Day 185 A Masai Village

Before we even set foot in Tanzania, I was intrigued by the Masai way of life. I wanted to know more about their culture. And more specifically, I wanted to know more about the women. This feeling was only heightened after my interaction with the Masai woman on the dala-dala and then, of course on our visit to the touristy Masai village outside of The Ngorongoro Crater.

I wanted to go to a village and ask questions to the women and get answers. From the women. And I wanted to take portraits of them as well because I just find them to be so beautiful. It’s like their faces hold so many more stories than the flawless Korean skin I became used to in Seoul, or those so similar to my own back in Kentucky. I asked around at our hostel to see if this was possible. Michael, one of the hostel managers said he could take me and he would translate all of my questions and I could take pictures. I was elated. Two girls at the hostel heard I was going and planned to tag along, after I warned them I wanted to ask a ton of questions – and there was the possibility they would be bored. Fortunately they were equally (I think) excited.

During breakfast we exchanged different stories we had heard about the Masai before we arrived to Tanzania or during our time in and around Arusha. Most of these stories revolved around FGM (Female Genital Mutilation) and the customs of the men staking their claim over the Masai women.

One girl heard that a Masai man can put his spear outside of a woman’s house if he wanted to have her- even if she was married. If her husband was gone, she was free for the taking. A spear would be planted outside of her house and she would have company until the man took his spear elsewhere. Another girl heard that during the female circumcision, the woman was sewn up until her wedding night, it was only then that her betrothed would cut her open. Someone saw an Oprah show, where in one African country, (the specific country was not recalled) a dull blade is used because the ceremony is supposed to last a certain number of hours. We debated, not about whether or not FGM was right or wrong, but about what was accurate and what were just stories told to gullible tourists.

“I’m so curious of the logistics, you know? I mean, seriously. How is it done? Is someone in the tribe a specialist? It’s not the easiest thing to find…” I asked the girls, oblivious to the fact that I was clearly setting Andrew up for an opportunity to be sarcastic.

“I’ve had a lot of practice, and I still have trouble finding it.” Andrew tried to say on the sly, only every girl in the room heard him and couldn’t stop laughing.

At the touristy village, questions regarding the women seemed to be ignored. If it regarded the women, why on earth would any man (including our guide) know or want to know about it. So when we arrived to the non-touristy village a few hours later, I was ready to get some answers. After a three hour drive, we arrived. Immediately we were greeted warmly and Michael told me I was free to take pictures. Obviously, I was drawn to the oldest man in the village immediately after seeing his method of carrying his medicine around. By way of his ear.

We went through a very similar tour of two houses. A woman’s house. And a man’s house. But, we were told that when the man wants the woman, she goes to his house- not the other way around. So, according to this village, a man can’t literally (and figuratively) plant his spear outside the woman’s house. We learned that there are marriage ceremonies- but then we were also told that a man can court (and do other things) with other women if he wants. When we tried to ask what the point of a marriage ceremony was- we didn’t get a clear answer.

Men become circumcised around the age of 15. But it’s done as a group. So some men might be a little older when it’s done. It’s a coming of age tradition. When I asked about the women, knowing that in Tanzania it is technically illegal, the men we were talking to told us that they perform the ceremony on the women in secret. The older women perform the ceremony on the younger women in private. She is not sewn up like we had heard to be rumored. Instead, she stays in her hut and puts oil on herself until she feels she has healed and then will leave her house. According to the men that we talked to- the women, just like the men, look forward to this ceremony because it is only then that the tribe will recognize her as a woman. We heard other rumors that FGM is done so the woman will not enjoy sex. The men that we talked to seemed to dismiss this, that it was only performed as a coming of age tradition- much like the men.

“But… what do the women really think of it? And… what do the women do about their periods and giving birth?” I asked Michael, wanting to get the women in on the discussion. He translated to the men and told me that they didn’t know the answer. This discussion, by the way, was going on simultaneous to the men workin’ it for the camera. That mirror is tied onto the back of the one dude’s shuka. Masai player, right there. (I guess they all are though, in a way, puttin’ their spears wherever they want, whenever they want…)

“Women don’t talk to men about these things. Only to other women.” He told me.

“Well, let’s go ask them!” He laughed, and started going with me, until he stopped to talk to the Masai men, and then he turned to me.

