MARAFA

The old ones tell stories of a rich man who had more wives, livestock and children than anyone could stretch their imagination to fathom. And as the tales of rich men in history and fantasy, this one was as arrogant as they come. Walked tall with his swollen pride and looked down on his village mates. It is said his family bathed in milk. Soon the gods were pissed, and they brought down their wrath on him.

Today what remains of his land is a canyon in Marafa. The new ones call it Nyari – a place broken by itself. With hellish temperatures and gorges that pay tribute to the stories of the old ones. Deep orange soil, crimson stones to represent the blood of the fallen rich man and his family, and patches of white – supposedly from all the milk he bathed in.

The scientists say Marafa broke itself because the rains and winds sculptured the sandstone rocks into dramatic layers of pinnacles, ravines and gorges.

But who cares what those book people say? They think they know everything. When you walk in that gorge and feel that heat, you will feel the enduring simmers of the infernal rage of the divine.

I wondered, though, as we sat to enjoy this devastating sunset, if the Giriama gods knew what a lasting spectacle, their hot tempers would leave in their wake.