where the spirits would talk to us themselves.
With the smallest of nods to Nbutu, which he returned, the two elders then returned to their village.
As I turned back to the others, everybody seemed to be struggling to absorb what had been said, let alone to understand how it could be possible. We all knew the Maasai to be painfully honest and truthful in their dealings, so it was senseless to imagine they might be making the story up. But it was Jean who, regaining his composure, or at least his wit, before the rest of us, broke the silence, and brought us all back to earth.
‘Well it seems we will be saved the arduous task of deciding what it is we are to do with our lives,‘ He said rather sarcastically, ‘as the “Spirits of Africa” seem to already have something in mind.’
As we remounted our horses to head off after Nbutu, who had simply started walking, I could hear all my thoughts played out in snippets of conversation from my friends. ‘How could they have known we would come?’ ‘It had been our decision to seek out the source of the drums, nobody had volunteered or suggested we go.’ Let alone what journey it was they referred to and what they could possibly have meant by the spirits talking to us themselves.
It took another two days to get to the Singing stones, the first unfortunately seeing us almost oblivious to the wonder of our surroundings, as we struggled increasingly with the terrain and severity of our climb. But as we gained altitude it also got a little cooler, and the ground which was parched down on the valley floor, now started to show signs of moisture and life.
The further we went the steeper and more rugged the ground became, until eventually Nbutu indicated it was now time for us to walk, and to leave our horses and camp equipment behind.
It’s amazing how much more you see and feel when you’re on foot. As we walked I think we all became more aware of the land through which we travelled. Not just because of the increased danger, but also because we were closer to the ground and perhaps had to make more of an effort to look around and understand where we were. On several occasions I was stopped in my tracks by one or another of my friends as they paused momentarily for some water or to get their breadth, only to become transfixed by the ever changing vistas and panoramas of the land around us.
It seemed that with every step the views became more spectacular. To either side of us stretched the ragged line of the Eastern rift and the flanking highlands, complimented in the foreground by the undulating plains, bush and grassland that we’d just passed through, all interspersed with the rocky Kopje outcroppings and sparkling lakes or sinuous riverbeds.
Climbing further up we eventually started to work our way through an endless maze of gorges and shallow valleys. First one, then another, gradually increasing in size and depth, until we were snaking our way upward almost entirely blinkered by the canyon walls, only sporadically escaping into the open air and the views beyond. It was tough going at times, but the ground finally started to level off, and we began to see signs we might be approaching our destination. First one of us then another would spot something, an unnatural pile of stones, or an exposed rock face daubed in paint, or etched with a symbol. The more we saw the closer it felt we must be getting, until suddenly as we got to a wider part of the canyon which held the remains of a recent camp fire, Nbutu instructed us to halt.
The light was beginning to fade by now, and I couldn’t help but think we might be better off just pushing on. But apparently it was the dusk that Nbutu was waiting for, and when we asked him about moving on, he told us simply that we were near, and that the final steps could only be walked once the sun had set.
It seemed an odd phrase for the tall Maasai to use, but I was happy to have a few moments rest and have some water, so decided