have three viewing roof windows for safaris, no air conditioning, and manually-opened windows), which had been completely devoid of chatter due to the utter exhaustion of its inhabitants, suddenly, at the beck of one voice calling out "giraffes" became a hub of oohs and ahhs, inquiry and delight.

And it didn't end with that one sighting. During the rest of the 6-hour drive from Nairobi to our camp in the foothills of Kilimanjaro (Kilimanjaro Bush Camp or KBC), we saw at least a hundred zebra, all in different packs, probably about ten giraffes, two wildebeest, and one ostrich. From the road. Not in the middle of a national park. From the road. It was unbelievable. So unbelievable, in fact, that when I awoke from a dream about home during a nap in the car, I was convinced that the self in that Land Cruiser was the dreamer--I just couldn't understand where I was, or what was going on.

Finally, I will share one last little tidbit. When I woke up this morning at 6:30am under the cover of my mosquito net, I girded myself to take a shower (which I desperately needed) in the cold water of the cool morning. Having searched about our dark banda (or hut), and having located all of my shower materials, I walked out the door into the pale light of the new day, the sun visible yet behind the trees to the east. And as I turned right and walked up the path to the bathrooms, I saw it: Kilimanjaro.

Kilimanjaro in all its glory, small white snow caps clearly visible from my little location in the south of Kenya. I was looking right at it, amidst the songs of birds, and chattering of bugs, my first morning in what was increasingly appearing to me to be a magical country to my now rested self. The snows of Kilimanjaro, cresting the pale brown/grey silhouette of the mountain, standing above the trees in front of me. Majestic.

Now I hope I haven't led you to believe its been all animals and play. The extreme heat of the afternoon today was draining, I got prickly plants stuck in the bottom of my feet, we only have cold showers, and I'm pretty sure I found mice poop in the bed next to mine (which is not occupied by a person but rather my stuff). But those moments are fleeting, and I know that tomorrow I will awake to Kilimanjaro again, and as Robert Frost wrote, that has made all the difference.