15:22, Thursday, 11 October, 2012

I cannot pass up the opportunity to write about Wilson’s wedding, which is hands down one of the most incredible experiences the human world has ever brought me.  When the anticipated day arrived, we awoke in the dark at five to don our best Maasai clothing; Julia and I wore skirts covered in two shukas and a kanga each, plus two necklaces, earrings, bracelets and belts.  The men wore shukas, belts, swords, and dozens of ceremonial necklaces, belts, and bracelets.  As a crew, I must say we were quite impressive, and I was most amused to notice that burly protector Lesingo was wearing a shuka covered in pink and red hearts and flowers (a mirror of his inner gentle sweetness).  Benson, Joseph, Lesingo, a friend from Talek named Juliana, Wilson’s sister (who looks exactly like him) from the area, a friend Joseph from Talek who often hangs around camp with us, Julia, Charlie, and I all loaded up in the hilux and cruiser, waved goodbye to Stephen and Jackson (who unfortunately had to remain and watch camp), and drove off sleepy-eyed but excited.

Our first trip was to Wilson’s bride’s village.  The drive was long but absolutely gorgeous.  A man on a motorbike led us along never-ending paths, but these paths wound through some of the mountains I have been dying to climb.  Entering the forested slopes was like entering a new world – so different from and much more than imagined!  What looks like bush scrub from the ground far away is a tropical forest of sorts, covered in trees and vegetation doubtlessly hiding all kinds of exotic insects, snakes, lizards, small and large mammals alike, although the birds, dik-dik, and some impala weren’t hiding at all and greeted us along the way.  Maasai women shouldering large loads of firewood climbed on foot next to us alongside their cattle.  My jealousy was incalculable as it was a bit torturous having to observe this place from the confines of a car. 

Three hours later the road spit us out onto some grassier mountain slopes, and we arrived at the bride’s village.  It was unbelievable – to imagine having grown up in such a beautiful, secluded place.  Big purple petunia-like flower clusters covered the gently blowing, half-mountain slopes rising beyond the clustered group of about 7 manyatta homes constructed of only mud and logs.  A cattle boma made of intricately folded thorns sat next to the homes, dogs and chickens ran about, a group of the most dazzlingly colorful Maasai gathered around Wilson and his wedding party.  Wilson was beaming as he greeted us.  His head was covered in a red dye made of soil and lard (most likely blueband from the kitchen), a cow hide surrounding his shoulders.  He wore a red-checkered shuka tied with showy, jingly belts, another checkered shuka over his shoulders beneath the cow hide, a beaded stick with the hair of a wildebeest tail coming out of the end in his hand.  He also held two ceremonial Maasai gourds, something like I was brought by the boy I took to the clinic, full of Maasai yogurt that would be drunk at the appropriate time by both families and used in blessings.  The best man, a guy Wilson’s age who grew up in his village, also had red dye covering his head and was dressed in a similar manner.  A few others had painted red heads; I later learned that these were all those who would accompany Wilson and the bride to his village.

The bride was still inside, so anticipation and waiting filled the air beneath the perfectly blue sky adorned here and there with puffy white clouds.  It couldn’t have been a lovelier day.  I almost died of happiness when a puppy allowed me to pet it.  A mama kindly invited us into one of the homes for chai.  The little mud huts look so small from the outside, but upon entering feel surprisingly roomy.  It was crazily dark within, only one hole in the wall permitting the entrance of day, a fire with an enormous pot of chai in the center of everything.  Branches managed to split the area off into three humble rooms with astonishingly springy beds made of more branches and what I think was cow hide stretched over the frame like a drum.  For how hard these beds felt to the touch they were somehow comfortable when we sat.  A few children stared unabashed at the Maasai wazungu drinking chai in their home, one infant wrapped onto his mother’s back.  When my chai was halfway gone, a small mew from the corner threw me into fits of happiness and made me forget to drink the rest: a kitten!  Benson asked the Maasai mama who said I could untie her, and I removed the tight tether from her neck and showered her with love.  Such a sweet kitten!  She tolerated the children and being picked up by the back of her neck, sprinting outside only to sprint back in and accept some of the milk set before her.  I was asked if I would like to take a kitten back to camp, and seriously considered asking Kay until Julia said the only time a lion entered someone’s tent in the history of fisi camp was due to the meowing of a cat inside.  Well, there goes that idea.

Back outside (the sun and bright were an enormous shock as we ducked back out through the little doorway), and before I knew it Julia and I were having our faces ceremonially painted by one of the mamas with the red dye while all eighty or so pairs of eyes, many of them belonging to little children, looked on.  I smiled when I looked in the car mirror; minus the skin and unshaven head, I was a Maasai (although admittedly those two things were a bit hard to miss). 

At last the bride emerged; I wasn’t sure what to expect, but the sobbing short girl of seventeen clad in  a magnificently beaded cow hide, innumerable earrings – big circles and beaded poles alike – jutting out of her ears, bright beaded bands around her bald head,  a thousand brilliantly colored necklaces hanging over her chest and bracelets covering every inch of skin was not at all what I’d pictured.  The cow hide and pounds of jewelry obscured whatever shuka was beneath.  She would have looked beautiful had she been smiling.  I felt such pity for her, and asked Joseph why she was crying.  He answered that she is sad to be leaving home – a village three to four more hours away by vehicle is no short distance on foot.  She had lived here all her life, and now she was being uprooted to go live with someone she barely knew.  “She will be happy,” Wilson said as he sidled up to me.  “She is just crying a bit now.”  Knowing Wilson, I believe he’s right, but I can’t imagine what it would be like for a girl to marry a less wonderful person in the same situation.

