by Peter Knyte
Several of us had heard the drums before at local events, where they were played to tell a tale during some festivity or ceremony or other, often whilst other members of the village enacted the story in dance. These were generally about the size of a tambourine in surface area, and were usually played with two curved drumsticks. The sound from such could reach for quite some distance, well beyond the average Maasai village kraal, perhaps up to quarter of a mile before becoming inaudible amongst the sounds of the day or night. But these drums sounded much further away, none of us had encountered the like before, though all were curious to find out more.
After throwing the subject around for a while and realising we were all as ignorant as the next, we decided to ask the lodge manager if he could find someone to tell us more and possibly conduct us to the Singing Stones for whatever was about to take place.
The following morning shortly after breakfast, the lodge manager returned with a local Maasai guide, who through an interpreter, informed us that it was not an elder or chieftain who was coming but rather a ‘Laibon’ or shaman. He also informed us that the Singing Stones mentioned were a Maasai sacred site only a few days travel across the Serengeti. The exact nature of the ritual we couldn’t decipher even with the interpreter.
As an afterthought I asked the Maasai guide about the drums and why I hadn’t heard them used over such distances before. He looked thoughtful for a while, admitting it was indeed strange, such ceremonies only took place every six or ten years, but even so, the big drums which had been used last night were only normally used for war or other very important things. Anyway we would find out more as we got closer.
That we would be setting off to see this ritual was a forgone conclusion, the temptation of a change of scene was just too great. The local Maasai guide that we’d quizzed about the drums agreed to show us the way, and within no time we were off into the Serengeti.
Getting out into open ground again was exactly what we all needed after being cooped up in and around the lodge for the past four days. I asked Mkize to travel with us, as I still wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to stay with the group, and he was just about able to translate what the Maasai was saying when he did rarely try to communicate with us.
After a couple of days, we’d been progressing well, when we came across a Maasai Enkang or ‘Kraal’ which Nbutu our guide disappeared towards as soon as it came into view. We continued on our way for a short while, passing within several hundred yards of the village as we did so. Just inside the broad thorn fence we could clearly see Nbutu talking to two of the village men. There were several Maasai women also clearly visible and numerous children playing in and around those peculiarly small huts that the Maasai seem to have to bend double to get into or out of.
We pulled up our horses in the shade of some trees at the top of a nearby rise to await Nbutu. He returned nearly an hour later with the two head-men from the village. He conversed with these for a moment and then addressed us via Mkize.
‘I have spoken with the Laibon of this village about the drums that were sent out across the sky. They say they have been waiting for us and that the drums were sent to bring us to the Singing Stones.’
Well that caught us all off guard, the implications of what was being said taking several moments to register, before everyone started asking questions at the same time. Nbutu and the two elders stood before us in that politely aloof manner so characteristic of this tall people, waiting for us to order our questions in a way they could understand. Eventually Mkize just stopped trying to hear what each person was saying and simply turned his gaze toward me. At this the group fell silent allowing me to ask the questions on their behalf.
‘Mkize, could you ask them what they mean. How could they even know about us let alone be waiting for us.’
With the smallest of nods he turned and relayed my question as best he could, and then listened as one of the elders responded.
‘They say the spirits of the mountain have told them.’ came back Mkize’s reply, ‘They have seen you kill the lion with your hands and take the first step on your journey.’
Realising that Mkize had told us the first part of the message, the same elder addressed him again. The upshot of which was that we should ask no further questions, all would become clear at the Singing Stones, where the spirits would talk to us themselves.
With the smallest of nods to Nbutu, which he returned, the two elders then returned to their village.
As I turned back to the others, everybody seemed to be struggling to absorb what had been said, let alone to understand how it could be possible. We all knew the Maasai to be painfully honest and truthful in their dealings, so it was senseless to imagine they might be making the story up. But it was Jean who, regaining his composure, or at least his wit, before the rest of us, broke the silence, and brought us all back to earth.
‘Well it seems we will be saved the arduous task of deciding what it is we are to do with our lives,‘ He said rather sarcastically, ‘as the “Spirits of Africa” seem to already have something in mind.’
As we remounted our horses to head off after Nbutu, who had simply started walking, I could hear all my thoughts played out in snippets of conversation from my friends. ‘How could they have known we would come?’ ‘It had been our decision to seek out the source of the drums, nobody had volunteered or suggested we go.’ Let alone what journey it was they referred to and what they could possibly have meant by the spirits talking to us themselves.
It took another two days to get to the Singing stones, the first unfortunately seeing us almost oblivious to the wonder of our surroundings, as we struggled increasingly with the terrain and severity of our climb. But as we gained altitude it also got a little cooler, and the ground which was parched down on the valley floor, now started to show signs of moisture and life.
The further we went the steeper and more rugged the ground became, until eventually Nbutu indicated it was now time for us to walk, and to leave our horses and camp equipment behind.
