The men of the Westgate Samburu clan progress through life in broad, age-grouped cohorts. Around puberty the boys are circumcised and graduate from children to warriors (moran). Ten years later they advance and become junior elders. Their final promotion comes as they enter early middle age and assume the role of senior elders. Each stage is accompanied by an elaborate ceremony with age-appropriate rituals ranging from having their foreskins sliced by machete to rewarding wives with perfectly roasted cuts of beef. As the day of celebration approaches, people assemble from miles around at a location designated by the elders. An enormous acacia boma (corral) is created and a temporary city built inside of sticks, mud, corrugated metal, plastic sacks and grass. Each family is assigned a spot where they construct their huts (manyattas) and erect small acacia bomas to house their goats and sheep. Once the party starts there are four days of socializing, chanting, singing, dancing, slaughtering livestock, eating and drinking. These are celebrations that occur at rare intervals. If you are invited, you go.

Last weekend Tom Lalampaa’s cohort became senior elders. Tom is one of NRT’s founding fathers; a Samburu from Westgate whose life veered away from pastoralism after his father decided one of his sons would stay on the land with the cattle and one son would to go to school. The first choice fell to Tom’s older brother who chose the livestock. Tom went to school. In 1991 when Tom was circumcised, he was ranked 4th in his cohort of 70. Today he is clearly the community’s prodigal son. The Lalampaa slice of the celebratory compound was large enough to accommodate three manyattas, a tent city for guests, a parking lot sufficient for ten Land Cruisers and a cardboard-wrapped squat latrine to protect the delicate sensibilities of visiting mazungus (white people). We were invited. We went.

As I sit thinking about the weekend, a flow of visual snapshots and auditory vignettes pass through my mind. I can’t seem to analyze the experience; I just relive it.

Shaking hands: I shook hands and said “Jambo, my name is Anne” to dozens and dozens of smiling and welcoming Samburu men and coaxed handshakes and smiles out of curious but cautious children, our fascinating electronic toys helping to break the ice. The brightly dressed and beaded women glided by and touched our palms in polite greeting, their thoughts remaining hidden behind serious expressions and hooded eyes.

Noises: At midnight, in my mosquito-net pup tent and canvas bedroll, I gave up on sleep and floated instead on a river of sound that rose and subsided in waves throughout the night; sociable chatter, children playing and crying, sneezing goats, braying cattle, rhythmic clapping and the constant bass vibration of hundreds of people chanting.

Fires: Fires blazed beside every hut, smoldered inside the communal shelters and lit the heart of the ceremonial circle where grizzled elders wrapped themselves in blankets and slept on the ground. People gathered by the fires, goats, rams and cows roasted on fires and fires protected the compound from predators.

The full moon: The sun went down at 7 pm and the full moon rose from behind the mountains to light the landscape in a dim, cool glow. John and I took our beers and wandered among the cows, pushing their flanks to move them out of the way and stepping over the fresh cow manure that glistened in the dark. We watched 20 children play soccer barefoot in the moonlight. As we circled the compound we were invited to join family circles and sample their mead and roasted ram.

Slaughter: Over 100 animals gave their lives to feed the people gathered for the celebration. On the first evening each family selected a ram from its herd, led it to their camp fire, smothered it, drank blood from its neck, and then roasted it on an open fire. The next day cows were sacrificed. They fought harder but died the same death through suffocation and bleeding.

Celebrants took turns sampling the blood and wiping their red-stained faces on the cows’ sides and haunches. Once the killing was complete, the animals were surrounded by clean, leafy branches and the leftover blood boiled over a fire. Family members took turns skinning and butchering. We did not stay for the feast, but were told that everything would be consumed.

The new normal: When we crawled out of our tents on Sunday morning, the sun was just lighting the tips of nearby hills. The fires were lit and hot water, instant coffee and tea welcomed us. Our hair was tousled and we were all wearing the same clothes we’d slept in and worn the day before. John and I grabbed our mugs and headed into the center of the boma, pushing cattle out of the way and stepping over sleeping dogs and dung as we went. We looked at each other and smiled. As strange as it seemed, we realized that this had become the new normal.