by Fiona Quinn
Ahbou untied the sack and opened the flap. It was full of wires and lights. She saw several solar panels on spikes, like the ones lining American sidewalks.
“This looks like an interesting project. Want to tell me about it?”
“A lion killed a Maasai cow last night.” Ahbou was very serious. “The rangers have already gone to the village and talked to the warriors about it. They are supposed to file a claim and be paid. But the warriors are very upset that the lion came so close to the boma. There are babies there. Little children.”
“Will the warriors help the scientists tag the lion and move it to the Serengeti?”
“They are discussing this now. There are some warriors who wish to kill the lion so they can become men, as is the tradition. And there are others who are afraid that they will no longer be allowed to graze their animals in the crater if they kill the lion.”
“I see.” Meg tapped the bag. “You think you might have a way to help them?”
“Yes, Miss Doctor Meg. You see, I grew up hating lions. They killed our livestock. When the warriors were gone doing their training and their rituals, it was my job in my family to sit outside at night and watch for lions. It was very hard for me to stay awake the next day at school.”
“I can imagine that was true and school is very important.”
“Very important. I tried to solve this problem.” He tapped the side of his head. “First, I tried fire. But that only helped the lions see better in the night. Then, I tried to trick the lions. I made scarecrows.”
“What gave you that idea?”
“I read a story in a picture book. An African boy had learned a way to keep the birds from eating the family garden by using a blow-up plastic snake in their vegetables. Three and four times each day he would move the snake to make the birds believe it was real. That was my mistake with the scarecrows. The first day, the lions came, they saw my scarecrow, and they left. I was very happy. But the second day they came, they realized the scarecrows did not move and the lions killed one of our cows. We were a poor family. We did not have many cows to begin with. This was a great loss. I am not yet old enough to be a warrior, but I was responsible for my mother and my sisters.”
Meg looked at the boy, she’d guess he was nine maybe ten years old. That was a lot of responsibility for a child. Though knowing there was an uncle involved was some comfort.
“I kept looking for a means to keep the lions away so I could go to sleep at night and go to school by day. One day, I talked about it with Billy—he was in our village from Canada doing volunteer work at my school. We did an Internet search and found a boy like me who lived in Kenya. A Maasai boy. He discovered that lions do not like blinking lights. Billy sent a message on Facebook to his friends and family asking them to help us to save the lions and the cows. The friends sent solar garden lights for power and blinking Christmas tree lights.”
“And that did the trick?” Meg asked.
“Yes. The lions didn’t bother my family’s cows anymore. And I could go to bed at night. I changed the lights a little to slow down the blinking and to make the bulbs farther apart, one from the other. But they work very well. That is what is in my pack. I wish to give this as a gift to the family who lost their cow and ask them to please not hunt the lion. It must be a very young, very hungry lion to come near the boma that way.”
“You know a lot about lions, it seems.”
“I read as much as I could about them so that I could go to sleep.”
Meg sent him a sympathetic smile. “Do you need to stay the night with the Maasai to show them how this works? Or are you staying the night so you aren’t walking alone after dusk?”
“To not walk alone.”
“We’re planning to be with the Maasai for about an hour or so this morning. Would that give you enough time to set this up and teach them what they need to know? You can come with us for the safari, then we can bring you back to your uncle at the end of the day. We’ll be eating dinner here around seven.”
Ahbou nodded his head energetically. “Yes, that would please me, thank you.”
Meg watched Ahbou’s eyes grow round and from the sudden shade that crossed her face, she knew Rooster had meandered over.
“Ahbou, this is my friend Rooster.”
“Rooster, sir?” He lifted his hand to cover his broad smile. “Rooster?” He looked at Meg and stuck his hands into his armpits, flapping his elbows.
“Pretty funny, huh?” Meg asked and patted his leg. “Come and get something to eat before we go.”
“Oh no, Miss Doctor Meg. The food is for the guests.”
“And today, you are my guest. Come on, let’s get you a plate fixed up.”
Rooster put his hand on her back as they moved toward the table.
“You checking to see if I ditched the vest?” She looked over her shoulder to catch his eyes. “We haven’t gotten our room assignments yet. Where would I stash it?”
“So far so good?”
“Yes, so far I’d say it’s mostly forgettable. The weight over the day may be a bit of an issue. I wish I were wearing a bra with some padding, it chafes a bit. You might want to offer that suggestion to your damsels in distress.”
“If they were in distress, I wouldn’t be doing a very good job. I’m supposed to help them avoid any issues beyond maybe a broken nail.”
“Seriously? That’s the kind of women you secure?”
“I’d say it’s a seventy-thirty mix. Seventy percent of the women are business executives who need to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Bullet free.”
Rooster nodded. “But we still have the thirty percent of our female clients who just need someone to carry their packages when they go shopping.”
“And who says you don’t lead a glamorous life?”
“Not me. Can you tell me the plan for the day? Nice t-shirt, by the way.”
