The Maasai tribe make up just 2.1% of Kenya’s population, but they are of course the most well-known, the mainstay of tourism campaigns alongside lions, elephants and all that. To many ‘mainstream’ Kenyans, however, the Maasai are known as being, frankly, more than a little bit “crazy”. They traditionally take many wives, their coming-of-age rituals include circumcision for both boys and girls, they believe they own all the world’s cows, and their favourite drink apparently involves a combination of milk, fermented with cow’s urine and ashes. Yum.
But like all cultures, you have to take the rough with the smooth (just look at the Brits, for instance – total weirdos). The Maasai are also deeply respectful of nature, at one with the land and the animals, fiercely protective of everyone in their communities, proud warriors, and really good-looking. They are very protective of their traditions and their culture, many of them refusing to ‘modernise’ in the way other tribes in Kenya have, despite significant efforts by the Government to persuade them. There’s something surreal and quite special about seeing a Maasai moran (young warrior) in their traditional shuka (robe) and sandals, wearing their beads, their hair hennaed, carrying their herding staff and striding through downtown Nairobi on their mobile phone. 
But I’m teasing you – you want to know about the goat’s blood, right?
Well first, I should explain how we came to be there. At Il Ngwesi, one of the most special activities you can do is to visit the local community near the lodge. I should emphasise that this is not one of those hideous tourist experiences where fake Maasai appear in five star hotels after dinner and do the classic jumping for a few minutes of reluctant entertainment. These guys are the real deal, and the profits from the lodge go to this community. Having visited the village once before, we were keen to encourage Helen’s parents Sue and Mike to take up the invite again, but this time it came with a difference. “If you want, you can buy a goat for the village”, says David, our handsome guide. “It’s a good thing – the village gets to enjoy a goat, and you get to stay in the evening and watch, get involved, and eat some”. Sold!, we say.
And so we rock up at the village. We learn about the history of the Il Ngwesi community, we fail spectacularly to use the traditional bow and arrow, we see how they collect honey, make fire, we have a look in a manyatta (hut), all the time surrounded by goats and wide-eyed children. The women sing for us, the young warriors dance. We settle down to watch. It’s a mesmerising, beautiful spectacle, and it’s very clear that we just happen to be here, but it’s not really done for us. The Maasai love to dance, and they’re obviously having a great time, egging each other on, seeing who can jump higher, paying us very little attention.
As the sun lowers and afternoon turns to evening, we spot a small group of returning warriors outside the village perimeter, and we see that they’re carrying a particularly fine-looking goat…
There’s definite excitement in the air as we’re invited to join the slaughtering ritual. I expected something brutal, messy and quick, so I’m surprised to see two of the young men simply holding the goat to the ground. One holds the legs while the other presses down on the goat’s wind-pipe, slowly suffocating it. It might seem crueller that way, but it’s a strangely peaceful scene. Everyone’s quiet. After a couple of minutes, sure that the goat is now a former goat, it’s time for some real excitement. A knife is produced and, by peeling back the skin of the neck and nicking the jugular vein, the fresh, warm goat’s blood pours out and forms a reservoir in the neck cavity.
“You want to try?”, they ask, “but you must be quick”. The blood is coming out quickly, and they don’t want to waste any if it overflows onto the ground. Helen, previously open to the idea, backs away at the idea of drinking straight from the goat. Sue and Mike don’t look keen either. I’m determined to try. I step forward feeling self-conscious, but there’s nothing for it – I’m onto my hands and knees and leaning in to lap up the blood. The surrounding warriors grin in a mixture of appreciation and amusement – I’m evidently not experienced at this.
I have to confess to being pleasantly surprised. The blood is very fresh, very warm, tastes smooth, almost milky. It’s distinctly goat-y. I can’t pretend I’d drink it regularly, but I’m pleased to find I don’t gag in disgust. I raise my head, blood dripping from my beard, feeling decidedly carnivorous.
After some quick blood-drinking for the most respected warriors, an older fellow steps in with an incredibly sharp knife and in no time, he’s skinned the entirely goat. The skin will be dried and used for bedding. While we’ve been distracted, the dancing in the village has continued unabated (like I said, it wasn’t for us), and a nice cooking fire is on the go. Mr Goat is jointed, carved and “thrown on the barbie”. We learn that different parts of the beast are reserved for different groups. The elders get the head and back, the warriors the legs and stomach, the women the neck and sides, the children most of the offal. Nothing will be wasted. One goat will feed the entire village, and it’s a very special occasion.
It’s an incredibly atmospheric evening. As it grows dark, the firelight reaches into the clear starry night, the dancing continues, the goat cooks, and we savour a truly unique experience. They even bring out a cake to end our meal, with icing on top thanking us for coming to visit. It’s a huge cake, and most of it is divided amongst the children of the village, who by now are tired, still excited, and still staring at the white people in their midst. It definitely ranks as one of our most unforgettable Kenyan experiences.
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