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Outside Magazine March 2002

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Across the Great Rift
Beyond Kenya's endless plains lie the mythic Loita Hills, home to one of East Africa's last great swaths of wilderness. To a young Masai who gave up his birthright for the hustle and blare of Nairobi, a journey to the pure heart of Masailand offers a vision of what he left behind—and a glimpse of his people's fearful future.

By Rob Buchanan


	Mike Saitoti Ole Tiampati, second from left, with a band of Loita Hills Masai

It was late afternoon by the time we got out of the forest. The lush meadows at the bottom of Kenya's Orng'Arua Valley were awash in yellow light. Liz put the Pajero in low to ford a small river; once past it, we followed an old jeep track that snaked through the flats toward higher ground. We were halfway across before we noticed the water glinting between the tussocks. "Keep it rolling," I yelled, but too late. The four-wheeler lurched forward, shuddered, and then, wheels spinning, settled slowly into the muck.

I swore, Liz banged the steering wheel, and the two Masai in the backseat, Mokope and Lulunken, softly cluckedtheir tongues in dismay. Mike alone seemed unperturbed, merely raising his eyebrows.

"Ah," his expression seemed to say. "An adventure!"

The five of us stepped gingerly onto the spongy grass. It was nearly dusk. We had no winch, and our one shovel was three miles away in camp, leaning against a tree. The prospect of a foodless, blanketless night out here was distinctly unappealing. Then again, so was the idea of walking home. That morning, a few miles downvalley, seven lions had attacked a herd of cattle just outside a Masai homestead. They'd only killed one young bull before a group of moran—young, toga-clad warriors—chased them off, but it seemed reasonable to assume they were still prowling the area, and still hungry.

Lulunken cinched a red plaid shawl around his shoulders and bent down to peer beneath the vehicle. Mokope squatted next to him, pointing with his orinka—a lethal-looking billy club carved from an olive branch. From their sober tone I gathered they were devising some sensible plan of action. Mike listened for a moment, then began sputtering with laughter.

"What's so funny?" Liz asked.

"They are saying, 'It's strange—the stomach has been caught by the ground.' "

Liz rolled her eyes, and Mike laughed. "It's something that always amazes me about the Masai," he said. "They know their animals so well. If something goes wrong with a cow or a sheep, they can fix it. But when it comes to cars, they are useless."

Coming from someone else—a white Kenyan, say—the observation might have sounded condescending, or worse. Mike could get away with it because he was a Masai himself. True, he'd lived in Nairobi half his life and grown comfortable with the ways of the world. Now, perhaps, he was just another cool Kenyan in jeans and a Tusker beer polo shirt, a city slicker having fun at the expense of his country cousins. But behind the laughter there was something else: a kind of pride, or even a subversive delight, in his tribe's reluctance to embrace the modern world.

"Guys, it's getting dark," Liz said. "Do either of you have any thoughts on what we ought to do?"

We didn't, really, but Mokope and Lulunken did. Tossing their heads in the direction of camp, they shouldered Liz's camera gear and began picking their way out of the bog.

Mike grinned. "I think we had better start walking," he said.

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