Meg looked down at her gray t-shirt with a picture of a test tube. An arrow pointed toward the green liquid and the line read, “If you’re not part of the solution…” Another arrow pointing at the dark solids gathering in the bottom and continued, “You’re part of the precipitate.” She gave a little chuckle. “I love geeky t-shirts. My kind of humor.” She tilted her head back so she could look Rooster in the eye. “First thing, we’ll meet with the Maasai elders to listen to some of their concerns this morning. We won’t be offering them any solutions. We just want to know what’s happening right now in their community. The rains weren’t nearly as heavy this year as they should have been. I want to know how this is affecting the pasturing of their herds. About how much competition there will be between their herds and the wild animals for grazing. Ahbou is the one who is bringing a solution. I’m incredibly impressed.”
Ahbou, hearing his name, turned to look at her.
“Before I leave today, I want to make sure you have my e-mail. I want to stay in touch with you.”
“Thank you,” he said, plate in hand as the server plunked a spoonful of baked beans next to his eggs.
Meg focused back on Rooster. “After that, we’ll head out farther into the crater to see the animals. It’s a beautiful day for it.” Meg’s eye fell on a middle-aged man with a yarmulke approaching the group. “That must be Abraham Silverman. He flew right into Kilimanjaro. I should introduce myself to him.”
“Can I ask you something first?” Rooster said, running his hand down her arm.
Her skin under his fingers warmed to his touch. “Is this about Randy?” she asked.
“Just a general question. We try to keep a thumb on the pulse of things. You’ve been here in Eastern Africa for a while, you’ve talked to the people. Do you feel safe here?”
Meg drew a long breath through her nostrils. “That’s a relative term. I feel safe enough. How’s that?”
“There was a recent acid attack on a pair of British teenagers in Zanzibar.”
“Yes. The government is going after the men who did that, tooth and n
ail. The girls were in the old customs house back in Stone Town, just up from our hotel. I read in the paper just this morning that they’ve detained five men and the Zanzibari police are interrogating them.”
“Did the paper say what they thought happened?”
“It’s very likely they’re low-level Al-Qaeda operatives. You know, there was a time well before 9/11 when Osama Bin Laden was very well received on the island. The Zanzibari boats, the dhows, even had his picture on their sails. Al-Qaeda doesn’t want Western tourism to grow in Zanzibar. But that is counter to everything the Tanzanian government is working toward for its people.”
“And the radicals are making their distaste for westerners known?”
“Well, we are Satan’s spawn, right? Beyond Al-Qaeda, there are traditionalists who are concerned with progress. ‘Cultural infestation’ is the best translation for the term they’re using. They’re scared because languages are dying out, cultures are dying out. Different tribes are growing too small to continue, so they’re merging with other tribes and adapting their languages. It’s very fluid right now. There are anthropologists and linguists who are scrambling to document everything before these groups are lost. We’re talking a generation, maybe two, until they’re gone. The speed of loss is too much for a lot of people. That’s one of the keys we hope to develop with our project. A way to protect cultural diversity while also helping with national and international assimilation.”
They moved toward the food table and Rooster handed her one of the white china plates and a napkin rolled around a fork. She sensed something under Rooster’s questions that she couldn’t put her finger on. Was he worried about her safety in the area?
“How would you describe the atmosphere you’ll be working in?” he asked.
Meg smiled and nodded toward the bowls of fruit and the server put one on her plate. Rooster was after something. She wished he’d just flat-out ask what he wanted instead of the pussy-footing around. “Things are churning for sure. It’s like being at the confluence of two rivers—modern and traditional. They both have to exist in the same space, but that doesn’t mean they flow together smoothly. Yes, please,” she said to the eggs. “All the water has to share the same channel. There’s only so much space. There are obstacles that we can’t see easily. It makes things roil.”
“And where are you in that picture?”
“One sausage, thank you.” She glanced sideways at Rooster before stepping down the line. “I choose to be on the rock in the center, looking up and down the scene, trying to figure out how to keep things moving along, avoiding the treacherous whitewater, to continue the analogy.”
“Three, please,” Rooster said to the muffins. “Some people like whitewater. They think it’s adventurous.”
Meg got the impression she was getting a warning of some kind. “It’s all fun and games until you hit a whirlpool.” She picked up a champagne glass filled with juice.
“Meaning?”
“Whitewater can be deadly.”
Chapter Thirteen
Meg
The Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania
There were twenty-six in all. Twenty-one tourists. Eighteen of them were scientists. Randy, Rooster, and Ahbou were along for the ride, and five of their group were the hired interpreters required by the government to go out with tourists to keep them safe. That was the official line, but really it was to keep the visitors from doing stupid shit like trying to cuddle a cheetah cub, or start a brush fire. Last time she was out, there was some guy who wanted to ride an ostrich like he’d read about in Swiss Family Robinson when he was growing up. His boyhood dream was snapped—well, his femur was anyway.
The safari trucks held six each, so they divided among five vehicles. Meg, Randy, Rooster, Ahbou, and Abraham Silverman would be travelling together. They stood beside their truck waiting for their driver.
“You’re the only woman here,” Rooster noted.
“That’s usually the case. Science is still a man’s world. Women are taking on bigger roles, but its slow-going getting girls interested in math and science. I read a recent study that says girls start doubting their genius by the age of six.”
