Masai Mara, Kenya.

I have just spent the past three days on safari in Masai Mara, Kenya. Legendary rumours preceded my visit, but in all honesty, I really didn’t know what to expect. I now feel firsthand experience is necessary in order to grasp the vastness of the park. A roaming splendor. Nature at large. Raw.

The land is scorched. An open grassland of dry burnt yellow. Yet as we reach the top of a ridge the view changes dramatically. A recent fire has ripped through the open grass plain, charring dead grass down to the bare soil. The driving line where the fire consumed and where it ceased is the worn tracks made from the safari vans. Interestingly the fire’s damage is limited, in fact, its impact is quite rejuvenating. The fire, in combination with afternoon showers and the glaring African sun have fertilized the land. Mother Nature has wielded her wand with brush strokes of lush green. As a result, it seems the entire herbivore kingdom is grazing on the fresh green shoots.

Buffalo stand idle under the lonely shade of a single tree in an otherwise open land.

Our van holds its course on the washboard dirt track. My body shakes to the rhythmic beat; they call it the ‘African Massage.’ I am standing up. The van’s roof popped open like a canopy. I spot a hyena before it spots us. It is sleeping in a modest puddle at the road’s edge. Apparently, they lay in the water to aid digestion. Our van roars by and spooks the hyena awake. He jumps to all fours in a quick, but pissed-off lethargy. Agitated, he slinks away, peering back at his puddle and our fading silhouette.

A male zebra earns his stripes. He is mounted motionless on one of the herd’s females.

Bones scattered like littered limbs strewn after a gusty storm. Sun bleached and powder dry lay pieces of vertebrae. The legs free from their hips pivot. It reeks of rot and decomposing carcass. Despite it being the supposed rainy season, the cattle likely passed hungry and parched due to the current drought in western Kenya. Discarded and left to decay. Some old and weathered, their skin pulled taut like leather over bone. Others are fresh, but skinned of their hides. The Maasai have spotted value in utility. Meat left to dry in the daytime sun.

A herd of elephants are in the distance. Twenty lumbering beasts, like grazing shadows, on the horizon. We approach, but it takes time to get near while following the tracked path. The elephants are feeding. Trunks tearing grass and stuffing their mouths. It’s methodical. The young stay close to their mothers. The males proud and sporting ivory trophies. Once a bounty to colonial hunts and poachers, but now just the symbol of a stud. They pass by incredibly close as if to size us up and I am reminded of an emotive picture of an elephant’s eye, one which harbored depth and appeared to be crying. There are no tears today, yet I am still struck by their peering eyes and feel an inherent intelligence and wisdom. Or, perhaps it’s just a mirage cast by the surrounding wrinkles. Calm and deliberate, the herd moves on.

With the elephants just yards behind us, the van gets serenaded by monkeys. They run along side of us and congregate as we roll to a stop. I cannot help but feel the captive beast. One primate watching another. Babies grasp the front side of their mothers like a knapsack worn in reverse. At first glance only the tiny purple clasp of an infant’s hand is visible. Gripping thumbs locked on each side of the mother’s hair. A male sits atop a hill – a dirt mound. He rests. His bare ass his seat. His cock standing proud. Excited. He hangs with his wang out on display. An invite to his ladies. His turf. His crew. “Carry on now,” I can imagine him thinking, “nothing to see here.”

Giraffes stand idle like statues. Lanky. Knobby knees. Odd horns. Both dark and lighter species intermingle. A bird of striking indigo is perched on the back of one giraffe. The monkeys shuffle on all fours in the foreground, while buffalos roam the backdrop. One giraffe careens his neck, spots us and dashes off in an awkward, yet surprisingly quick, trot. 

Two cheetahs stroll the open grassland. Their cheeks patched with fresh blood. Whiskers glisten a sticky red. Recent predators. Prey captured and eaten. Now they search for shade. Shoulder blades rise and fall with each stride. Once in the shade they settle side by each. Bloody cheek to bloody cheek. Tails both stretched behind them, curling to the right and just touching the shadows cool edge. They are mates – or so it seems. They take turns licking and cooing one another’s face. They are cleaning, while very clearly showing affection. Carnivores.

