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You can’t miss a Masai. For one, they wear robes while everyone else in Africa seems to wear replica Arsenal shirts (really, they do). Then there’s the small matter of the killing stick – a club carved from the knot of a tree, used for, well, killing things. At least it used to be. While I doubt many Masai use said sticks for killing anymore, they still brandish them wherever they go. Even a modern-day Masai holding down a modern-day job – dressed in overalls and working on the side of the road – will have his killing stick close at hand. After all, it’s his birthright. It’s his identity.

I saw my first Masai on the road between Matema and Kisolonza. Just as the countless roadworks and police checkpoints seemed to have vanished, there he was, ambling along.

I’m sure he had a place to go and a time to be there by, but he looked happy just ambling. By all accounts, my first Masai had ambled quite far south – further than a Masai would usually amble, but given that the Masai have free passage between Tanzania and Kenya, I suppose he could amble as far as he chuffing well wanted.

Seeing my first Masai was all well and good, but sinking beer with three of them later that same day, was something else altogether.

Our advance to Dar es Salaam had been interrupted by nightfall, inducing us to seek shelter and sustenance at Baobab Campsite. No sooner had we taken dinner, did we strike up conversation with a friendly, sad-eyed Englishman who we discovered to be the co-proprietor. After the requisite Getting To Know You pleasantries, he suggested we retire to the campfire. And so we did.

We found the three Masai sat in silence, staring into the flames. Like many Masai, they had lost their herds and traditional grazing grounds to the irresistible advance of modernity, and had subsequently taken jobs as the camp’s security. In return they received payment and free reign of Baobab’s extensive grounds.

At this juncture, it’s worth mentioning that it was we three gentleman explorers who were sinking the lagers – the Masai were happy just to sit there, watch, stoke the fire and occasionally fiddle with our torches (this is not a metaphor, I assure you). But the point remains: we were in the company of three Masai warriors, and real Masai warriors at that.

My crass lapse into italics is intended to emphasise the fact that the Masai we chanced upon at the Baobab Campsite (our modest lodgings for that evening) were quite authentic – not the kind that loaf in Stone Town’s narrow streets or clutter Zanzibar’s white beaches (think Stetsons, sunglasses and spears) – but Masai who came of age by killing a lion.

A real lion.

Since lions are pretty integral to Tanzania’s economy (tourism) the Masai aren’t really allowed to go around killing them anymore. However, two of the three Masai we met at the Baobab Campsite (they worked there as security) had killed a lion in a coming of age rite of passage.

Now, other than not being able to grunt a syllable of Ma, the Masai’s native language, striking up conversation with three chaps brandishing spears is a rather daunting prospect. However, the sweet elixir of social interaction – beer – soon spurred us into action. And, with the aid of a translator, we went about verifying exactly how a 15-year-old Masai boy can kill a lion.

To paraphrase the first answer we got: Under the guidance of their chief, the Masai boys will surround the lion and jump in unison (what this is meant to achieve, I don’t know, but it’s what they do, so I’m telling you). The chief then picks one of the boys who will then kill the lion.

‘Right. But how do you actually kill it?’

‘You take a stick that is sharp at both ends,’ came answer. ‘Then wrap cloth around your hand. Then put your hand in the lion’s mouth. It will bite down on the stick. Then you kill the lion. It’s really very easy.’

Ah, yes. The old sharp stick trick. Of course.

‘Is that the spear you killed the lion with?’ We asked hopefully, pointing to the spear planted in the soil next to the Masai. The translator echoed our question in an indiscernible tongue.

‘Yes.’

Cool.

We sat in awed silence. Red embers faded to black. Smoke danced around the remains. A surreal soundtrack of Coldplay’s ‘The Scientist’ played somewhere in the distance.

NB Apologies for the lack of photos - the Masai believe that cameras steal their soul, so I wasn't going to risk snapping a man wielding a very sharp spear...