Africa

Daring daughter forwarded this to me. It was written by one of the leaders of her African expedition. That was last fall.

Adopted by the Maasai

A bumpy dirt road led us away from the two-lane highway. We were in northern Tanzania in the lands of the Maasai and bomas, clusters of earthen homes, protected by circular fences of vicious thorn bushes, flanked the road.

After a few dusty miles, we arrived at the boma of our host, Mzee, and our home for the next two weeks. The night we arrived, Mzee’s wife had a baby. I had seen her earlier that evening, tending to the herds. She was thin and severe, with a small pregnant belly. I never would have expected that later that night, with the help of local women, she would give birth to a perfect baby girl.

Starting at around 6 years old, young boys become responsible for tending to the herds while they graze

The boma at sunset

During my time in East Africa I had learned a few things about interacting with people. For one, when you’re speaking in the lingua franca of Swahili, people appreciate being called by their title, instead of or in addition to their name. It is a sign of respect and familiarity. As a young woman, I would call other young women Dada (sister), men my own age or younger Kaka (brother), older women Mama and older men that I wanted to establish a friendly repartee with, Baba (father). Mzee, how we referred to our host, literally means “respected elder.” I also learned that when you meet an elder you should say, “Shikamoo” to show them proper respect.

The next morning an elderly woman was standing with Mzee. Beautifully adorned with the beadwork and earrings that all Maasai wear, she had fiery eyes that made me like her immediately. I greeted her as respectfully as I knew how, saying, “Shikamoo, Mama.” She smiled at me broadly, and we attempted a few difficult exchanges, using a mixture of the meager Kiswahili I was learning, gestures, and her rapid fire Kimaasai. Mzee helped with the translation. She was Mzee’s mother. Apparently, she took a liking to me as well and decided that I should come and hold the newborn baby. I began to call her Yeyo, which I was told means “grandmother”. Yeyo brought me to the small house on the other side of the boma, smiled and gestured me inside.

The modest room, walled with earth, was dim, light softly filtering in through a small window. A cooking fire with three hearthstones burned in the middle of the cramped space. I carefully moved between the fire and two beds made of stretched hide to where Yeyo pointed for me to sit down, pantomiming holding a baby. As I sat down I saw Mzee’s wife lounging in the shadows on that same hide bed. She smiled, pulled a perfect baby girl from her breast and handed her over to me, a complete stranger whose name she didn’t even know.

Mzee's daughter two days after she was born

Every day, Yeyo would approach me, signal that it was time for me to hold the baby and wait for me to drop whatever I was doing.
I would wash my hands and follow her to the little wattle and daub house into the darkness.
I still don’t understand why she came to me that way each day, but I do know that it was an honor.

Yeyo (right) and her granddaughter (left) hold gourds that are traditionally used by the Maasai to carry food while tending to the grazing herds

One afternoon I was walking with Yeyo. Through our comedic combination of hand-signals and broken Kiswahili, she said, “That house right there. You can live there. You can come and work as Mwalimu (teacher) at the school. I will find you a good man, dress you in pretty clothes and jewelry, and cut off all you hair.” She had accepted me. I could stay. But I couldn’t.

Britt standing with Maasai women in the boma after Yeyo decided to dress her up as a Maasai mama

I romanticized the traditional life of the Maasai, with the simple rhythms of daily life, the rich sense of community, and the freedom from the chaotic pace and demands of life back home, but I had to realize that I could never really be at home here.

I knew Yeyo didn’t really understand. Often, when we travel and immerse ourselves in the lives of other cultures, the people welcome us warmly, though they usually don’t quite understand why we came, and much less, why we leave.

The women from nearby bomas gather to dance to celebrate the birth of the new baby

I thanked Yeyo profusely and tried my best to explain that I couldn’t stay.
She said, “Okay, when the baby is this high, maybe you come live here then.” She unwound a copper bracelet from her wrist and, tang my hand, wrapped it around mine. I haven’t taken it off since. It stays as a reminder of the choices we have, the different realities we all live in, and Mzee’s little daughter, right now strapped to her mother’s back, as she is calling in the herd.

Enjoy the day!

Britt

Connecting the world and empowering people through image, story, and whole-systems thinking.

Britt Basel is a photographer and travel writer focusing on cultural and environmental sustainability. She leads expeditions and teaches photography for National Geographic Student Expeditions and leads university semesters abroad for Carpe Diem International Education. She privately mentors photographers wanting to learn how to better express a story through image and consults with a variety of entrepreneurial and humanitarian projects, both domestically and internationally, on whole-systems strategy.

Update February 2017 replaced missing pictures.