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I stole this from a friend's email to her friends and family, but it gives lots of good details and I changed it a little...

One daladala and one bumpy pick-up truck later, we arrived at Isaya’s boma, which consisted of three small huts – one for each wife and their children, and one for his father, surrounded by a thick wall of thorns. The huts themselves, which were made of dung and ash, consisted of one large room with a small fire for cooking in the middle surrounded by a few stools. Each hut had two “beds, ” which, in reality, were a pile of sticks covered by a hard cow skin. Each bed, which was about the size of a full, was expected to hold anywhere between three and five people. In the middle of the boma was a smaller enclosure made of thorns for the cattle. Although the area was no more than thirty feet across, at night, it was home to more than one hundred cows. Just to the left of the cattle, fifty goats slept in a separate pen. Although the cattle were taken far beyond the walls of the boma everyday to forage for food, the goats were free to wander around the compound, leaving the dusty ground covered in feces. And yet, Isaya’s one-year-old sister crawled freely across the compound.

Almost immediately after we arrived, Isaya along with five or six of his friends began to dance. Maasai dancing is actually more like jumping. They begin by shuffling around in a line tapping their fimbos while making the most bizarre sounds – a combination of high-pitched cries and low guttural sounds. Suddenly, they stopped shuffling and began to jump one at a time,
low to the ground at first but eventually they started to get higher and higher, feeding off each other’s energy. You would never believe how high they are able to jump, and with such ease. You would think they had nike shocks instead of pieces of tire tied to their feet. After thirty minutes or so, they invited us to join. Women, however, are not supposed to jump. They shake, but somehow they do it without moving their shoulders at all. Try it. It is a lot harder than it sounds.

Then we were to eat a goat...apparently, in Maasai tradition, it is good luck to name the goat just before it is slaughtered. As we were the guests of honor, we were asked to give the goat an American name. Only one named seemed appropriate – Barack Obama. Minutes after his christening, we watched in horror as Barack Obama was suffocated. [Actually, I, Rachel, stood away so I did not have to see the apparently brutal death. I explained in Swahili that I didn't mind the goat alive, or dead, but I didn't want to see it in-between] As blood is one of the Maasai’s staple foods, it would be a shame to waste any of it by cutting its throat. Immediately three or four Maasai descended on the carcass, skillfully carving the animal apart.

No part of the goat is wasted – even the feet are smoked and eaten. Before I knew it, I had not only tasted smoked goat, I had eaten raw kidney and drank blood, and not from a cup – straight from the stomach. It must be fresh of course. I suppose it is all part of the cultural experience. I am practically Maasai now. In fact, I almost became Maasai when one of Isaya’s friends began to bargain with Tony over my bride price.

After the entire goat had been devoured (not by us I can assure you) and another few hours of dancing around the bonfire, we retired to the hut, which was now completely filled with smoke. With only one small lantern in the corner, we felt the way towards the bed, around the baby goats who were spread across the room to sleep for the evening. In order to experience the true Maasai lifestyle, all four girls squeezed onto one rock-hard bed. I think it is safe to say not one of us slept for more than a few hours that night and I may have woken up with a few bruises on my hips. In the end, it was not necessarily a comfortable experience, but I can certainly say I have gained a whole new understanding of village life and the Maasai lifestyle, in particular. Definitely an adventure.