Invading Maasai land: Part 1

gukawahinya 

Magadi town is a sleepy town by any definition, on a normal day, it registers very little activity. Apart from the white smoke coming from towering vents of the soda ash factory, this is an introverted town. However, it comes to life every weekend when a bunch of Na

irobians in search of tan head out to Magadi for camping. There’s only one way into the town, it is through a big barrier at the foot of lake Magadi. The town is a peninsula of some sort. Sprouting from the salty lake.

One our way, we met a family who had gotten a tire burst but they didn’t have a wheel spanner. That’s like being a doctor in an operating room without a scalpel. They flagged us down. They looked genuine and helpless. But we were hesitant. No one wants to be robbed in the middle of nowhere. And certainly not by two women and a child. That would leave our egos bruised for life. Wounded. We helped them and after a few minutes, we were well on our way.

At the gate of the town, you will always find two sharply dressed security guards.  One armed with a big black book to takes your details, and the other one searches your car for shovels in case you came to steal the soda, ash. They ask you, “wewe ni mgeni?” When you say yes, they will ask you where you are going. In our case, we were going to the sports club, rather, that was our first stop.

Magadi is still tied to its ancient past and deep-rooted traditions -- while also full of people from around the world who don't even know where to begin to connect to those traditions. For example, the community is served by one church structure shared by three denominations. The Catholic church, the P.C.E.A and the SDA. The use the church in turns, they have a well-planned seamless schedule that everyone adheres to.  To them, they are one people united by the same faith but separated by beliefs.

Driving through the small town, everyone knows you are a stranger. You get prying eyes. Here, everyone knows each other. This is a community that has refused to be separated by the passage of time. Over the years, the community has been served by one big wholesale shop. No one has seen the need to open another shop. It is run by a Somali guy who is sits perched on a high stool whose work is giving orders and collecting money from the shoppers. Last Friday, Good Friday. We happened to be some of those Nairobians who disturb the peace of this town.

We paid for our camping tickets. The guys were surprised. Just the two of you? No women? They looked at us suspiciously. Two bearded guys going camping near the hot springs. They must have been left wondering who’s the woman?  A Maasai guy offered to be our guide. He wanted us pay him 500 bob and give him a lift to a place near home, which was three hours away. We refused. He was exploiting us. When he figured that we are Kiuks, he spoke to us in Kikuyu. Kikuyu speaking Maasai in some distant town? Since we couldn’t part with what he was asking, we parted ways and headed to the wilderness in search of the camping site.

After driving for 15 minutes, something in us told us that the camping site cannot be this far. However, we had been told that we must drive past the airstrip, like people participating in a treasure hunt, we continued driving. From a distance, we could see a small car flying low. I flashed them. They stopped. They occupants-a man and a woman- were dressed in rasta colours, dread locks and red eyes. They must have just landed from Jamaica, chanting Babylon. They looked lit! We asked where the airstrip was, they said it’s about 1km away. I fist bumped the driver and we drove on. Finally, we saw the airstrip. A straightened path with loss chippings and some weird markings. There was a sign cautioning people to keep off the airstrip, someone would think is a place hived of Heathrow that it expected heavy air traffic. I was tempted to drive on it and attempt a take-off. Breaking rules. You know. We drove on, looking for our next clue, a road turning right.

By now, the sun had dipped and darkness was creeping in. We turned on the headlights. Even with a strong beam of light, the horizon seemed to be drifting further away. We had to find the campsite soon enough before it was completely dark. We came to this open field, so vast you couldn’t see the end of it. On the ground, there were bright parches which looked like watering holes. And in the midst of the vastness, we could see a white pole, just that we couldn’t pick out what it was. We drove closer. It was a sign post with the words “hot springs of lake Magadi.” We had found the camp site, only that it was empty. Deserted. We felt alone, exposed and watched.

We reluctantly pitched the tent. The vastness was scary. It was like leaving a baby in an empty field alone. They are overwhelmed by the space. Ben, my boy, had said that we will find people, many people. I believed him. But he was wrong. It was just the two of us, the hot springs and a few flamingoes which had remained behind in protest I believe when the others migrated to Tanzania. They must have been jamming to the song ‘My land is Kenya’ while thinking about us. That two wannabe campers from Nairobi will need company.

As we were pitching the tent, we saw two shadows fall on the tent. Trembling, we looked up, there was one man and a Maasai.  The man was dressed in a long khaki shorts and a t-shirt, and the Maasai was dressed in, well, not really dressed, covered in two Maasai Shukas. They were both carrying a grazing staffs. It reminded me of Moses in the bible shepherding the children of Israel. The Maasai had a knife dangling from his beaded belt. They had crept on us. For a few seconds, there was pin drop silence but the flamingoes interrupted. We said ‘Hi.’ They politely acknowledged our greetings. Ben asked, “how we can help you?