archaeological engaruka

The view from a hill we hiked. From here you can see all of Engaruka.


Onesmo led the hike and gave us a history and culture lesson along the way. (He also carried my water, haha!)


At a boma


The remnants of an old home


Remnants of an old canal wall, used to channel water for irrigation and survival

What I haven't shared with you all about Engaruka is its historical significance. The ruins of the old city of Engaruka still exist and are considered one of the best archaeological sites in Tanzania. Evidence of old irrigation canals and rock homes are easily spotted, as well as tombs from war. The Maasai were not the first to settle the land but gained it after war(s).

engaruka accommodations

Where do you stay when you are in el medio de la nada? You camp! My tent is the one illuminated by the sun in the top photograph. A typical breakfast - chapati and chai. The chai was cooked in the stainless kettle over open flame so it gets a real rich, smokey flavor. Yum. I could eat chapati all day long. Another plus about camping in Engaruka is the stars. I have never seen so many stars in my life. Imagine a sky with more light than dark.

engaruka: first person

[Transposed from the journal I kept while in Africa]

Their necks are disguised with large loops of white beads, like halos that have fallen from above their heads. They sing, call and response. They bob, bounce and laugh. The earrings hanging from their sagging lobes and cartilage swing and catch the light of the midday sun. Their necklaces bounce up and down, up and down.

Down. The halo has been dropped over my head, and I'm holding two hands. I'm in the middle and try to mimic their routine. I think first of my body movement, then I focus on trying to make my necklace flap like theirs. I lose myself in the movements. After a few songs, they guide me to the shade of a nearby tree. I sit on the middle of a cowhide. Two Maasai woman wiggle onto the hide with me, sandwiching me. Thigh to thigh, thigh to thigh. They drape a kanga over my legs and pour beads onto my lap.

One woman begins to put beads onto a string. More than a dozen men, women and children surround us, sitting, standing and kneeling. The woman then hands me the string. I clumsily put the beads onto the string, one by one. After a few tries, I string about 10 beads at once, as the women who sit with me do. A man takes note, raises his brow and the group celebrates with various whoops, words and chuckles. My small victory. I continue this new skill until the bracelet is finished.

The woman to my left puts the new piece of jewelry around my wrist and pulls it tight. Snap. The thread breaks. The woman to my right scolds her and takes over. She uses a razor blade, very close to my wrist. I look the other way. She remedies the break and fastens the bracelet to my wrist. I put it out in front of me and show it off. The ladies laugh.

We exchange questions through a man who speaks both Maasai and English. Are you Christian? Where do you buy your beads? Do you have donkeys in your country? How do you use them? Are you in a polygamous marriage? I buy three bracelets from the woman to my right. It's my way of saying thank you for the dance and lesson under the shade tree. Thud. A girl throws a heavy, beaded necklace onto my lap. With all eyes on me, I try it on. Several more ladies shed their jewelry and pass it to me. I say no thanks.

I thank the ladies and the man of the boma (home). I leave with a piece of their culture attached to my right arm and, of course, the rich memories.

the women of engaruka

the road to engaruka

[Transposed from the journal I kept while in Africa]

I board Peace Kiazi, which translates to Peace Potato, bound for Engaruka. A turn north takes us onto a washboard road. The seat vibrates me like an expensive salon chair would in the States. Soon, the Maasai and giraffes are as common as street lights and stop signs on my daily drive to work. Two chickens in a closed cardboard box cluck on a rack above my head.

Across from me, a man's decorated earlobes hang inches from his shoulders. He's beautiful. At our stop in Selela - the one stop on the two-hour trip from Mto Wa Mbu - children reach toward my window, then turn their palms up. I'm not sure if they are begging or saying hello. I reach for a young girl's hand. She jumps to touch mine and squeals when our hands brush. Bags, bananas and more pass through the bus windows from one pair of hands to the next.

Entering Engaruka I pay an entrance fee of 5000 shillings (about $4). It's mzungu (White) price, for which I receive a receipt. Some leave the bus. Others board. We ride to the last stop. I sit inside the pages of National Geographic magazine. Covered Muslims, Maasai warriors and other indigenous faces with dark eyes stare at me. Huts with thatched roofs and mud and stick walls blanket the landscape. I remind myself to inhale and exhale. I don't think I've ever been this far from home.

the goat

[Transposed from the journal I kept while in Africa]

The hut is made of sticks. When we enter, I'm not sure if I'm in someone's home or a public place. Daudi tells me I'm in a tea house, the closest thing to a restaurant in Engaruka - a dusty village without electricity down a bumpy, washboard road. We have come to wait on our leg of goat. Through the sticks of the back wall, I see raw goat hanging. Beyond that, a fire pit made of rocks cooks the goat.

A few minutes later a Maasai warrior, William, enters the hut with our leg of goat. I can't tell whether it is cooked or not. Once William slices into it with the spear he takes from his hip, I see the meat is cooked. A young child server sets out a platter with salt for us to eat the goat from. Williams slices tiny pieces onto the place. The child server brings a bowl, soap and pitcher to us. We wash. I pluck goat from the plate, as William continues to slice it.

Deep breath. Not bad. The next bite I try with salt. Better.

I look up and see William and another Maasai man gnawing on the two bones from our leg. I maintain my appetite. While eating, a stick falls from the wall and stabs me in the arm. It bleeds a little. I eat several more pieces, some better than others. I don't like the fatty ones or the ones that put a bitter, sour goat taste on my tongue. I look for the well done pieces with parts of roasted skin still attached. You can taste the fire in these bites, as I did with my morning chai. Soon, the goat is gone.

As the girl who once only ate a "kid food" diet (macaroni and cheese, PB & J and chicken nuggets), I have served my penance.