A Visit to Korr

Most people will never hear Matahader tell a story, watch Robey dance, follow Lo Mirah into the dark of the desert, or drink camel’s milk with Sorewa. I was lucky. I was allowed into the world of the Rendille, if only briefly, and they will forever be part of my world.

We go to Sorewa’s village, Uyam, and he welcomes us as old friends. Outside his hut, he pours us brimming mugs of camel’s milk. It is an honor and he revels in it. Hospitality and generosity are not in short supply here. Sorewa insists upon bringing us a goat for slaughter the following day. He asks nothing in return but that we feast voraciously and we consent. The goat he supplies is his fattest and most healthy. He leads it from his village and with no pomp and circumstance leaves it for us. He shies away from our prolific thanks. Our time in Northern Kenya is cut short when a ride back down south appears. In Korr, if a ride is available, you take it. The goat lives another day, left behind to rejoin the ranks of Sorewa’s flocks. We leave for Nairobi along dusty trails labeled roads and I ponder my luck at having spent a few short days in Sorewa’s fold.

In the days following, we meet him in another village. He is stunning: adorned with beads, draped in blue, hair freshly dyed ochre-orange. He dances among dozens of Moran at a wedding celebration. As the sun drops, I join the dance at the pleading of the crowd that has gathered. The warrior’s chants are deep and primal and Lomiraa’s voice rings in my ears. Darkness falls and again my eyes fail me. The warriors continue their refrain, Lomiraa in the thick of it. We return to our village, some six kilometers away, the acoustic heartbeat of the celebration floating in the dense air above our heads. I picture Lomiraa dancing, his proud, eager smile, and I can’t help but smile too.

Sorewa has the wise eyes of an elder, with enough kindness behind them to instantly put you at ease. He stops by our hut every morning on his way into town from his village. It is a five kilometer walk and he knows it by heart. He talks about his flocks, their number and health; his family, proud of their growing maturity and knowledge; the weather, the recent rains and resulting humidity. He is soft-spoken and relays his wisdom with humility. I find myself wishing his visits were longer so that I might soak up all that he has to say during my short stay.

Robey at the center of the New Moon dance

Lomiraa is sixteen. He stands about five foot six and is rarely without a smile. He is perpetually proud. A Moran, or warrior, he is at the beginning of his fourteen year stint as the protector of people and animals, precious Rendille commodities. He spends his days walking mile after mile in worn-out sandals and his nights under the innumerable stars of Northern Kenya. The evening of the new moon, he guides us through the brown-gray terrain between our huts and his village with the expertise of a guide and the silence of a hunter. On the way back it is dark, as close to pitch black as nature allows. Lomiraa is not fazed. His eyes adjust and he chatters away in Rendille, his smile never fading.

We celebrate the new moon ceremony in her village. It is the sole Rendille ceremony in which the women play an integral part. The dancing begins and Robey drops her shoulders, closes her eyes and thrusts her neck forward with a grace that few possess. Her joy is genuine and infectious. Among the women, Robey is in a different world and I want to be there with her. She continues to dance, bringing me into the light of her laughter as I struggle to copy her gestures. We continue this way for a while- Robey relaxed with the rhythm of the songs swirling around us, me self-conscious and awkward. Children sleep on the backs of their mothers and warriors slink into the backdrop of the scene. Robey is undisturbed and continues her homage to the moon. When the dancing is done, she congratulates me on a job well-attempted and I wish that I could stay for another new moon to celebrate with her.

Robey is Matahader’s counterpart. She is as contemplative as Matahader is outspoken. Her eyes dance over the scenes of her day and she jokes when so inclined. She encourages my thirst for knowledge. I learn two Rendille phrases while in Korr. “Anabeya”, a standard greeting, means literally “are you with peace?” The response “nebey” means “I am good” or “peace”. I practice these phrases with Robey every day and if she tires of it she never lets on.

Most Rendille women are small; Matahader is far from it. She is quick-witted and throws her weight around literally and figuratively. I liked her the minute we met. She finishes the tale and looks at her audience, awaiting approval. We oblige. Story after story she continues, never skipping a beat, never wavering in her attention to detail. The stories have morals, comedic value, or advice. They are magnificent. Matahader leaves to prepare dinner and I am left wanting more. I am satisfied hours later in the relative cool of the evening when, smile broad, and large frame seated comfortably next to the kitchen hut, Matahader eases into another tale.

Matahader sits in the shade of an acacia tree. It is 2:00 on a blistering afternoon and she is reciting one of the countless Rendille anecdotes locked in the safety of her memory. She is well a well-known storyteller. I sit next to her and listen as Asaaska translates the tale of an eight-eyed cannibal. One of the women also in attendance questions Matahader’s account. I can not understand the exchange but in my mind Matahader, this larger-than-life character with a childlike smile says, “Oh? You think you can do better? Why don’t you tell the story?” at which the woman slinks back. Everyone knows that Matahader is the expert. “You’re thinking of a different story,” she continues. “Let me tell it uninterrupted, or go away and make yourself useful. There’s washing to be done.” I giggle to myself at the thought.

At first glance, the beauty of the Rendille lies in their ornamentation. Brightly colored beads adorn the necks of the tribe’s women and warriors’ chests and heads. Ochre stains dark faces and hair orange. Vibrant fabrics pierce the monochromatic landscape. Their revelry is equally stunning. Women dance together, heads raised, to rejoice at the sighting of a new moon, their faces aglow with the joy of each other’s company. Children laugh and play among goats and camels, their smiles as bright as the scorching midday sun. Young men shed the responsibilities of herding to celebrate those newly married. Low, guttural chanting accompanies perpetual movement in indiscriminate but perfectly structured dance. These are the scenes that strike an outsider, a glimpse into a proud and beautiful society. The spirit of the Rendille, though, is more vibrant than their beads and louder than their song. It is what permeates their culture and will hopefully continue to do so for future generations. The people I met in Northern Kenya will dwell in my heart as long as it beats: Matahader, Robey, Lo Mirah, and Sorewa are just a few of them.