“I can’t talk to them about these things. I am a man. You can talk to them in Swahili…” He teased, knowing I don’t speak more than four words in Swahili. My heart fell. The whole point of coming to the village was to have this kind of discussion with the women, and I didn’t even think that having a translator, even if he was male, would matter. I felt silly for having assumed it would be so easy.

We started walking towards the women and children. I was able to get a few pictures of them, but not portraits of every woman, like I really wanted. I was glad I went, but next time, I’ll be going with a female translator.

Michael (seen above) told me to ask one of the girls at the hostel. She was from a Masai tribe and could talk to me about my questions. Later, I ended up asking her the same questions, but I felt like her answers were guarded. She didn’t get into the specifics of FGM with me and when I asked what women really thought of it, she gave me a somewhat bland answer about how women needed to be educated before it would end. Obviously I agree, but I wasn’t sure that she was really telling me what women thought of it or what she thought I wanted to hear.

Day 183 The Serengeti and a Masai Tribe

We woke up before the sun to go on a drive. By the time we were on the road, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon and we stopped to take in its beauty forgetting, momentarily, about our hunt for cheetahs chasing after wildebeest or perhaps a baboon holding a lion cub up over an audience of animals bowing before them while magically, Elton John descended from the clouds playing ‘The Circle of Life’ on a white grand piano.

This thought alone prompted me to start singing “MAAAAHHHH-ZABENYA!” Everyone laughed and humored me as I burst out in song at random moments on safari. At least, I’d like to think they were humoring me and weren’t annoyed in the slightest.

I’ve become slightly (Andrew thinks “oddly”) obsessed with maribou storks. I just think they are the absolute coolest birds ever. I was ecstatic about a whole tree full of them in the morning.

The game drive in the morning wasn’t as exciting as we thought it was going to be, save for the line of zebras we stopped to watch in awe at their penchant for traveling in single file. We saw a hippo out of water, zebras rolling around on the ground to get the mosquitos off their backs…

And more leopards in sausage trees (I swear, that’s what they were called)! But, sadly, no cheetahs.

On our way out of the park, someone called out “Giraffe!” and sitting in the back seat, I looked out either side of the jeep wondering where it was, figuring it was way off in the distance, that is, until I looked up and the giraffe was right. there. Less than two meters away from our jeep, he loomed above us and then it seemed figured we weren’t a tree with leaves for him to nibble on, so he ambled over to something he could take a bite out of. It was hands down, my favorite part of the day.

We agreed to stop at the touristy Masai village on our way to the rim of the Ngorongoro Crater. There was a small entrance fee, and we knew it wasn’t going to be the most unique tribal experience, but I was still curious what they were going to present to us as their “day to day” life and what they would say about their tribe.

Immediately we were greeted, and the men started chanting and did something of a skip back and forth in front of us. They got Josh to join, but Andrew hung back with a camera instead of skipping and singing with the warriors. Then Leanne and I were led to the semi-circle of women, and a beaded necklace was placed around our necks and the women began singing. Now, usually, I think I handle myself (for the most part) pretty well when I’m in a new environment or surrounded by people much different than myself. But for some reason, I could not wrap my head around the fact that I was standing in the midst of a group of Masai women, one who was gently holding my hand, as they were all singing around me. It’s clear, from Andrew’s videos and Leanne’s pictures, I look quite the fish out of water. It wasn’t that I was uncomfortable- not in the slightest- it was just a sheer moment of awe of our trip.

The Masai continued to sing and then the men jumped. Those men have some serious ups and I debated how they would fare on a basketball court, amused by the thought that they would probably kill it, all while playing in their Masai shuka wraps and plastic sandals against the western style jerseys and shoes.

We were led into a modest cow dung and straw hut. A man slept on the bed behind us as we sat on its edge listening to the Masai way of life. Leanne and I asked a few questions about the women- who helped them when it was time to have a baby, etc. Our guide brushed it off saying, something along the lines of “The women know.” We smiled, amused that he didn’t seem to want, nor care to either know the answer or perhaps to simply communicate the answer to us.

Josh asked why there were so many more women than men in the tribe. How is it possible for one Masai man to have so many wives and there not be more men for the amount of women. It was a fair question. One that was not given a fair answer. “That’s just how Masai are. More women are born instead of men.” He answered. This really got Josh’s goat. He wasn’t having it, and neither were we, but we didn’t have another source to ask, at least, not yet.

