Rubbing a thin stick briskly between his palms, smoke begins to rise indicating it has reached optimum heat. He puts it to my skin branding me with my first Masai burn. I bite my lip but try not to let them sense my pain.
His arm reaches across my face as he heats the stick up for a second time. His upper arm is covered in circular scars; a sign of bravery within his tribe.
When the stick touches my arm for the second time, he holds it down longer than the first - it has burnt through multiple layers leaving me with a perfectly round weeping memory of my visit.
You know it is a bad burn when a Masai man, someone who has killed a lion with his bare hands, grimaces at the sight. The Masai men congregate around me, all examining my markings. They speak amongst themselves and then one translates for me in broken English.
He points to my first burn, which has now formed a welt. 'This one very good,' he says and then points to the seconds before pausing, 'this one...it's ok,' and they all begin to laugh. It is infectious and I am soon joining them, quickly forgetting about the searing pain.
The Masai are such a beautiful tribe, wrapped in brightly colored shuka and wrists full of beaded jewelry. Their earlobes sag, stretched by the years.
High-fiving me, I am told I am welcome back to their village any time, pointing to my burns, 'you are Masai now.'
I walk back to the campsite as the sun begins to set, accompanied by a Masai warrior for protection. He hands me a sprinkle of brown power mimicking to put a line across my thumb and to snort. I decline politely but he insists.
Following his instructions I inhale a peppery powder that burns my nostril as it goes up. ‘Masai cigarette,’ he says beginning to laugh hysterically and I hope it is as a result of my facial expression and not the affect of the powder.
Reaching the gate I shake his hand and wish him ‘ashi oleng,’ many thanks for letting me into his village.
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