Maasai Tribesmen For Obama

A Maasai village, in the shadow of Mt. Kilimanjaro in western Kenya, seemed like an unlikely place to find ourselves discussing the upcoming presidential election. On a recent trip to Africa, we were given the opportunity to meet the inhabitants of a Maasai village in Kenya’s Amboseli National Park, and learn about their lifestyle. But after discovering that we were from the United States, everyone in the village wanted to know: were we Democrats and were we voting for Obama?

Their keen interest in our election was an indication of a culture in transition. For hundreds of years, the Maasai have been semi-nomadic tribes, relying on livestock and shelters built from sticks and mud, relatively isolated from the influence of the western world. They are fiercely proud of their traditional lifestyle, but are also aware of the benefits that tourist dollars can bring, from freshwater wells to schools and bathrooms. With global warming, as evidenced by the disappearing snow on Kilimanjaro, access to water is more vital than ever, and the education of Maasai children is preparing them for the modern world, allowing them to gain employment outside the village while providing funds to help improve the villagers’ lives yet still preserve their traditions. Tourism has thus become an essential part of Maasai life, and they go to great lengths to share their way of life and make their guests feel welcome.

Our safari guide, Divan, had arranged for our visit after collecting $30 per person (allowing us to take as many photos as we wanted) and we were met by a delegation of colorfully-dressed men and women. A row of women in bright sarongs and festive ornamental beadwork sang a traditional welcoming song with sweet call-and-response harmonies. The men engaged in the adumu, or “jumping dance.” They invited me to jump with them, pretending not to notice that I attained relatively modest heights. We were introduced to our host, Wilson…a tall, articulate man who was soon to succeed his 92-year-old father as Chief. Soon we were escorted through a gap in the vast circular fence of thorn acacia that protects the village and its livestock from predators.

Several dozen podlike huts were arranged on the perimeter of the village, while the dusty center was mostly reserved for the livestock at night. During the day, small groups of men played mancala, a counting game with beads or stones. A medicine man’s apprentice explained the role of various herbs, including one said to boost virility and another designed to suppress the growth of a fetus late in pregnancy (to reduce the likelihood of complications in childbirth) that seems to have had no ill effects on the tall populace. Another villager lit a small fire without matches, using a method nearly identical to that of Native Americans.

Things got really interesting when Wilson invited us into his living quarters. After stooping to enter through a small door, we found ourselves in near total darkness. Only a couple of small openings near the ceiling let in any light, and it took a minute for our eyes to adjust. In the single room were only a few stones on the floor that formed a cooking area, and several platforms of cowhide stretched over a framework of sticks against the wall that served as beds. Wilson, his regal form silhouetted against the darkness, talked about the traditional Maasai diet of meat, milk and blood (supplemented more recently with grains, fruit and vegetables) and the polygamous family structure (the wives don’t mind as it allows them to share household duties). Emerging from his hut, I couldn’t help but notice other huts with padlocks on the door…a sign that modern life and its trappings was making inroads against the traditional no-frills lifestyle on display in Wilson’s hut.

A display of native crafts turned out to be more of an opportunity to purchase them than anything else, and the earnest friendliness of the villagers made it hard to refrain. Wilson, for his part, tried to insure that we bought something from each of his many wives, lest any of them feel left out. “Look! I made this myself!” they would exclaim as we examined a carved zebra or elephant, hoping we weren’t aware that they had no woodcarving tools or tradition. The beadwork was another story, as intricate wedding necklaces fashioned from thousands of primary-colored beads adorned many of the exhibitors as testament to their well-developed skill. All told, there were dozens of women with blankets strewn with bracelets, carved animals and beaded baskets. In the end, we wound up with a fairly sizable collection of souvenirs as Wilson proudly pointed out a new schoolhouse a few hundred yards outside the village and described the new well that saved a six-mile trip to the previous watering hole. Despite the knowledge that some of our items may have come from an export shop in Nairobi, it felt as though our contribution to the Maasai economy was being well spent.

As Wilson bade us farewell, we were reminded to vote for Obama, the son of a Kenyan, who enjoys the near-unanimous support of not only the Maasai, but the entire country. I assured him that we would, although it made me wonder whether they would have treated us any differently had we voiced a preference for McCain. As long as we were willing to buy something from each of Wilson’s wives, probably not.