Hakuna Matata - Kenya pt 2
After an immensely restful night, we woke up early, ate our breakfast, and were met by two local Maasai men to be escorted to their nearby village.
We walked down the same road that had been a grand adventure in the car, feeling much more sure on our feet. We passed many a cow, and a few Maasai herding them and we enjoyed the movement, small talk, and finally not being in the car.
Once we arrived in the Maasai village, we were met with a large group of men adorned in red Maasai shukas (blankets) that promptly started to chant, hum, sing, and then dance. Their dance was made up mostly of knee bends and forward movement of their torsos; it was not showy and I think allowed them to continue to chant with full gusto. We were told by Augustus, one of the men who walked with us, that this was a traditional dance and that if we felt like it we could dance with them.
Being the lover of dance that I am, I was very excited by this opportunity, and I think they could tell, because partway through a man from the group came forward and grabbed my hand, dragging me into the group, adorning me with his shuka, and showing me the basic movement.
Before long, the group transitioned to a line and started to dance around, hop-skipping almost as they snaked their way around the dance space and reformed into a semi-circle.
Then came the jumping. One at a time, as the chanting and singing continued, the men got into the front and center of the semi circle and pencil jumped once, then twice, as high as possible.
The same man who grabbed my hand and brought me into the group grabbed my hand and pulled me to the front and center of the semi circle to jump with him. I didn't realize that they were each only jumping twice until later, as in the moment I was chock full of excitement at being included. So when the man and I started to jump, I was so earnest and really went for it, jumping again and again and again; we were so out of sync, and he was in fits of laughter by the end of my very over eager jumping attempts.
When the entire dance was over I learned that the jumping is actually a ceremony/competition; whoever jumps the highest gets the prettiest woman to marry AND gets to pay less cows for her hand. My spastic, over enthusiastic jumping causing such laughter made a lot more sense now.
After the dance, we headed into the center of the village to learn more about their daily life and cultural practices. They showed us how they make fire with friction and then distribute it to each house. They talked to about the boys' coming of age at 14, when they circumcise them and then send the entire group of 14 year-olds from that year into the forest for a month with nothing; together they must survive and communally kill a lion before returning. The lion and its pieces are used for many things, including being made into a decorative hat that they placed on some of our heads.
We also learned about their diet of corn, meat from their livestock, and cow blood, which they get without killing their cows. They syphon just enough to sustain themselves and keep the cow healthy.
While all of this was going on, I noticed a small group of children practicing handstands against the wall of one of the houses. They were laughing and playing, and I wanted so badly to join them, but knew that wasn’t what the experience was supposed to be about. Instead I kept glancing their way, soaking in their joy.
We were then split up and each person or pair of our group followed a different Maasai into their home to learn more and see how they live. The homes were made of mud/clay and were very dark.
The one went entered belonged to a man named Alex, and had a small entryway that led to a 5x5 living and cooking area with two small "bedrooms" off either side of it. The bedrooms were the size of a twin size bed with a mattress on the group and a curtain across the entry to create a separation from the living area.
Alex introduced us to his wife and two very small children. She squatted on a short stool and was heating up water over a small fire that made the entire dark home rather warm.
As we exited the houses, the women of the village serenaded us with the traditional songs that would normally be sung for celebrations of new life, marriage, or the passing of a life.
As we began to leave the village I ran over to the group of children from before, and did a handstand alongside them. It took them a second to realize what was happening, but when they did they squealed with delight and pointed. They yelled to other children who weren't nearby, and one child who seemed to really love being upside down tapped me and showed me their handstand. I celebrated it with them, and did another, this time making silly faces at them and sticking out my tongue when upside down. More squeals and shouts were paired with some jumping up and down in delight. The group of children grew as they came from different corners of the village and popped out of houses. This back and forth of them upside down and then me happened another time or two, and then, unfortunately, I was forced to leave.
Even more unfortunate was that we were back in the car for another long day of driving.
Not 10 minutes into our drive down the rough country back roads, right after holding on for dear life as Albert took us rather quickly through a large ditch, he seemed concerned. He pumped the brakes a bunch, continued to look concerned, and pulled over. After a quick walk about the car and peek underneath, he determined we had a leak; in his somewhat reckless driving, he’d busted part of the brake fluid line.
For an hour we waited on the side of the road, getting many a stare as locals passed by on their motorcycles and other safari vehicles passed us as they left the area. Eventually a man showed up, worked some magic, and we were right as rain!
