I regretfully didn’t write down any of their names, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember the community I met that day. I doubt I will ever forget them. I had originally journeyed to Kenya to see the annual wildebeest migration, and as magnificent as that was, it turned out to be four friends, their cattle, and a small circle of mud huts that stole my heart. When friends ask to see photos of my African trip, they expect to see wild game and savannas; I always pull out a candid shot of four smiling warriors in red plaid blankets.

When I first arrived at the remote Maasai village outside Nairobi several years ago, I was met by a small group of four men. They were close friends, and like many close friends, there is much that they share. As members of this pastoral tribe of southern Kenya, these traditional nomadic herdsmen lead lives that have remained unchanged for centuries.

Tall, thin, and elegant, the Maasai uniformly possess impeccable manners and perfectly articulated English. Yet there is also a cool and almost detached manner in their bearing. Some would call it pride; others might see it as indifference. But it really comes down to perpetually living in the moment. An often-repeated tale about the Maasai is that if they are imprisoned, they will die because they assume the condition is permanent. Their native language, Maa, attests to this perspective. They routinely speak in the present tense which translates to such habitual actions as “I wake up” or “I cook breakfast.” Past tense refers only to a past action, not to a specific time or place.

These four gentlemen led me into their manyatta (a transitory village complex), welcoming me in their full display of shells, beaded ornaments, and vibrant robes. The Maasai ethnic identity is preserved in the wearing of their red-checked shuka and the plaited hair. The ear lobe is often distended by the weight of beads, as one of my new Maasai friends proudly displayed. “Takwenya,” he said, bowing slightly. This was the standard greeting for women. My guide had instructed me on the correct response. “Iko,” I managed, thankful I only had to attempt a single syllable. My new friend’s smile told me I was successful.

I was also welcomed with the common expression of goodwill: “I hope your cattle are well.” The Maasai have an almost mystical love for their cattle, believing back when the earth and sky first split, the rain god gave them all the cattle for safekeeping. One young herdsman was most anxious to introduce me to the herd that commandeered the center of the village grounds, even introducing some of them by name.

The Maasai almost never slaughter their cows, but on special occasions, they do drink their blood. Yes, cow blood; pure or mixed with milk. They believe the protein-rich substance will cure illness and strengthen any with weakened immune systems, particularly those who have just given birth or been circumcised.  I admit to being somewhat taken aback when I first heard about this practice, but it was explained to me that Maasai warriors would never kill a cow to extract the blood. Instead, a group holds the animal down as one man nicks the jugular artery with an arrow shot at close range. Then the cow is lovingly cared for until the wound completely heals. “We always make sure our cattle are well.”

The traditional Maasai hut is constructed from a stick frame that is plastered with mud, grass, and cow dung. The low, flat ceiling does not include a chimney and so the huts all smell of smoke. Women often gather to cook, share in child-rearing, and … like the day I visited … sing together. Their voices were loud, strong, full of joy. Even when they returned to their activities inside the huts, I could still hear them singing.

The Maasai community is polygamous and a man can take as many wives and father as many children as he can afford. Therefore, there are always large groups of children that share familial ties. Many of them came out of their huts to talk. They were curious and animated and their ages ranged from infants to adolescents. Daily lessons were offered to every youngster although some families still prefer their children skip formal education and herd livestock instead.

But one thing the children all seemed to have is dreams. One young boy told me he was planning (“training” is the word I think he actually used) to run in the Olympics … and win, as many Kenyans before him have done. He then proceeded to demonstrate how fast he could already run by zooming around the compound – barefoot, of course, which is how many Kenyans run, at least in their early years. I wish I had written his name down so I could watch for him in future Olympics. I actually have a strong feeling he will make it.

As I prepared to leave, one of my new friends accompanied me to the arch of branches that marked the exit to the manyatta. An elaborate feathered headdress was hanging on a tree. He put the headdress on, explaining that he now resembled a lion – and with the strength of this noble beast, he would wish me well as I left the village. “Be well,” he said.  “We all wish that you will be well.” And I wished him the same … and for his friends … and his village. “Ashe,” he said. “Arrabioto.” (“Thank you. I am well.”)

I will never forget them.