The land is calm. Eerily calm. The sun still scorches, but the zebras and antelopes are still. A large female antelope stands erect, gaze focused on a small shaded rock crop one hundred yards away. She stares, as her calf becomes prey to a lion. It is feeding time for the lions. The land remains calm as if participating in collective mourning. The only sounds to interrupt are the cracking bones of the antelope under siege by the lion’s jaw. It is fierce. Raw. Nature. His paws, giant mitts, hold down his prey. His shoulders and entire back flex as he tears a limb. The antelope is well dead, open and wounded. The lion pauses. Sniffs. Licks the corpse. His face is marooned with blood. A younger lion waits his turn in the shade. A herd of three elephants pass in the background. The lion is unyielding. Giant canines crush through the shoulder: skin, muscle, ligaments and bone. Unfettered.

Midday is approaching. The sun is high, full and bright. The day is hot. African hot. The hippos are lounging in a shallow river. Deep enough to cover their hulking masses. Herbivores. Territorial. Aggressive. No natural predators. The hippos share this river with crocodiles. Crocs that are only respectful to the hippos. An armed guard is our guide as we walk the riverbank, which only a month prior was the locale of the infamous wildebeest migration. My imagination is running wild. Initially, the only movements in the river come from the awkward flapping of the hippos’ disproportionately tiny ears. The silence is broken by an enormous roaring eruption of inter-herd fighting. Water appears to boil. Giant gaping mouths lunge. The crocs never flinch. Still. Laying half submerged at the shore’s edge. Scales mock the bark of a fallen tree. A predator patient with hunger.

It is now late afternoon. Sunday. We are leaving the park for the day. Signs of human civilization litter the dusty roadside. Plastic bags. Refuse of all sorts strewn in the ditches. Not much, but stark and evident against the wide open space. Once again the stench of rotting carcass fills the van. Three dogs sleep within a twenty-foot radius of four dried and flattened cows. A truck is parked by the river’s edge. A large black container of industrial plastic sits on the flatbed. A hose runs into the pooled water – a brownish puddle with little current – and sucks from the shallow depths. One man stands in the stream, holding the hose below the surface. His pants rolled up to the knee.

Approaching the Maasai village we pass a cluster of buildings, both of corrugated steel and mud caked walls. We are greeted, warm and welcome. Men of long slender bodies are draped in robes of rich red. Colourful beads draped around their wrists and neck. Ear lobes hang in stretched loops. We are asked to pay 1000 shillings ($10) to enter the village. It is authentic, but looking to capitalize. I comply and enter.

I witness a welcome song, tribal dance and gaming jumps. Two old men with weathered faces, lingering gray whiskers and cloudy eyes of early cataracts file the hardened olive tree wood. They are crafting ‘Skull Crushers,’ a native weapon of 2’ shaft with a heavy and rock hard bulb ending. They use it to finish their lion kills. At age fifteen, the Maasai are required to kill a lion and bring back it’s four canine incisors as trophied proof. A right of passage.  The men each wear one around their necks in boastful affirmation.

Kids run. All smiles. Some snotty nosed. One pushes an old plastic water jug across the dirt and manure covered ground. He has attached a makeshift sail from discarded plastic. He makes the sound of a motorboat racing across the open ocean. He has never left his village. Never seen an ocean, or lake. Never seen a boat. Yet still, he races across the pitch. A captain in charge.

I witness the Maasai start a fire by spinning soft cedar on hard olive wood until the cedar smokes in charred embers, which are then smothered in dry grass. They blow the smoke billows thick until flames engulf the grass. Boy scout myths proven effective.

I am blinded when I enter the mud and manure hut. It is bright outside, but pitch black within. There is only one small window above the stove – a pile of smoking sticks. Its takes a few full minutes before I can make out the interior. Fifteen by twenty feet and home to three generations. The grandmother, mother, father, four children, one cow and one goat. Cramped quarters.

The Maasai diet involves milk, blood, grains and animal meats. Each morning they tap the neck of a cow and draw blood to drink. Just enough to consume and have the cow live for another day. Once it falls for good they will slaughter it for meat, skin the hide, desiccate the tendons. The bones will be scattered and left to dry in the African sun.