We continued our drive, going through village after village, with more groups of children waving and smiling at us. I realized that at a certain age that joy at interacting with the strangers in the cars seems to go away. I started waving at adults to see if they'd wave back, theorizing that perhaps more people wave to children and that is part of why they had so much more joy than the adults when we drove through their villages.
I'd usually get a wave back, but waving at adults also made me acutely aware of just how much we were stared at when driving through areas.
It was uncomfortable, primarily because it brought up some strong feelings of isolation. Simultaneously, observing the communities as we drove through felt much like how we had been observing the animals on safari; no chances to interact or connect, just sitting in our bubble watching their world.
We arrived in the lake town of Nakuru for the night, with one more safari in the morning before parting from 4 out of the 5 other people from our group (thank goodness). We had bonded with the guy from Mexico, Quetza. He’d become our meal companion and friend, but the other four people weren’t our cup of tea.
That night Sam and I debriefed a lot about our disappointment with being so removed from the people and culture during safari. It was nice to be on the same page, but difficult to be feeling so uncomfortable. In some ways it made us feel as though we were being unappreciative of something that really was a once in a lifetime experience, when that wasn’t the case; the animal aspect was everything we’d wanted and more. We just didn’t want to feel like such tourists and the setup was forcing us to be.
The next morning we loaded up in the car and drove through the smallest little park, Lake Nakuru National Park. We got up close and personal with zebras, and were keeping an eye out for rhinos, which this park is known for.
Albert helped us find one, but it was so far away it simply looked like a little grey rock.
Determined to find us a better viewing opportunity, he drove through the whole park, taking us from the plains to the yellow acacia forests alongside the lake. We’d expected to see flamingos there too, but Albert said the lake level is rising, which is affecting their feeding grounds and so they’d migrated. It was clear Albert was right, as the shallows of the lake were full of upright trees who because they were submerged in salt water, had died. It looked much like the year lake Sonoma was so low that all the trees on the bottom were exposed; I found it to be sad and unsettling, but the pelicans in the park seemed to love it as it gave them plenty of perches to view their food from.
We finished our drive in Nakuru in another grassland area, where we saw two more rhinos! These were upright and looked less like rocks, but were still quite far away. We watched them hang out for a while, hoping they’d come closer, but no luck.
Albert’s patience ran out, and he drove us to lunch where we parted from the others and headed to Naivasha, another lake town.
Once we arrived in the town, Albert took the three of us into a fancy as all heck hotel he said was primarily used for conferences; there was a massive decorative gate, foliage lining the road that wound from the gate to the main building, some very expensive looking cars in the lot, and groups of men and women milling about dressed in full suits and nice dresses and heels. The contrast between the impoverished world just outside the resort walls and the Kenyan conference/business world was jarring.
We got led through a high ceilinged, marble floored hall and to a rack of life vests. I grabbed one and put it on, quickly realizing it was much too large and absolutely not going to save my life if it came to that. I reached for a child one, which seemed to be the only smaller option, and an attendant stopped me and told me that wouldn’t work. Sam protested, saying the large one wasn’t safe either. The woman swore it would be fine, as the boat was safe and we wouldn’t really need it anyway. Reluctantly, I kept the large one, which I realized halfway to the dock also only tied in one spot instead of two. This thing was going to be useless in an emergency.
We exited the grand hallway and were met with a sprawling, manicured lawn covered in pristinely set tables overlooking the lake. This was such a change from all the dirt and simplicity we’d been exposed to for days now, and we were speechless. The attendant led us to a dock where a man sat in the most narrow, unsafe looking boat I’ve ever seen. I looked down at my life vest and then to Sam who looked just as concerned; we nervously giggled.
They helped us into the boat, which was meant to take us to Crescent Island, an island that was a peninsula attached to the mainland only a few years ago, but rising lake levels cut off the last bit of connection, leaving the animals on the island stuck. It’s known for a variety of non-predatory animals, including monkeys, zebra, antelopes, pelicans, and hippos.
As the boat puttered away from the dock, we clung to the edges for dear life. Out of nowhere, 20 feet from us a hippo poked its nose out of the water and blew, creating the most startling noise and making us even more unsettled; This little dingy stood zero chances against a hippo.