It’s amazing how much more you see and feel when you’re on foot. As we walked I think we all became more aware of the land through which we travelled. Not just because of the increased danger, but also because we were closer to the ground and perhaps had to make more of an effort to look around and understand where we were. On several occasions I was stopped in my tracks by one or another of my friends as they paused momentarily for some water or to get their breadth, only to become transfixed by the ever changing vistas and panoramas of the land around us.
It seemed that with every step the views became more spectacular. To either side of us stretched the ragged line of the Eastern rift and the flanking highlands, complimented in the foreground by the undulating plains, bush and grassland that we’d just passed through, all interspersed with the rocky Kopje outcroppings and sparkling lakes or sinuous riverbeds.
Climbing further up we eventually started to work our way through an endless maze of gorges and shallow valleys. First one, then another, gradually increasing in size and depth, until we were snaking our way upward almost entirely blinkered by the canyon walls, only sporadically escaping into the open air and the views beyond. It was tough going at times, but the ground finally started to level off, and we began to see signs we might be approaching our destination. First one of us then another would spot something, an unnatural pile of stones, or an exposed rock face daubed in paint, or etched with a symbol. The more we saw the closer it felt we must be getting, until suddenly as we got to a wider part of the canyon which held the remains of a recent camp fire, Nbutu instructed us to halt.
The light was beginning to fade by now, and I couldn’t help but think we might be better off just pushing on. But apparently it was the dusk that Nbutu was waiting for, and when we asked him about moving on, he told us simply that we were near, and that the final steps could only be walked once the sun had set.
It seemed an odd phrase for the tall Maasai to use, but I was happy to have a
few moments rest and have some water, so decided not to quiz him further. In any event we didn’t have long to wait for sundown, and while we’d only known him for a few days, I found I trusted this taciturn guide of ours not to leave us high and dry with no prospect of shelter or refuge for the night.
A few minutes later as the last remnants of the day disappeared, Nbutu now content for us to proceed raised his spear and, pointing up the side of the gorge where we’d been waiting, instructed us to climb.
I didn’t quite understand why it was now our turn to go first, but it appeared my doubts weren’t shared, as first Marlow and then the others one by one started to scramble up the loose earth and stone that formed the canyon side. It was only a minutes work to make our way up there, but as I came to the top I was nearly sent reeling back down again by the sight that I saw before me.
Hidden entirely from our view below, the ground levelled out to form an open grassy area scattered with smaller rocks, boulders and stunted trees. But while the ground fell away to our right, revealing the twilight landscape of the Rift and surrounding country, to our left, the exposed rock grew out of the earth, higher and higher as it circled that side of the grassy area until it formed a giant overhanging wall of rock in front of us. Immense in its scale, it towered over us at an impossible angle, jutting up into the night sky like a savage tooth.
Adding to this amazing view, and highlighting the jagged fang of rock even more against the night sky was a brightly burning fire, which flickered and leapt beneath the overhang, casting its uneven light across the rocky wall and out into the night.
Eventually having just stood and stared for who knew how long, we somehow started to make our way over to the fire. But as spectacular as the scene was from further away, it became all the more so as we drew closer and started to discern pictures and patterns painted across the surface of the overhang. First one thing then another, subtle shapes, and pictures of animals or hunting scenes drawn around and with the shape of the rock, to lend a depth and texture to the various depictions, and giving them a strange life upon the ‘canvas’ of the rock. More than once I nearly stumbled or tripped as the flickering light made the images seem to jump and move, until I was no longer watching where I was walking.
‘It could almost be a map of this country,’ remarked one of my friends, ‘the places and animals that are found there…’
It was breath taking in its scale and craftsmanship, but as we walked across the open ground toward the overhang I finally managed to bring my attention back to the group of figures around the fire and our purpose in coming here.
We walked over and stopped a few yards in front of the fire, the magnificently painted rock face soaring above our heads. There were a dozen men on the other side of the fire right next to the base of the rock face, faces turned to the fire, waiting without talking. And another three a little closer to us, obviously elders or chieftains of some type, who turned as we drew closer, and then moved a short distance forward to meet us. None of them were talking, and I could clearly hear the crackle and burn of the fire once we stopped and stood before them.
Like all Maasai elders, there was little of ornament or decoration about these three to signify wealth or status, they simply were who they were with little of no pretension, and no need for badges or titles.
They clearly weren’t surprised to see us, and after Nbutu, with much deference, introduced us, they got straight down to business.
The first one to speak to us gave his name as Nelion, was stood in the middle of the three and slightly to the front. He was a little shorter than the others and facially quite different, but it was the scar across his shoulder and upper arm that really singled him out. Like many Maasai he wore a hide cape draped over one shoulder and loosely around the body, thus showing the entire shoulder and arm. It was obviously an old wound that ran across his body like a personal representation of the Great Rift, weathered and rounded, but in places still as angry and jagged as the day it was made.