Our guide tried to lead us to the makeshift shop in the middle of the village, but we skirted around it, instead walking along the huts and asking more questions. We were then led to the “school” a small hut (if you could even call one) outside of the circle of houses. Children ran around outside until they saw us coming and then immediately ran into the school to sit on the benches for their latest visitors. A blackboard was behind us with letters and numbers and sentences that was clearly set up as a prop for the stage that the students promptly took before us, reciting their ABCs. It made me uncomfortable. I should have taken some video, but I was too… I don’t know… aghast at the thought that they clearly do this for the donation box that is set up in front of them, even after we were told that our entrance fee was for the children and their education.

Again, after the school, we were led to the display of necklaces in the center of the village. Again, we avoided it and instead photographed the women sitting against a house making more necklaces. This is why I wanted to visit the village. These women are so beautiful and I’m sure they have led such an interesting life. Again, I wanted to know more, more about the women, not the men whom the tribe is so famous for.

This is a patriarchal tribe. Males- known as warriors- are in charge, they have multiple wives, and there are rumors of continued FGM practices even though it is illegal by Tanzanian law. Girls at our hostel told us stories they had heard that blew my mind and made me so curious of the realities of women in these tribes. Do the women comply readily with these expectations of them? Is there ever any dissent? Aside from all of the work they do for the men in the tribe, are they treated well? Could a woman ever be a warrior? Women can play football in the states if they really want to, right? It’s practically the same thing, right?

I asked our guide. He burst out laughing. Like it was the absolute funniest thing he had ever heard of in his life. “But… why not?” I asked, curious. “A man has to be circumcised…” He trailed off, amused by my curiosity. “But, women ARE circumcised.” I replied. He laughed, like it was still not possible for a woman to ever be a warrior, like the mere thought was simply… wrong.

I smiled. “I don’t understand, if all a man has to do is get circumcised and then go into the woods for three months to learn how to become a warrior, couldn’t a woman do the same? She will be circumcised anyway…” He listened, paused, and then continued to shake his head, but didn’t offer any further rebuttal.

The women sat in a circle nearby with several babies, oblivious to the content of our conversation. I desperately wanted to bring them into the conversation, but I had a feeling that was not possible. It seems as though the men enjoy their women uneducated, pregnant, and oblivious. Perhaps I’m mistaken, and my observations- at least from this tribe is not necessarily accurate. I became anxious to go to a real Masai village to talk to the woman about their role within the Masai after our safari.

Our guide deemed our time was up and we were ushered out nicely, but in a clear “Ok, it’s time for you to go…” kinda way. Our curiosity was piqued and we sat in the jeep on our way to the rim of the crater playing the visit over again. “Something is going on there, more women than men? No way.” Josh pointed out. We all agreed and wondered if even at another tribe, not visited every twenty minutes by a jeep full of safari goers would we get a more accurate answer.

The rim of the crater was beautiful. That is, until I was sure something had gotten in our tent and then Andrew saw a large mass of blackness eating grass around our tent. “It can’t be a hippo, they can’t get up here…” The cooks assured him on his way back from the bathroom. “It’s probably just a buffalo…” Because, that certainly makes one feel better walking to and from the bathroom after dark…

Day 8: “What do they expect when they give me two sticks to eat with?”

I assured Andrew I would be ok and I didn’t need to spend another afternoon in bed, “I mean, the worst that can happen is I have to poop in a rice paddy. or my pants. I guess pooping my pants would be worse.” Andrew seemed to think I would make it to a rice paddy. And off we went. First, to ask our adorable guide, May, if I could stop at a pharmacy at the beginning of our 15K trek. And then, down the mountain.

With about thirty other tourists, and what felt like an equivalent of Black Hmong women, we began our trek down into the valleys, walking between rice paddies, and through the villages. The scenery was beautiful, my stomach was (for the most part) staying in check, and the women gamely answered my questions about life in a Black Hmong Tribe, even when I asked bluntly “So, do you like being married?” They gaped at me, as if I were the first one to ever ask. Maybe I was, but from what they answered “liking” or “disliking” being married isn’t really an option. They just are. married.

