From the Prologue: I am squeezed in with almost three dozen unfamiliar bodies into the back of a rusted, white Toyota pickup truck, bouncing along the dirt road through the acacia-filled valley. We are headed for the market town of Ngong, a long hour's drive over the bordering lush and towering hills. We make the trek every Saturday over the eastern slopes to buy the week's groceries and supplies. By foot, the trip takes four hours over the hills' dusty, arid grasslands, then three back down. One of the earliest passengers on the road this morning, I was lucky enough to stake out a seat on our community pickup truck. As usual, we squish as many people as possible into the truck's bed, pressed in until no standing room is left, even balanced on one foot. I'm seated in the only available spot in the truck's bed, above the wheel well. Milk containers roped to an iron bar above me thump against my skull with every bump of the road. A Maasai elder with long, stretched earlobes crams against me to my right, his wrinkled face and weathered feet telling of his many years of toil in the unyielding sun. The truck slows, and a number of passengers together help boost an old Maasai grandmother up into the truck. She is unable to stand fully erect, her back bent from decades of hauling water and firewood. With a sheepish smile, I shift over to provide room as she wedges herself in to my left, balancing herself with a delicate hand on my shoulder. The pickup jerks back into action, bumping down the rocky, craggy road, kicking up a breeze of gritty dust into my parched mouth. The combined reek of burning oil and close bodies, along with the ailing roar of the truck's engine, is overwhelming. With one hand I reach to help steady a small boy taking a seat on my lap; with the other, I swat away a chicken pecking at my foot. As the boy burrows further into my arms, I squint into the sun and wind, watching the women's scarves blow freely in the breeze, waving in bursts of vivid ochre and blue I gaze out beyond this scene in which I find myself, focusing on the valley stretching into a hazy horizon, and I ask myself: how did I, an ordinary American girl who grew up arguing with her parents, swimming for her high school team and playing kickball in suburban streets, end up here? And what was I even doing here? My story began just a few years ago, but it seems a lifetime away. Excerpted from My Maasai Life: From Suburbia to Savannah by Robin Wiszowaty All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
