ITALIANO

How visit the Masai Mara and Masai Community

For those who want to sleep in the Village, bearing in mind that the huts are truly Spartan, you can write to us via email or on instagram, we will provide you with the contact of Danson, the son of the village chief.

The Masai, ancestral guardians of the area, live in their villages arranged in an amphitheater. They bear the responsibility of a past that portrays them as indomitable warriors.

Rude, fearless and ready to face a lion with his bare hands. They still live on well-marked rituals. Transition phases that affirm their presence in the community.

Rude, fearless and ready to face a lion with his bare hands. They still live on well-marked rituals. Transition phases that affirm their presence in the community.

So jump with the Masai, like caricatures suspended against the background of a cloudy sky of clouds, even with the knowledge that it is not to conquer your woman, as was customary to do. But still take the push and jump as high as you can.

Then let yourself be enveloped by their guttural songs, full of vibrant notes, which touch more than just the auditory sense. They also seem to strike the limbs, like an irreproachable stimulus.

They will take you to the center of the village, made up of humble houses where the chief of the tribe chooses which of the numerous wives to sleep with. A polygamy still in force, which however leaves room for those who, like Danson (a young Masai who guides us in the village), decide that a wife is more than enough.

A group of slender boys with bronze skin on which the colors of the typical skirts stand out, will show you how to start a fire with the only continuous friction of two finished pieces of olive wood.

The commitment is double, because the success of their demonstration will this time be a way to convince you to buy them and try their business again. The next step is to take you to their expensive charity markets. But all after being in their compacted earth houses. And here you are passed away like a shapeless substance by the pompous smoke that floods the house while the mama prepares the porridge in a rough pot lying on the ground, on the fire.

Everything is blurred: the faces, the breath, the thoughts. And on this curtain a gloomy darkness dominates.

As you walk away, women wash the pots in the center of this rotunda of kneaded houses. Hens scamper on the loose, like children playing without weight on their hearts.