Sensing our nervousness, the boat driver started to move faster, soon reaching full cruising speed and getting us to the island. Just like Nakuru, there were many dead, yet still standing trees quite far out into the water. It was eerie to boat around them, not knowing what lurked below in the branches.
We stopped to observe a hippo, who really didn’t want to be observed. The boat driver started to knock on the boat to rouse the hippo, which worked initially when we got to see its cute face pop up well above the water, and then it very clearly stopped caring and didn’t emerge again.
We boated around the island, getting close to the shore to observe the wildlife and pelicans, which I apparently think are really cool based on how much I kept excitedly exclaiming about them whenever they did anything- swam, walked, tried to fish, or slept in big groups.
An hour and a half or so later, we headed back and docked safely, thankful to have gotten out of the car for a bit, to have gotten some fresh air, and to have not ended up in the water due to a hippo attack.
Albert dropped us at our hotel, and knowing we couldn’t spend another night locked away in a hotel, we asked if it would be safe for us to walk around the area a bit. He seemed shocked, but told us it was fine as long as we got back before dark. The three of us chose to walk down to the lakefront to try to see more hippos, and oh my were we a spectacle.
Drivers and other pedestrians looked at us as though we had three heads as we walked down the road. We eventually arrived at the lakefront which was nothing like we’d expected. The map and sign had said “beach.” What we were met with was a series of shacks selling sodas and fish, and a swampy lakefront so crowded with boats like what we’d just been on that you couldn’t get anywhere near the water.
Person after person ran up to us asked if we wanted a boat ride. We repeated again and again “no” and that we had already done one. Eventually, uncomfortable with all of the attention, we walked back toward the hotel.
Quetza, unwilling to give up on our attempted adventure, found us a park to go to. We arrived and it was more of an adventure park, with activities like motocross, obstacle courses, archery, etc. We played on the obstacle course and then acquired a very flat volleyball. Turns out Quetza used to play, and he destroyed me, but my goodness how good it felt to be outside and to be moving. When we returned to the hotel, it was clear we all had needed an afternoon of play like that.
The next morning was our final day. It was the day I was looking forward to the most, as we were set to go to Hells Gate National Park, a park where you can bike or walk instead of drive.
Before the gate we had to stop to rent our bicycle, and by that I mean we pulled over to a line of bikes on the side of the road, they had us test ride one each, and then they loaded all three into the back of a motorcycle and drove them 2 kilometers up to the entrance gate. The bike rental came with a guide who stayed with us the whole day.
Within moments of beginning to bike, it was clear Sam was struggling. She’d said she hadn’t been on a bike in a long time, so I figured that was it. Nope. Somehow on the motorcycle transport, her brakes had broken and she was unable to stop. They promptly motorcycled her up a new one and we began our biking journey.

Before we knew it, we were biking next to zebras! I couldn’t believe it. Minutes into the park and there was already wildlife right there. We kept pedaling, making it around the first bend and BAM, massive orange and red rock walls stood before us. It was breathtaking and all I wanted to do was get my hands on that stunning rock. As we neared the towering walls, a singular tower stood before us and the closer we got the more obvious it became that there were ropes on it. This tower was set up to climb. I all-too-excitedly asked the guide if we could climb it, squealing with delight when he said yes.
At the rock were two guides, Steven and Bernard who outfitted us with shoes, helmets, and a harness and who belayed and encouraged us the whole time. Sam and Quetza went first, and by the time it was my turn I couldn’t contain myself. We were climbing in Kenya. It didn’t feel real.
The route itself wasn’t meant to be very hard, but unfamiliar gear meant I didn’t trust my feet much and I ended up putting myself in some funny positions to try to not have to rely solely on them. Halfway through the climb I turned around and in the grass field across from the rock tower was a giraffe just doing giraffe things. I teared up, overwhelmed with gratitude and joy. Climbing and giraffes at the same time? What more could a girl want?
After climbing, our guide took us around the corner to meet a new-to-me animal, the rock hyrax. I know nothing about them and learned nothing except that they’re exceptionally cute and will eat grass if you hold it out for them.
Back in the saddle, we biked the length of the park to the gorge where, theoretically (spoiler alert), Scar killed Mufasa in the Lion King. We took silly photos along the way, and then walked along the gorge to the rock they apparently used as inspiration for Pride Rock. The view was stunning, with steep walls and lush green foliage, and being able to just sit out on the rock and enjoy it was invigorating. Before we left, we, of course, had to recreate Rafiki holding baby Simba.
