Immediately after landing in Arusha, Tanzania, we met up
with our safari guide and headed out of town in the direction of our first destination.
I was fascinated by the town itself and the people who occupied it, dressed in
brightly colored clothes, mostly on foot with burdens piled high on their heads
or guiding small herds of animals to market with long sticks… selling their
wares in open-air markets, and children running up to windows of passing cars,
hoping to make a quick sale of one trinket or another. It was a busy, bustling
place, with motorcycles seemingly the most common means of conveyance. But as
we drove farther and farther away the sights became increasingly more rural in
nature and the buildings more rustic, often just loosely constructed dwellings
of tin sheets, wooden boards, or even large sticks strung together, basic
shelter from the elements for these people who lived such a large portion of
their lives outside, growing crops, grazing livestock, and taking care of the
basic chores of cooking and laundry.
We were only in the first hours of that drive when we suffered
a sudden mechanical failure with our vehicle. Out in the middle of nowhere we
were suddenly stopped, hood up, the men looking despairingly at an abundance of
oil sprayed over the engine. They tinkered and fiddled with the tools they had
on hand, but eventually were forced to call the safari hot line for help. Knowing
it would take a while for any assistance to arrive, we all settled in for a
long wait, studying the new terrain in which we found ourselves.
It wasn’t long before we were approached by three members of
the Maasai tribe who inhabit Kenya and northern Tanzania. An ethnic group known
for retaining their cultural traditions, their semi-nomadic pastoral lifestyle allows
them to coexist with the wildlife surrounding them. They are a friendly people,
and this group of three who came upon us were no exception. Warned ahead of
time that one must ask permission before snapping photos, and then usually not
without paying a small fee for the privilege, one member of our group passed
the time in photography and conversation with these genial passersby.
Wrapped in brightly colored robes and carrying long staffs
as they walked, what struck me most was what they were wearing on their feet. They
were sandals of the flip-flop variety, unlike any I had seen before and yet
perfectly suited for the rough and dusty terrain these men traveled in on a
daily basis. Simply flat strips of motorcycle tires, they were attached to the foot
by thongs between the toes or around the heel. Sturdy and practical, I began to
see them on the feet of people everywhere we traveled in the next couple of
days.
I had to laugh when we stopped at a small souvenir shop the
next day and there, hidden in a corner of a building whose every inch was filled
with beautiful paintings, carved wood and beaded wares… were a few samples of
the footwear I had been so taken with on that first day. If I’d had room in my
luggage I’d have been sorely tempted to pick up a pair, a most fitting reminder
of our travels in that incredible land and the people who welcomed us there.
“He lifted me out
of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire;
he set my feet on
a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”
(Psalm 40:2 NIV)
