“Can we just go?” I handed him back the binoculars.
“Hang on to those,” he said, starting the car up again. “We’ll probably see some more schlongs up ahead.”
The color receded from my cheeks as we drove through the dappled forest, but the buzz remained—the high I got from seeing this man smile.
We sighted baboons, waterbucks, and more elephants tearing off branches and stuffing them in their mouths.
“It doesn’t look like we’re going to get all of the Big Five today,” said Jack, as we approached the ascent back up to the rim. “No rhino sighting.”
“Four out of five isn’t so bad,” I replied, looking down at the crater.
Lines of cars traversed the plains below, whipping dust clouds in their wake. A pride of lions sprawled under the shade of a tree, while a Maasai grazed his cattle within stone’s throw. A few paces away, a newborn zebra nuzzled up to its mother on unsteady legs. With the mist now gone, the crater was visible all the way up to the forested rim. A handful of white clouds lingered, casting dark shadows on the floor.
Had Mo stopped here to take in the same view? I wondered. Even though she was gone, I felt closer to her for having been there. It was like touching the shadow of her soul.
“Thank you,” I said to Jack. “I don’t think I’m ever going to forget it.”
The blue of his eyes held me for a heart-skipping instant. Everything seemed hushed and bare.
It was a while before he spoke, and his voice was soft but loaded. “Me neither.”
Losing someone you love tunes you in to the fragility of life—of moments and memories and music. It makes you want to embrace all the foolish, inarticulate longings that pull at your heart. It makes you want to grasp un-played notes of un-played symphonies. Perhaps that was why Jack and I clung to that moment, eyes locked, breaths stilled, listening to something that only we could hear, something that lived in the fleeting space between hello and goodbye. It made me want to freeze-frame the rippling grasslands below us, and the play of light across Jack’s face.
AS WE DROVE away from the crater, the towering trees gave way to a high, windswept plateau.
“One more stop before we head back,” said Jack, turning into the entrance of a Maasai village.
It was a collection of thatched-roof huts surrounded by a circle of thorn bushes to keep out wild animals and predators. Jack retrieved a duffel bag from the trunk and swung it over his shoulder.
“You don’t travel light, do you?” I said, when I saw all the stuff stashed in his car.
Spare wheels, coils of thick rope, a washbasin, pots, pans, utensils, a portable stove, spare gallons of petrol, water, electrical tape, mosquito netting, camping gear, flares, a first aid kit, a paraffin lamp, matches, tins of food, pliers, tools, gadgets. And a rifle, with what looked like a long-range viewer.
“I come prepared when I’m out in the reserves.”
“So, what’s in the bag?” I asked, following him down the path to the village.
“Coffee, from the farm,” he said. “For Bahati’s father. He’s also the village elder. Interesting guy. Wise, stubborn, insightful. He’s set in some ways, but incredibly progressive in others. Eight wives, twenty-nine children, and counting.”
“Seriously? So, the Maasai are polygamous?”
“Yes. They determine a man’s standing first by his bravery, and then by the number of wives, children, and cows he has. Each wife usually has a home within the same boma or village. Bahati’s village is not as traditional as some of the other Maasai bomas. It’s a designated cultural boma, which means a lot of tours stop here so people can visit the homes, take pictures, buy souvenirs. That kind of stuff.”
A group of Maasai men emerged to greet us. They were draped in brilliant reds and blues, their skin the shade of acacia bark. They were as tall as Jack, at least six feet, but with slim, wiry bodies, and eyes that looked permanently yellow—probably from wood smoke. They wore long braids, dyed with red clay, and had distended earlobes adorned with beads and ornaments. Upon seeing Jack, their stiff gaits loosened and their smiles widened.
“Jack Warden, no entrance fee,” one of them said. “Your girlfriend? Also no fee.”
“Asante. Thank you,” Jack replied. “Come along, girlfriend. Let’s follow the moran.”
“The moran?” I ignored the ‘girlfriend’ part.
“It’s what they call their warriors.”
We maneuvered around piles of cow manure, stirring up the flies, and stopped outside a loaf-shaped hut. The morans presented us to a dignified looking man with a checkered red and black sheet draped over his shoulders. Loops of silver and turquoise earrings hung from his earlobes. He sat on a low, three-legged stool and flicked a fly whisk back and forth across his face. Men and women squatted around him. The morans stood to the side, leaning on their spear shafts, some of them balancing like storks, on one leg.
“Jack Warden,” said the man, spitting into his palm and holding it out for Jack.
“Olonana.” Jack shook hands.
I tried not to think about the gob of spit sealing their greeting.
“This is my friend, Rodel.” Jack steered me forward until I was standing before the chief. “Rodel, this is Bahati’s father.”
Oh God. Please let this be a spit-less hello.
I smiled and gave the man a curt bow, keeping both hands plastered to my sides. He nodded, and I let out my breath. Apparently, his spit wasn’t just for anyone, only those he held in great affection. And he was obviously fond of Jack because he summoned another stool for him, while I was waved away.