Blessings were said over the bride, most of which I couldn’t see beyond the sea of shukas, and then the wedding party started cramming into one pickup and our hyena cars.  We were a bit taken aback; like Julia said, “I had no idea our cars were going to be such an integral part of the wedding!”  Without them it clearly wouldn’t have worked.  Benson proudly drove beside Wilson and his bride (who is literally half Wilson’s height) in the front seat; they were now officially married.  I rode in the hilux smashed against Joseph and Julia.  We drove long roads through more mountains, children running happily after our vehicles and adults waving their congratulations.  We stopped mid-mountain on one climb, and the men took out machetes to cut branches from the surrounding bushes, weaving them through the bumper and other opportune areas on the vehicles. Who knew a car could so resemble Julius Caesar?  The branches provided a mute shout of the occasion, resulting in even more people cheering as we drove by.  At one point some cows chased our cars like dogs – an odd sight to behold!  Not sure what prompted them, but their congratulations was equally appreciated.

12:39, Friday, 12 October, 2012

Upon arriving at Wilson’s village, a wave of people on pikipiki (little motorcycles) joined our procession.  We all drove in circles, honking our horns until the giggles surfaced.  Getting out of the car, I found myself on a flatter plain than the bride’s village, but  gently sloping with one plateau-like mountain jutting up on one side and an odd grassy butte in the middle of nowhere on the other.  Thomson’s gazelles sprinkled the plains, and there were even more dogs.  Like the former village, a better book setting never existed.

The most memorable part of the day came when we entered beneath an arc through the intricately constructed branch fence.  I was the first to enter, and as a man approached, I smiled and stuck out my hand to say hello, at which point he promptly threw back his head and spit a revolting shower of half-digested Maasai yogurt all over the front of my clothes, some landing on the skin of my neck.  I was so taken aback that I absolutely couldn’t stop laughing as I tried to choke a “thank-you,” figuring that might be an appropriate response.  Then a second man pointedly walked over while taking a swig from a gourd, and I braced myself as I was sprayed a second time.  Looking behind me, I found Charlie’s mouth and chin covered in the stuff, an expression which I cannot find words to describe but the mental image of which still makes me laugh beneath the dripping mess.  As Wilson’s tall mother (head also died red) ushered us into another of the mud homes, Joseph told me I had just been blessed.  Well Hallelujah!

Inside the home we were part of the central ceremony.  We were handed chai as the gourd was passed around for some men and Wilson to drink from.  Then the bride entered and sat on a bed behind us, who were sitting on its edge.  She was passed the gourd to take a drink, but then had to refuse Wilson and wouldn’t come off of the bed and out of the home until he presented her with a cow.  While the bride waited for her cow, I finally saw her smile, and suddenly felt universes better about the occasion.

Leaving the bride waiting for the promised livestock, we went back outside and met with some of Wilson’s family.  That’s when I met Dickson, Wilson’s seven year-old half brother.  While Wilson is a child of his father’s first wife, Dickson is a child of the second.  A more smiley, cute or friendly kid you will never meet.  He took an especial liking to me and followed me everywhere, smart in his little cowhide ceremonial cape.  A more perfect depiction of happiness never set foot on this earth.

Wilson invited us into his newly built home for food.  It was near two and we had ingested nothing but the chai we drank, so cooked pieces of a freshly-slaughtered goat spread across the table was a welcome sight.  Wilson’s home was still constructed of branches and mud, but it had a more modern feel with square windows cut through the mud letting in some light and big spacious rooms, the walls of which were covered with pages from a livestock magazine.  Chipati, rice with potatoes, goat and chai were passed around and everyone ate their fill, although only about ten could fit around the table at one time.

Returning outside, the men had begun their throaty hums, head bobbing, and wild yips as they gathered in a line to jump.  I will never get tired of watching such a tremendous display of culture.  Benson and Charlie (a bit of a conspicuous addition) joined in the jumping.  They processed and carried on for near half an hour, and I just sat back and took everything in with another jolt of hey, this is Africa.  Not to get sentimental, but as I looked around at the faces of these people, especially those of Joseph, Benson, and Wilson, I realized just how much I love them.  Benson and Joseph have become two of my favorite people of all time, and I’m sure Wilson will join that group once I have spent more time with him.  I cannot wait to introduce these people to my three absolute favorites.

We must have missed the presentation of the cow while eating, because shortly the women gathered in a group around the emerged bride.  (I feel bad having to keep referring to her as “the bride,” but I couldn’t understand her name after being told it about three times, and didn’t feel right asking to hear it yet again.  Anyhow, learning it wouldn’t have done much good as it was going to change following the wedding; a Maasai girl’s first name changes when she gets married.  I asked Wilson for her new name, but it’s an equally difficult one.  I will have to ask him to write it down.)  Wilson’s mother stood by the bride; they would be spending ample time together in the future.  Wilson says his wife sleeps in the home of his mother when he is away at work.  Happily there was already the aura of a bond between them.

Before we had to leave to get back through the park gates by 6:30, Wilson brought us a drink made of recently gathered and fermented forest herbs.  I was a bit nervous drinking it since we were warned prior of its strong alcoholic content, but none of us felt a thing following.  It tasted like nothing I’ve ever had – a quiet yet wild forest walk captured and squeezed into a cup of civilization’s making.  I really liked it, and apparently it is served at every Maasai wedding.

Back home, Julia and Charlie were both too tired to eat and crashed.  I am never too tired to eat, and grabbed some leftovers amongst the chatting wedding guest friends, doubtless filling Jackson and Stephen in on the ceremony as they spoke in rapid Maa.