As I watched the women talk I began to understand a bit about gender dynamics in this society. From my time so far, I could see that as a woman—and particularly as a young, unmarried woman—I would be expected to assume a very specific role in the family and in the community as a whole. At home I was used to laughing freely when a friend made a witty observation, or when a silly situation arose, yet now I was witnessing a new way for women to behave.
Back at the boma I learned to follow Mama’s and Faith’s examples, as I had been told that acting publicly in a flippant, overly enthusiastic and open manner would be seen as the behaviour of a promiscuous, easy woman. I had to learn to tone down my actions—not to be submissive, necessarily, but always remain conscious of acting respectfully. Men were the centre of attention, while women were meant to keep conversation going while sitting in very careful poses. Women maintained a humble demeanour, always staying vigilant of the family’s needs.
Yet at the water source, with no men around, the women were free to behave much more openly. Fetching water is a woman’s task, and this place was the women’s domain. Here mamas could gossip, joke and enjoy the camaraderie of fellow mamas. They sat however they wanted, their usual composed postures now relaxed as they sat on their mitungis and waited their turn. They laughed uproariously with one another, and I laughed too—though, of course, I understood none of it.
Soon it was my turn. Transporting water, I saw from the women, is an art unto itself. The mitungi must be carefully balanced on two rocks beneath the spout and then held in place while the trickling water slowly fills it all the way to the top. And with water always in scarce supply, we could never afford to waste or spill a drop.
When the cylindrical twenty litre container was full, it weighed more than twenty kilos. I stood stalled, uncertain of what to do next.
“I will show you,” Mama said.
She attached a long, woven rope to the cylinder and wrapped the other end around it once, then twice, securing it in an intricate knot. She then placed the rope around her forehead and reached down to knot the other end to the cylinder, creating a type of sling. I watched with wonder as she hoisted this heavy load up onto her slender back, adjusting the rope at a precise spot just above her hairline, so as not to pull at the skin, and at an angle that avoided strain on her neck. With the water stable, she shifted her hips, stood and was ready to walk. Her effort was definitely impressive, and I was amazed to see that some mamas even looped a second can below the first so they could carry two heavy loads at a time.
Then it was my turn to give it a try. On my first attempt I tied the rope wrong and, misjudging the balance of the weight, I let the rope slip from my forehead. I sighed and dropped the cumbersome mitungi back on the ground. Mama watched patiently, offering to take over as I sweated and strained. But I was determined to do it on my own.
While in Nairobi, preparing for my year with the family, I’d learned how drought is a regular and troubling reality for Kenya. Since water is vital to all components of daily life—cooking, cleaning, bathing, keeping livestock and staying hydrated in this parched land—scarcity, common during the regular seasons, can utterly devastate the population. Even if a family is well-off enough to afford adequate supplies of ugali flour and other staples, without the water with which to cook, they can’t eat. Hunger then runs rampant. As Mama told me, in drought seasons one saw the fattest cows reduced to skin and bones. People’s faces grew sunken and their bodies became emaciated.
Maintaining water supplies remains a mama’s greatest responsibility and the most important duty she must perform, often from an early age as with Metengo. If I was going to prove myself capable of rising to the challenge, I would have to master this task. And quickly.
I took a deep breath and tried again. This time I took more care in preparing the knot and made sure to secure the rope on my forehead before rising. With Mama nearby I finally managed to level the weight and slowly stood fully upright. With the other mamas watching, I took one step, then another, and soon we were headed back up the pebbled footpath to the boma, carrying enough water for our entire family.
Faith and I return home after doing laundry—one of many household tasks for which, as a woman, I would be responsible.
In the rush of those first days I was introduced to so many new people that it was nearly impossible to keep them straight. Their names were all strange to my foreign ear, and at first all the kids’ faces looked the same to me. Yet my new family was eager to introduce me to their community and into their lives.
I found the social world in Nkoyet-naiborr was much more structured than average American life. There was an elaborate system of customs and rituals, maintaining a regimented social dynamic. Luckily, my adoptive family worked hard to help me understand.
Maasai conversations and greetings are conducted in a very specific manner, with certain codes of decorum and rhythms of speech. For example, as Faith taught me through broken English, Maasai greetings are always performed the same way.
First, one calls the name of the person being hailed: “Naserian!”
The response is then, “Ao! ” Yes!
In return, the person greeting the other answers, “Sopa! ” Hello!
And finally, the response: “Ipa!” Hello!
Conversation could then continue freely, but at a much slower, more methodical pace than I was used to. At home, it seemed people spoke rapidly, as if constantly afraid someone would cut them off; conversations often ran over one another, intersecting and colliding impulsively and quickly. Among the Maasai, individuals take turns speaking, while the listener encourages them along, expressing understanding with the repeated sound, “ay.” Rather than interrupting or finishing one another’s sentences, people strive to state facts and ideas plainly and thoroughly, taking turns.
This sense of decorum applied not only to adults, but also to the kids. As I’d already seen, people met their elders with the head lowered as a sign of respect. The elder then lightly touched the younger person on the forehead with a brush of fingers. Between Maasai men, a generous handshake was the custom.
As an outsider I wasn’t sure how I fit into this system. I was not a Maasai, so even though I was older than the children, the rules were different. The kids loved shaking hands with me, rather than being greeted with the touch to the head. They greeted me over and over: Naserian! Naserian! And every time I had to respond, Ao! Even as I grew tired of this game, they seemed to draw greater and greater pleasure from greeting me.
I loved being in this learning mode, especially in improving my limited grasp of Swahili. I was swept up in the experience; trying to learn the customs and daily rituals, while around me everyone spoke in an unfamiliar tongue, seemed overwhelming. I tried to remain unafraid to make mistakes. Here I was the new daughter of a new culture, and I was ready and willing to do my best to adapt.
But because my Swahili was so limited, and members of the family were themselves still in various stages of learning English, everything they said came out as a command.
“Go!”
“Come!”
“Naserian, bring! ”
I felt I was always being ordered, never asked politely as I was accustomed. Even Mama, whose English was relatively sophisticated, spoke mostly in these sharp directions. I’d be hard at work scrubbing dishes or performing some other task, then hear Mama calling out: Naserian! Naturally, I’d come hurrying in response, only to receive more commands.
“Give me that.”
“Get me the knife.”
Do this, do that: abrupt, functional exchanges always took the place of meaningful, relaxed conversation. The language barrier was just too vast. Yet this challenge only drove me to keep working at improving my Swahili and helping their English. I was sure that soon I would be able to join in on the laughter, the jokes, the sharing of intimate