peregriNation: nascency?

He stood perfectly still for a moment.
“A child has died,” said the Maasai Warrior facing me in the courtyard at WEECE. He appeared saddened yet anxious.
Mama Mrema asked, “Do you want to bury the child?”
It seemed a strange question. The other Warrior spoke hesitantly,
“We have discussed it, and the tribal ancestors have decided. Yes, we will bury the child. We have brought money for a… a…”
“Coffin.”
“Yes, for a coffin.”
Mama called to Monica, one of the older students at the school.
“Please take this money to town and bargain a good price for a small coffin. If these men go for themselves, the shopkeeper will charge them three times the price because they are Maasai.”
“Yes, Mama.”
It wasn’t until later that I came to understand the significance of the moment I had witnessed.

The Maasai Tribe is set apart from the rest of African society. They are nomadic and wander from place to place, with their own traditions, speaking their own language. They have migrated over the years from the north, down into Kenya and Tanzania. They are the only tribe that still holds onto its traditional ways of life. Other African tribes have acclimated and become more developed. Those tribes don’t understand or know the Maasai, and because the Maasai don’t settle down, they don’t have any interest in getting to know them. Add to that, the Maasai belief that all cattle on the earth were given to them by God, and have consequently spent years roaming the planes taking any farmer’s cattle they run across, has not been a good relationship-building tactic.

The Maasai subsist on the blood and milk from their cattle, and only for special occasions will they kill a goat and eat the meat. Another custom is, that a man will never eat food in front of a woman. After the graduation ceremony at WEECE where the Maasai performed, we were all fed a huge meal. The women ate every different kind of food they were given, most likely for the first time ever. I’m sure the men did as well, but I didn’t see it because they took their plates and went around the corner of the building to be out of the sight of their women. I was sad to think they never experienced the fellowship and tenderness of sharing a meal together.

The day the men had come into the courtyard for the coffin, was an altering moment for this tribe. In the past, when one of the Maasai died, the family would coat the body in butter and leave it for the animals. Then they would immediately move the entire tribe to a different location, and starting over, build new huts. Mama Mrema talked with them about burying their dead. She said that if they buried their loved ones on the edge of their village, they would not have to move the tribe. Also, the family could visit the grave as a place to mourn the loss, or feel close to the one they held so dear. The fact that this tribe decided to bury the child showed a desire for permanence, and a willingness to consider a new way of life. But what is the fine line between bringing a people group into the modern world for a better quality of life, and losing their culture, identity and possibly unity in the process? To me this seems to be a very gray area. Can you have one without the other? Can you help change customs that are harmful, without losing the remarkable things that make them unique? I wish I had the answer.

Several weeks later we rode past the sugar plantation again, to see the Maasai. This time, when they met us in the middle of the dusty road, they took us in the opposite direction. We walked with them for a while until we came across a small building in the middle of the vast plane. They led us up onto a small porch, where they had carried the same table and benches as before, the table covered with a kanga. They were not allowed inside the building because they are Maasai, but they were able to borrow the porch so we would have shade from the piercing sun. We brought with us, the first VICOBA bank for a Maasai tribe.

The first order of business was to teach the women how to lock, unlock and use the bank. The men looked on curiously. Next was the election of officers, the “President”, the “Key Keepers”, and “The Witness”. The “Recorder”, who would be in charge of documenting the transactions, had to be able to read, write, and calculate numbers. This became an issue for a few anxious moments, as very few Maasai women are able. They searched among the tribe, and with apprehension they settled on a young woman, a girl really, who proudly accepted the job. Finally, the moment came to officially open the bank. Each woman was to bring forward 5,000 Tshillings as their contribution, which is about three American dollars. Each person was recorded and given a number. One elderly woman had only 4,000 Tshillings in her hand. There was much discussion, because she had no more, and could not join the bank with only 4,000. They spoke amongst themselves in Maasai, while the woman looked on crestfallen. Suddenly, from within the crowd of them, 1,000 Tshillings appeared, and they burst onto applause, the woman bowing repeatedly in thankfulness. Between now and the next meeting, seed money would be added to the bank from WEECE, and decisions made as to how many loans could be given initially. Their job was to decide what their businesses would be and how best to use the money.

Next came the choir. The men joined the women on the porch. Elections were held and a man was voted to be the head of the choir. (As suggested by Mama Mrema earlier, in order to keep the peace.) There was talk about goals, and dreams of performing at weddings, seminars, and special occasions. The main objectives were twofold as far as Mama Mrema was concerned; to raise money for the tribe, and to earn a newfound respect from the other Africans, which would help the Maasai assimilate. Mama delivered the news that she did not have the money to hire a director, publicize the choir, and get started. She said the start-up money would first have to be raised. They were so excited that they asked,
“Can you have it by next week then? We want to begin right away!”
We glanced at each other with concern, knowing it was going to take a while to find donors.
“We don’t know how long it may take. In the mean time, keep singing.”
After the business of the meeting was completed, they gave us a concert. Their beautiful harmonic voices brought tears to our eyes, as we thought about these vagrant people being given such a special talent. At the end we gave them donations of Tshillings as we applauded, and they gratefully accepted their first performance money.

We rose to leave, as we had been there for many hours by then, and they said,
“No, no we have a meal for you. Please sit around the table.”
They left, and scurried behind the building. We gathered around the small table, quietly waiting and wondering. A young woman brought us plates and spoons. I do not know from where they got them. Another brought a pitcher and basin, pouring water over our hands to wash them. A third brought two small pots and sat them in the middle of the table. They left us to eat by ourselves. We sat in silence for a very long time staring at the pots, our hands in our laps. Each of us had the same questions, and the same thoughts in our minds.
Finally I spoke, “Mama, have you ever eaten when you've been with them before?”
She shook her head, no.
“Do you know what is in these pots?”
She shook her head no, again. I had never been with Mama when she was quiet, and it made us all the more afraid they might be full of blood and milk, which would be mixed together for us to drink. One more glance around the table, and I took the lids off the pots. In the first, were stewed potatoes they had grown, and in the second pot was the most delicious, roasted goat.