As we left the gorge, our guide took us to a market inside the park where Maasai people sell goods. Sam and I bought ALL the things from an amazingly friendly man, O, who had his friend adorn me in traditional Maasai women attire and who asked me to marry him. I told him I needed to ask my dad how many cows I was worth and left it at that.
Post-proposal, our group headed back, biking 6 miles uphill in the baking hot African sun all the way to the gate. Albert was less than stoked at how long it had taken us to adventure through the park, but still managed to get us back to Nairobi at a decent time regardless. We were very happy to finally get out of that car, but sad to know our days with Quetza were coming to an end. We had one day left and he was staying elsewhere, but we promised we’d meet up again before leaving.
Our final day in Nairobi we wanted to try to get as immersed as possible in the culture, as we’d really missed out on that during safari. We found a cooking class with a woman named Nimoh, which included using the local transport (matatu), shopping at a local market, and then cooking in her home with her.
We met her and the other two people attending the cooking class, Christian and Doreen and were briskly led across the very busy main road, the same one with the horrible roundabouts. Nimoh navigated across the lanes of traffic like a pro, much unlike Samantha and I the night before when we tried to go get food and felt like we were in a game of Frogger on steroids.
We loaded onto the matatu, a small bus, which she explained was privately owned actually. Public transport isn’t publicly owned, drivers get their bus, paint it one of the many route colors (ours was grey and orange, indicating it ran the length of the main road to the market and back), and then the fees for the bus go directly to them and their assistants, who hang out the open door, usher people in, and at stops run around trying to convince pedestrians to get on their bus instead of someone else’s.
The inside of the buses were decked out with neon lights and themed posters, and they bumped the loudest Afro-beats music. I loved it. We danced and chatted in our seats for about 20 minutes until she motioned for us to get ready to get off.
We exited and were met with so many sounds and sights. Before us stretched stall after stall after stall of colorful fruits and vegetables in piles, and individuals were bantering, laughing, all while exchanging money for goods. Nimoh told us that this market is a staple in life in Nairobi, as many people don’t use or have refrigerators and so they’re making their meals fresh every day. We followed Nimoh as she bought the ingredients for our meal, asking questions along the way about fruit or vegetables that looked unfamiliar (spiked melon) or exclaiming about the produce. The avocados were 20 cents and anywhere from the size of my hand to Sam’s head. One of my favorite parts of the market was a man with a tiny cart in which he housed very small hot dogs and hard boiled eggs. Atop the cart he made fresh pico de gallo looking salsa. People would order either a hot dog or an egg, he’d split it open, and stuff it with salsa. The protein was a vessel for the salsa, it was fascinating.

We soon arrived at the meat shop to get our goat, but no one seemed particularly excited about hanging around the cramp, sterile shop with giant carcasses hanging. Instead, our little group was lured next door to a bakery where we spent too much money buying this and then that and tasting all the baked goods that looked appetizing. Sam is a baker at home, and it was heartwarming to watch her chat with the woman behind the counter about Kenyan baking.
The most scrumptious of all the treats, in my opinion, was a thick slice of bread that was then baked in egg. It was almost like French toast, but had more crunch on the outside and was less saturated with egg.
With our goat meat in hand and our bellies full of carbs, we continued to the center of the market. This required that we go through what felt like a tunnel of stalls; It was much less open air, was dark and smelled strongly of the moisture and dirt. We got many “hellos,” and a few stares, but it was also clear that everyone was used to seeing Nimoh with tourists. When we emerged from the dark tunnel of stalls, we were in the very center of the market. Nimoh grabbed some fresh pumpkin leaves and led us back to the start so we could grab one more fruit.
As we arrived back at the main road, but not quite at our original location, we were suddenly swarmed with men trying to get us on their bus. One in particular seemed to piss Nimoh off, because before we knew it, she was yelling at him and waving her hands and causing a scene. We continued to follow her, shocked, and a little freaked out. As she yelled, men came running and we were eventually engulfed in a crowd of people yelling at each other with Nimoh at the center continuing to lead us but also very fired up about something.
Finally we made it to the original stall, the man she was yelling at went away, we got our fruit, and boarded a bus. Once we were safely settled in the back, she explained that where we had come out of the market is usually the end and the man didn’t know her, so when she said no to his bus, he continued to bother her and told her she was dishonest about needing to do more shopping. Her yelling brought other men over because they were vouching for her.