‘It has been many years since anyone has walked upon the path that now lies beneath your feet,’ he began, waiting for Mkize to relay his words. ‘Longer still since the spirits of this place have welcomed any of your kind to their home, so long have your people been lost, walking with closed eyes… But you have come to this place now and so my brothers and I welcome you.’
I wasn’t quite sure what we were supposed to make of this, let alone how we should respond, and I could see some of my new friends looking at one another questioningly, until Jean who it seemed had a little more experience of such things, responded.
‘On behalf of my friends I thank you for your welcome.’ he said, with perfect diplomacy, ‘Your words are wise, for there is much we do not understand, and more still that we do not know. What is this path or journey of which you speak, and how have we taken the first step upon it?’
It was the turn of Lenana the elder on Nelion’s right to speak this time, stepping forward he raised his spear to point straight at Marlow’s bandaged forearm.
‘We have seen you slay the lion,’ he said simply, and with a look of some sympathy on his face ‘and we have seen you do this with your own hand and by your own will.’
‘We have also seen in your heart that you do this not as the hunter,’ Continued Batian the third elder, who had so far not spoken, ‘or as the hunted. But because you must.’
‘You are not the first amongst your people who have come to know you are lost,’ continued Nelion, after a short pause. ‘Nor are you the first to seek what you have lost in the land and the water and the animals of the earth, only to discover it in none of these things.
‘But still you will continue your search,’ he went on, looking upon each of us in turn now, ‘though the path may destroy you, and separate you forever from the rest of your kind, still you must continue.’
I was both confused and intrigued by what these men were saying. Their words seemed to echo around my mind, just beyond the grasp of my understanding. At the same time their knowledge of Marlow’s confrontation with the lion troubled me. And their talk of how we were seeking something lost, that was also a little too accurate not to be unsettling.
And then the soft heartbeat of the drums began again. So slow and quiet to begin, then quicker and louder, twisting into a suggestion of rhythm, before calming and quietening back to a whisper. They were close this time, with none of the fading we’d heard before. Their soft murmur conjuring to my mind the fond remembrance of a hazy childhood summer and, judging by the wistful expressions that flickered across their faces, the same pulse brought similar thoughts to my friends.
‘It is time,’ said Nelion quietly. ‘the spirits have come and the dreaming begins.’
At these words, several of the men who had been stood at the back, came forward with various bowls and containers, which they held whilst Nelion and the other shaman combined and mixed their contents into a broad serving bowl.
There was no way of knowing what these substances might be, but as the shaman worked, their deeply lined features were thrown into even deeper relief by the flickering firelight. I could see the swirling liquid they created begin to steam and bubble, before finally clearing and turning a translucent white that shone in the darkness.
I couldn’t help but be mesmerised by the process, and when the drums began to swell and grow again, I felt their influence upon my mind like the soft tendrils of steam or smoke that rose from the shaman’s potion. The darkness had surrounded us now, and even as I looked around at my friends and the scene beneath that painted rock face, I felt as though I were somehow becoming intoxicated. My caution and cares seeming to fall away from me, as the drums and the firelight became all that I knew.
I viewed the scene now as though from a distance. Saw Nelion and the other shaman first put the bowl to their own lips and drink of its contents, before holding it out to us. Even now, lulled by the impatient drums, I still felt a sharp pang of fear as the bowl was offered, a momentary realisation of
the situation we were in, and the risks we were taking. And then the drums had me again, and I saw Marlow step forward and take the bowl, hesitating for only a moment, before raising it to his lips and drinking deep of the contents.
He turned and offered it next to Harry, who drank without hesitation, before passing it to me. I saw myself take the bowl, and raise it to my lips, all the while without understanding why I was doing it, and then I drank before passing the bowl on to the next.
The drums were everywhere now, racing up into the sky before whirling and diving back down to the fire, and the figures across the wall leapt and danced with the flickering firelight to their joyous rhythm.
In that moment I was lost, and yet . . . and yet, had lost the will to care.
CHAPTER 3 - THE CHASE
I was thirsty, the air was dry and my heart was thundering in my chest with the effort of keeping my legs moving. The gazelle was wounded and couldn’t run for long, but it was fast as the wind, and we needed to get to it where it dropped before it was claimed by one of the big cats, vulture or hyena.
I was in the wall, spear in hand, bare-foot across its craggy surface, jumping and racing to catch the animal before me. I'd lost track of the others and the fire and soon I didn't even remember the wall, the hunt and the chase was all there was. But then I was no longer sure which way the animal had gone and was just plunging on, lungs burning, legs straining in the hope of coming across it. And then my father was with me, running alongside, as he was when he was young, life, enthusiasm and energy radiating from him.
We ran to the very tip of that rock face, hot and dry, and then plunged headlong into the cold pool of stars, where we swam and floated, splashed and dived amongst a thousand points of light. Eventually, when we could swim no more, we climbed back onto the land and just laughed and talked. Walking and resting, first in Africa, then somehow back in Shropshire and then in other places where I'd never been, with other people I’d never met. The world just seemed to open up before us, the past, present and future like so many pages in a book.