Randy bumped his hip against Meg. “Meghan never doubted that she’s a genius.”
Meg gave Randy the stink eye. “I was born a scientist. Before I come to any conclusions, I need to see empirical data. Having been presented with nothing that would bring me to another conclusion, I stand by my hypothesis that I am intellectually capable, until a peer-reviewed paper proves otherwise.” She looked up as the lilting voice of their ranger called her to attention.
“Welcome to Ngorongoro Crater. You can call me Robert. As we drive to the Maasai bomo, I will be giving you a little background on your hosts, since today you will be greeted as their honored guests. Normally, visitors are only welcomed at two designated Maasai cultural bomas. The one near Sopa Lodge at Irkeepusi Village and the other on the road to Serengeti. I am a member of the Maasai Tribe and I live in the boma we are to visit. I will be translating our language, Maa, into English and back again. I hope you will be patient with me as I do so. The elders have invited you because they are interested in learning what is happening to the weather. We thank you for coming.” He gestured toward their Rover and everyone climbed in.
“For many thousands of years, the Maasai people have been herders,” Robert said, putting the Rover into gear and lurching forward on the red dirt road. “They traveled about to find good lands for their livestock and also were chased away by warring people. About two hundred years ago, our numbers became substantial in this area. We have lived in harmony with the wildlife and with the environment. We have strict taboos on eating the wild animals. We only eat our animals.” Robert stopped to point out the left-hand side of the vehicle. “You look there in the trees. You see vervet monkeys. Troop of monkeys, yes?”
“Yes,” Meg said.
“Vervet monkeys are so close to your hotel because they are naughty. It is important that while you are in Ngorongoro that you witness the wildlife, but you do not interact with them. It is dangerous for them to become habituated to humans. We want them to remain shy so they do not become pests. It is especially important that you do not feed them anything.”
The vervet troop squatted along two of the wide tree limbs. Their big, round, brown eyes were set in black masks. White and grey fur covered their bodies but it looked like each head was topped with a little brown toupee. One of the mothers hugged her infant to her shoulder. Meg raised her camera and adjusted the lens to zoom in on his little pink face and pointy ears. After she snapped the picture, Robert put the Rover back into gear and they bounced forward again.
“The Maasai people are strong physically and mentally. Our ancestors developed different rites of passage to make this always true. Our children come to adulthood through a series of tests that involve pain. These tests help develop us as a people to have shared experiences. It makes us hardy and able to get through times of deprivation. We must follow our ancestral ways in order to survive. But as I am here talking to you as a cultural interpreter and not as a herder, some of us understand that we must both hold dear to our way of life but also adapt.”
“Will you tell us some of the more important rites of passage?” Abraham Silverman asked. Meg knew this was his first trip to Africa. She remembered her first time here, how she had soaked up the culture like a dry sponge. It was ever fascinating to her.
“There are similarities between the girl children and the boy children, and there are differences. When they are around four the children have their bottom incisor removed.”
Meg turned to Ahbou and put her hand on his chin.
He grinned and showed her he had a gaping hole in the center of his bottom teeth.
“Ahbou, are you from the Maasai tribe?”
“No, Miss Doctor Meg, but many, many Africans remove that tooth so if they get sick with lock jaw or cholera they can have nutrition go into their mouth.”
Robert nodded. “It is thought that the tooth gouging became important at the turn of the twentieth century when western medical doctors told us that lancing the gum at the tooth line could cure convulsions and diseases of the stomach, like cholera. They began to do this in the Sudan, and before mid-century it became common practice here in Tanzania.”
Meg’s brow drew together. “But that’s wrong.”
“That is what the doctors now tell us, but for over a century we have tried to protect our children from becoming ill by following this ritual. And now, though we are told it has no merit in protecting us from cholera and other diseases, it is a big part of our rites of passage to show no fear. The children are not to flinch or cry when the tooth is removed, or it will be shameful. The young boys are also tested to face pain with a calm face by hot coals on their arms and legs, and as they become older, the boys are tattooed on their stomachs and arms. The elders do not do this with the needle, like they use in the cities, but by thousands of little cuts into the skin.”
“Only the boys? The girls are not tested this way?” Abraham asked.
“Both boys and girls are tested, but some things are different. The next way they do this is with the ear piercing. They take a hot iron and they burn the ear. When this heals, they cut a hole in the earlobe. They gradually grow this hole bigger. This is now a fashion with some people in the west. In Europe and in America, they put plugs in their ears to make the holes big. Here, they grow the holes by inserting leaves and balls that are sometimes made of mud and wood. Though sometimes tourists will give us their plastic film canisters if they still use film instead of digital cameras. The bigger the hole, the more beautiful. The Maasai people feel that the most perfect earlobes hang to the shoulder.”
Meg reached up and touched the little gold balls in her earlobes, thinking that she would not be considered very beautiful and probably a wuss because her holes were so small.
“Another rite of passage is circumcision. This is the most important ritual in a Maasai child’s life. It is called excision for the girls.”
