One small Leap for a Man
One Giant Leap for everyone Else 
Honored Guests
Tough Competition - Peter is on the left
They're not Kidding!Before heading to the Tanzania border, I meet a Masai named Peter in the hotel lobby.
Being a wee more than a wee bit Scots (the new-world Beans of North America are a black sheep offshoot of the Clan McBain), I feel a shared bond with this tall warrior wearing a red tartan blanket and no underwear.
I offer the traditional greeting to my new-found kinsman:
“Eyeh, Sopa!” (How are you?) I intone.
“Eyeh, Hepa,”(Fine and you) replies Peter.
This greeting in the Maa language, is followed by the traditional queries:
“How are your children?”
“And how are your cattle?”
(These comprise the two main measures of Masai wealth.)
“My cows and children are well,” says Peter.
I tell him my children are fine too and lie about the cattle.
(Although once upon a time I did own a small herd of Hereford's. But that, as they say, is another story.)
By and bye, Peter invites me and my clan to an exhibition of traditional Masai dancing.
Jon, Margaret, Rena and I march single-file from the pool area to a shaded dance floor where the bare earth is packed hard and smooth. We are greeted by 4 women and 5 men all in traditional Masai plaids.
Being a wee more than a wee bit Scots (the new-world Beans of North America are a black sheep offshoot of the Clan McBain), I feel a shared bond with this tall warrior wearing a red tartan blanket and no underwear.
I offer the traditional greeting to my new-found kinsman:
“Eyeh, Sopa!” (How are you?) I intone.
“Eyeh, Hepa,”(Fine and you) replies Peter.
This greeting in the Maa language, is followed by the traditional queries:
“How are your children?”
“And how are your cattle?”
(These comprise the two main measures of Masai wealth.)
“My cows and children are well,” says Peter.
I tell him my children are fine too and lie about the cattle.
(Although once upon a time I did own a small herd of Hereford's. But that, as they say, is another story.)
By and bye, Peter invites me and my clan to an exhibition of traditional Masai dancing.
Jon, Margaret, Rena and I march single-file from the pool area to a shaded dance floor where the bare earth is packed hard and smooth. We are greeted by 4 women and 5 men all in traditional Masai plaids.
The women garland us with fine Masai beadwork and we are led to seats as the honored guests. The Masai Moran (warriors) enter with spears and whisks to begin their low, rhythmic, hypnotic chant.
Then the jumping starts. Each Masai warrior takes a turn doing serial leaps as high as he can.
“Wow, these guys can really jump,” whispers Jon.
“Not bad,” I agree. “But watch this.”
I call Peter over. Before long I'm in with the dancers.
At 5 feet 10, I'm the short guy in the back row.
As the chant progresses I work my way to the front. It's show time!
OK! Now for the big jump. One, two, three – Heppa!
That's one small leap for a man, (and no great leap for mankind, either).
I cast a glance at my fellow dancers.
Most of the Moran are smiling. Perhaps it is in appreciation. More likely they are whispering softly to each other in Maa, “It's true what they say - The white guys can't jump.”
I get a more honest response from the front row of the gallery where I have obviously impressed the royalty. Milady Margaret is laughing herself silly and her handmaiden Rena is about to pee in her pants. We buy sodas for all the guys and contribute a thousand shillings to the Moran’s 'Children and Cattle Welfare' fund.
“I love watching the Masai drink Coca Cola. It's just like the commercials on TV!” enthuses Rena as we head to the van.
Robinson puts the pedal to the metal and we're on our way to Tanzania. The road signs are looking more ominous. It's rough, it's dusty, it's an adventure.
DAKTARI
