FOREST.

The ride was long and eventful. Our jeep got stuck on a root going straight up a hill. The wheels spin loudly digging us deeper into a hole as the front of the jeep inched toward the sky. Black lava gavel flies over the back of the jeep and covers us with a fine powder. We can’t stop laughing. Moses has gotten us out of bigger scrapes than this. Without assistance from the other guides who are standing and yelling instructions in Swahili to Moses, the jeep pops out of the rut and we reach the top of the hill with the valley below and Kili in the distance.

The terrain is hillier and even greener than the green pasture that is the view of Massai country from the lodge. Animals migrate here during the heat of summer. We get out to stretch our legs and for tea and soft drinks.

Sandor swings a riffle over his shoulder and says, “It’s very important to stay single file on the path through the forest and be very quiet. If you want to see any animals, you must be quiet.”

We start walking up a short, muddy hill into the dense green forest. Surrounded by tall trees that cover the sky with a thick canopy, Sandor stops short and we listen.

Someone says, “Monkeys.”

Paula spies one but no one else has the trained eye of a zoo keeper so we move on.

Small groups bunch up on the trail talking quietly.

“What part of ‘single file’ don’t you people understand,” Pamela says with a wink.

There is a large pool of water in the middle of the path with large tree roots flowing out of the ground nearby. Electric blue butterflies take off and land at the edge of the water. We gather around as the guides look at animal tracks in the mud.

When we reach the end of the trail, the sun appears and the landscape becomes familiar again. Rolling hills blanketed in tall green grass spill out before us until the bottom of Kili can be seen below the cloud cover on the horizon.

There is a universal tick check and the now familiar awe at the view.

Walking back through the forest, I have to pee and there is no holding it for the 2-hour ride back to the lodge. We try and convince Clare that peeing outside isn’t so bad, but she’s having none of it. Pamela gives me a lesson on trampling down the grass. It’s hard to coordinate squatting, holding your pants far enough in front of you to avoid wetting legs or panties or pants, all the while convincing your bladder to let go. I was never completely successful.

WEDNESDAY.

On our way to the forest, one of the many ecosystems on the vast Maasai land, we stop for a short hike up a rocky hill to a tree-covered ravine.

Randi is nervous at the drop off, but lets Greg take her picture before moving to safer ground.

Moses points out the soap tree on our way back to the jeeps.

“We use it to wash up,” says Moses.

“What is that?” he asks me, pointing to a similar bush.

“The toothbrush tree,” I say.

“Correct,” says Moses smiling.

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.

TUESDAY, 4PM.

My first mosquito bite.

The sundowner tonight is on the top of a small hill. Canvas chairs are waiting for us in a semi-circle around a large fire. With drinks in hand, we see the land stretching out before us. Every hill seems to have a secret and ancient name.

There’s a distant sound, a chorus, getting louder. Spears appear over the hill as Maasai warriors wrapped in purple and red clothe dance and sing trance-like over the horizon. There’s Daniel. Emanuel comes from behind the drink table, throws a red blanket over his shoulders and joins the walking dance, his signature smile even wider than usual.

I quickly sit down by the fire to take it all in thinking of all the white people sitting in this spot and all the Maasai proudly showing off their fierce beauty throughout time.

"Humm rumm. Humm rumm" they sing. After circling the fire the young men stand in a tight group on the far side. A warrior steps forward and starts to jump. His tall body launches from a dead stop, rigid. His walking stick in hand, he lands bending his knees only slightly to take the shock.

A young Maasai invites LeDoux to join the dance. Convinced that girls can’t play, I’m shocked when Daniel reaches for my hand, pulls me up, and walk/dances me to the group of men. I’ve watched them closely so move my neck and body as I’d seen, jutting my neck out and stamping my feet.

“Humm. Rumm,” I join the singing. “Humm. Rumm.”

When I start to jump, Daniel pulls me down. I understand that it would be bad form to jump higher than a Maasai warrior. My second jump is low. I thank Daniel and grab my drink to steady myself from the excitement before sitting down.

THURSDAY. MARKET DAY.

Ostriches.

Zebra.

Kori Bustard. Because they are so heavy, they tend to walk more than fly. Bustard means birds that walk.

It’s a long bumpy jeep ride before we arrive at the Maasai village and the open air market. I’m uncomfortable because I feel like a rich American among the poor Maasai. It’s as if anything the West brings only works if it’s money. Western clothes—jeans and t-shirts—look dirty and dingy. Traditional Maasai clothes are bright and colorful red and purple wraps that look beautiful against the dark skin and long limbs of the Maasai. The women wear elaborate beads and the warriors carry walking sticks or spears. I see Moses, my favorite guide, wearing a green linen shirt and pressed pants and realize that what they wear is irrelevant. Guides are paid pretty well. So, again, it comes down to money.

Schools and medicine are always welcome. We visited a few schools on our way to the market. The religion that paid for the school becomes the faith of the students. Presbyterian. Catholic. Lutheran.

Now that I want to spend my dollars at the market, I realize that I’ve foolishly spent all of my money at the little shop at the lodge. All I can do is admire the bright fabric and the Artful Dodger, Stephen, who charms and smiles for the most gum and trinkets from our party.

After wandering through the market looking at coffee, potatoes, clothes, shoes, sandals made of tires, bright patterned fabric, and children wanting, we go to the cattle market where the men are packed in a corral buying and selling cattle and goats.

Clare buys a dark brown goat for the staff at the lodge. It’s a beautiful little thing and I’m afraid it will be slaughtered and served for our dinner. LeDoux thinks the same thing so we decided to ride in a different jeep on the return trip. We ride with Moses.

The Range Rover dies a few times on the way home, once when Moses stops for me to pee behind a huge tree called the wait-a-minute because the branches catch on your clothes and stop you in your tracks until someone comes to release you from its grip. Moses being Moses, jumps the gears and gets us going from a dead stop. With the Chyulu Hills in sight, we see a group of ostrich and Moses slows down.

“Don’t stop,” We yell. “We don’t need to stop!”