A quick matatu ride later, we got off at her stop and walked down a dirt road to her gated apartment building. Up 7 floors of stairs we went, eventually entering a beautiful, bright apartment with big windows and decorated with paintings and trinkets from Maasai markets.
She put us to work, having us peel potatoes and carrots, rinsing the goat meat, and the most painstaking of all tasks, plucking corn kernels out of a cob one by one. Apparently you can’t just cut the kernels off, as that removes the small seed inside and that holds most of the nutrients. Or so she says. Sam and Christian and I attempted to pluck for far too long, accidentally smashing kernel after kernel. We eventually managed to get all of the kernels off of the two cobs of corn, and eagerly awaited literally any other task.
Our meal was to be a goat stew, Kachumbari (a salad made of onion, tomato, and avocado), sautéed cabbage and carrots, and mukimo (mashed potatoes with corn and pureed greens).
As we continued to assist and snacked on a plate of local fruits, Nimoh was an open book, sharing with us all about her personal life as a Kenyan woman and answering any and all questions we had about Kenya and life there. We asked it all, from questions about birth control (women use it but it’s taboo and they pharmacy hop so no one sees them regularly and they don’t appear promiscuous) to the men there being beyond enamored by Trump.
She talked to us about how in a traditional Kenyan marriage, the two families meet and decide on a bride price, which the husband pays in installments to her family over the course of their marriage.
Divorce is very uncommon for many reasons, but one of them is that if a couple gets divorced, the woman must repay all of what her husband has paid for her.
Men are also allowed to have multiple wives, but the clans can forbid it if it is clear that he cannot fully provide and cate for his current wife or wives.
We also learned about the lack of health care, and that many young men die every year from their circumcision, which happens at 14 regardless of if you’re out in the village we’d visited or in the city apparently. They use no numbing agents and no antibiotics and many boys go into shock or fall ill after.
Nimoh taught us so many things that I cannot possibly remember them all. She was a wealth of knowledge and an open book and the day flew by. The class was meant to last 4 hours and we were with her for 7.
The meal was absolutely delicious, the best food we’d had the whole trip. It was encouraged that we eat a little of everything in one bite, which is my least favorite thing to do with food as a staunch food separator. But I obliged and am so glad I did. The mixture of textures and flavors was indescribable bliss. I cannot wait to make it when I get home!
Nimoh soon realized how long past our time we’d gone, which wasn’t ideal because Sam and I were supposed to do a dance class with Quetza and a girl we’d met at our hostel. Nimoh rushed us down her stairs and to the road to catch a matatu; We literally ran as a group down her road, which the locals seemed to get a kick out of. We boarded the matatu with her, had one more dance party of a ride, and said our sorrowful goodbyes.
With a little time to spare, we got ready to try our hand (or feet) at intermediate Afro-fusion. I love me some dancing, but only if it’s not choreographed. That’s not my jam, and apparently not really Sam’s either, but we’d wanted to be more integrated, so we figured why not give it a shot.
We showed up to a decent sized studio with neon lights running the perimeter and a massive wall of mirrors. The teacher started off slowly, breaking down the first few movements, and we felt like maybe we would be fine. We were very wrong. Within minutes he’d added more moves, started moving faster, and I realized I was in way over my head. Being able to see every jerky movement, mis-step, and fumble in the mirrors didn’t help either. Lauren continually apologized, saying the classes weren’t normally this hard. We told her it was fine. We were just there for fun and a new experience after all! I tried my darnedest for 45 minutes, mostly staying with it but knowing I definitely didn’t have the flow that the instructor and many other students had. And then the weirdest thing happened: my brain literally shut off.
I’ve never had such an experience, but I think I’d been overloaded with too much new information, because even the beginning moves and sequences I was unable to do anymore; My brain and body connection was seemingly severed. I felt rather disoriented and a bit confused, so I sat and had some water wondering if that would help. The instructor came over and urged me to get up and dance more, and I tried, but I could not. None of the moves we’d just spent 45 minutes learning were happening. My brain was done.
Not wanting to be asked to dance more, I grabbed my things and waited in the foyer for Sam, Lauren, and Quetza, who failed to tell us that he was an amazing dancer!
We left and had one last dinner with Quetza, soaking in the week of new and exciting experiences we’d had together. Then it was bedtime, because Sam and I were off the next day to start summiting a mountain.
