Somewhere along the road, it was riding out of Nairobi and into the Masai Steppe; I got the feeling that I wasn’t seeing Africa. All I was seeing, I thought, was the asphalt and gravel roads ahead of me. But I was wrong. All I had to do was shift my gaze slightly to the roadside, where a seemingly never-ending parade of striking people, colorful markets, fields, and forests filled my vision.
The first image that sticks in my mind is of children climbing trees to watch and shouting out as we pass. What a picture that would have made.
Memory also reminds me of two Masai women wrapped in their traditional dress sitting along the road on a large flat gray rock. The early morning sun highlighted the women’s red plaid Shukas against the sparkling rock and glared off their shiny shaved heads. Massive amounts of beadwork of every imaginable color were draped around their necks and dangled from their wrists and ears. As I sped past, I bemoaned that I hadn’t stopped and asked permission to take their photos. But as good as the pictures may have been, my only consolation is that the image I have in my mind of these two Masai women will always be perfect.
The same can be said of the new mother with her baby strapped to her bosom with a bright blue wrap that was also draped over their heads. I spotted her just seconds after the red-clad Masai. As she walked on the bank above the road, the wind filled the fabric forming a vibrant multihued canopy allowing only soft gentile beams to highlight their young faces. Again perfect, a more perfect memory than any photo might record. My only consolation.
And then, only a few minutes down the road was the watering hole. The generally flat terrain had turned into low rolling hills, nestled in amongst them was a watering hole surrounded by cattle and goats of every description. Young Masai boys shepherded the livestock and mostly stayed out of the water while their herds exhibited no such inhibitions. But the real picture in the scene were two tall, slender, beautifully robed, and beaded Masai women walking ramrod straight along a small berm, each balancing a plastic 5-gallon pail of water on their heads. Once more, I have to console myself that my memory of the scene far surpasses anything my iPhone would have captured.
Women seemingly can carry anything on their heads and, more often than not, do not use their hands. I’ve seen women balancing 20-foot tree branches on their heads. Another memory is of mothers with young daughters in training, walking stiffly upright alongside the road with bundles atop their heads. Men, on the other hand, only very rarely employ this technique.
This all reminds me of a story from our family lore. It stems from the days of big family gatherings when aunts, uncles, and cousins shared the table, usually on Sundays or holidays. One of my older brothers had a new girlfriend at this particular time. When the fact became general knowledge at the dinner table, he had to endure the usual barrage of teasing and questioning. Who was she? How old? What’s she like? Is she good looking?
My grandpa, a pragmatic old Iowa farmer who lived to see his beloved team of white horses become obsolete, rarely spoke up on these occasions. But fearing he too may soon become antiquated, cleared his throat for attention and asked, “That’s all well and good, but can she carry a five-gallon bucket of water”?
Sure . . . but on her head?
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