The following is an attempt to incorporate a creative writing piece of mine with one of my favorite youtube videos. I hope you enjoy.
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Flames pierce the darkness that ends another day spent amongst the Maasai, pastoralists of Eastern Africa. Time with the tribe’s people, like warmth from the fire, melts my apprehension. I expected a cultural shock, yet not one so frigid. I had studied the Maasai and their ways but no schooling could’ve readied me for the realness of living amongst them. On the other hand, having accepted anthropologists for decades; the Maasai are accustomed to the presence of westerners. They've accepted me with open arms and have not hesitated in showing me their art, homes, and way of life. They allowed me to witness all their customs and sacred practices, all but the trance of the Shaman. I received tonight however, after much proving myself ready, the approval to more than witness the trance of the Shaman. With tomorrow’s dawn, so will begin my journey with the Shaman.
I yearned for water like the land around me, my lips dry as the crackle under each footstep. What began as a brisk hike turned to a hot, weary stumble through the desert. I had followed the Shaman out of the village, trusting his guide in the dim light. And I trusted him now with my life, having neither ate nor drank all day I would not survive the return distance without replenishment. But returning was not in the mind of the Shaman, getting to the tree was his mind. As I collapsed in it’s welcoming shade, the Shaman retrieved from his pouch a small bottle. We shared it’s content, the liquid not quenching my thirst but I did not notice. I noticed my senses slipping away and soon had no sense, no notice. I was not under the tree, not there, not in today. I was away. I went to that day which is always coming, always near, but never arrives. I went to tomorrow. And as my eyes dimmed, the vision brightened. As my forehead grew so too did the image and the mountains. At the base of the first mountain appeared a trail-head. A sign read ‘Mongolia ↑’.
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I am growing or the mountains are shrinking. I lose sight of Mongolia, but mine returns. The tree shelters us from the wind now, its shade lost in the dark of night. The Shaman hands me water as cold as the runoff of Mongolia's snow peaks. He tells me we return home tomorrow. I never wanted to leave mine.
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