On the first evening during our stay in the Masai Mara, we visited a nearby Maasai village. It was close enough to fit naturally into the day, and far enough from the lodge to feel like we were stepping into a different rhythm altogether.

We were asked to wait at the edge of the village for a few minutes while the welcome was prepared. The light was soft by then, the air cooler, and the sounds of the plains carried easily. Soon, a group of men approached, dressed in bright shukas, moving in rhythm, their voices rising and falling in a chant that felt ceremonial, but also practised — something done often, for visitors like us.

After the initial welcome, we were led inside, where the women received us with their own song and dance. The colours stood out immediately — reds, blues, purples — set against the earth-toned village and the fading daylight. It was vibrant, but not overwhelming. More measured than festive.

John, who guided us through the village, spoke calmly and patiently, explaining how the settlement was laid out. The huts stood along the periphery, forming a protective ring, with space in the centre for livestock. Everything about the village was practical. The homes were small, built from timber poles, branches, mud, and cow dung — materials collected nearby and assembled by the women. Every few years, we were told, the huts are dismantled and rebuilt. Nothing here was meant to last forever.

We stepped into one of the huts. The entrance was low, the interior dim. There was a sleeping area, a small cooking space, and just enough room to move around. It was difficult to imagine life unfolding entirely within these walls — families, routines, generations — but it had, and still does.

Cattle, as John explained, were central to everything. Wealth, status, daily life — all tied to livestock. As we stood there, it became clear that much of what we were seeing wasn’t symbolic or performative; it was simply how things were done. The dances, the attire, the layout of the village — these weren’t recreated for us alone, even if our presence shaped how they were presented.

Before leaving, we were shown how fire is traditionally made using two wooden sticks, a method both simple and painstaking. There was also a small area where handcrafted items were laid out for sale. We knew this visit was organised and paid for, and that the proceeds went towards community needs, including the village school. It didn’t feel transactional, but neither did it feel untouched by tourism. It sat somewhere in between.

As we walked back towards the vehicle, there was no dramatic ending, no sense of revelation. Just a quiet awareness that we had been guests, briefly, in a place that continues on its own terms long after visitors leave. We drove back in near silence, the plains stretching out again, the village receding into the dusk.