BOMA.

The local Manyatta is a semi-permanent place where young warriors live with their mothers. We drive inside the enclosure and park right in the middle of the Boma. Dung and stick buildings surround an open area covered with cattle and goat dung and flies rule. The cows and goats are grazing so a lone dog is the only animal in the compound.

Jonathan invites Le Doux and I into his home. It’s very small and we duck and squeeze through the curved entryway. It’s dark inside. I can’t stand up and almost step in the glowing embers of the fire between two tiny rooms. My eyes adjust as light filters through small holes in the walls. I’m getting anxious and feel claustrophobic until the smoky warm smell from the embers relaxes me.

Once outside, Le Doux and I are bombarded with flies so we climb into the top seat of our jeep to watch our friends bargain with the Maasai women or play with children. Ron and Hilary are swinging laughing kids around in circles and Paula is buying an enormous shield and a mask surrounded in feathers.

The young warriors are sitting and leaning on the hood of a jeep. Their arms and bodies are draped around each other. It’s the first time I’ve seen a group of Maasai men together since we arrived. They are usually alone with their cattle and goats along the side of the road or in a distant field. The warmth of these young warriors toward each other is a surprise.

There were tons of flies driving us crazy. Every day there’s something to bombard you. Good and bad. Tiny purple butterflies like flying lights. Brilliant blue starlings sitting on tree branches eating the fruit left from breakfast and hundreds of moths swarming the porch lights.