Andrew accuses me of having a certain, shall we say opinionated tone when I discuss women’s roles in different cultures. He’s right. I do. But, I’m working on it. I’m going for that “Oh, what’s that like? Women not being equal in your culture?” curious tone instead of my “Oh no you didn’t just tell me women are lower than men!” sassy tone that usually comes across. It’s hard for me not to get a little feministy when I’m speaking to a Muslim tour guide in South East Asia’s largest mosque and he tells me “Women don’t ask such questions!” or in this case, when I’m chatting with a 17 year old girl who is married, 5 months pregnant with her first child, and leading a 15 K trek.

In my head I thought back to when I was 17 and what I was doing. Graduating high-school and moving away to go to college. How fortunate I was, right? But then I gently remind myself that her life is different than mine, her culture is different than mine, and I should not judge. And when I do judge anyway, I try to re-channel the judging into gratefulness. It makes me really glad I’m an American girl (although we do have a long way to go) and really glad I’m no longer an employee of a South Korean company (school).

So, I chatted with May, our tour guide, about life. She said she enjoyed answering questions much more than leading a tour with people who didn’t talk. It gives her a chance to practice her English, learn new words, and likewise learn about different cultures. She was (is) awesome, and it was super interesting to chat with her. I learned that girls typically marry between ages 15-20. While their parents sometimes arrange their marriages, they are also allowed (in some instances) to say “no” and she readily acknowledged that women do much more work than men. Men’s duties revolve around the farming and only the farming. Women’s duties sometimes include farming, childcare, cooking, cleaning, and even selling goods to tourists or leading tours around Sapa. May also divulged that she doesn’t like “happy water” as it hurts her head the next day. “Happy Water” is what everyone in or around Sapa called rice wine. Think of it as bootlegged soju, if you will. Made in the homes, a Kiwi living in Sapa told us there’s no way to know the exact proof of the liquor.

Throughout our chat, as we descended the mountain, Black Hmong women walked with and around us, helping us cross streams, making straw animals for us, and generally asking us the same three questions over and over and over again.

1. What’s your name? or Where you from?

2. How old are you?

3. Married?

Obviously I fell into the old maid category. Almost 30 and unmarried. (Oh the shame!) “But you are from a different culture!” The sweet 17 year old pregnant one responded. I was struck by her open-mindedness after five years of being asked “When are you getting married?” in Korea.

As we sat down to eat lunch, we were surrounded. The same sweet Black Hmong women turned into aggressive vendors pulling miscellaneous handmade wares out of their bags. It was frustrating, yet heartbreaking at the same time, especially when their children would come out of the woodwork trying to sell what their mothers undoubtedly shoved in their hands, pushing them towards us. It also became quite the bonding experience for everyone on the tour. We traded stories with the South African/Portugese couple, the French couple, and the Brit who was chopstick challenged.

After lunch, we walked first to a school in the village, and then just a few kilometers more to the village where our home-stay was located.

With a few hours of free time, we entertained ourselves by chasing down missing shoes the home-stay dog would steal, and giving some curious children some of our trail mix. They weren’t exactly expecting the “soy wasabi” flavored almonds, but then greedily stole and practically licked the inside of the bag. Later, these same ruffians surrounded us on a rice paddy wall and flung dirt on us until we fled for the safety of our cameras and clothing that we had to wear the next day.

Now, sorry to compare, yet again, but four years ago the home-stay was with a family of three generations. The grandmother sorted seeds, while the mother made dinner, while the two Aussies and myself played with the children. Today’s home-stay experience felt more like a hostel conveniently located in the loft of a barn. We weren’t entirely sure who lived in the home, who was visiting, who was leading tours, but the food was good, even if Michael (the Brit) had an entertainingly difficult time eating with chopsticks. And we all fell into fits of laughter when he made the comment about eating “with sticks” as we took note of the rice scattered around his bowl on the table. The “happy water” a bit too strong for the majority of us, we took turns slinking off to the loft to sleep on dirty (mine was quite smelly) mattresses.

Lesson #3 learned from traveling around the world: Maybe it’s not such a good idea to buy and wear barefoot shoes for the first time when going on a 15K trek. Oh for the love of calf muscles! 

Lesson #4 learned from traveling around the world: Don’t pick the mattress closest to the stairs after a 15K trek. The one in the back, the furthest one away is bound to be less used, therefore, less smelly.