Feast: Warrior Blood
Dusk fell like a Technicolor blanket over the Serengeti in Kenya’s Samburu National Reserve. The waning light cast the dirt footpaths in a reddish-copper hue, the grassland vegetation in a golden green. The only perceptible sounds were the grunts of four sarong-clad Masai warriors wrestling a frightened cow into a leather collar. I watched from the brush, beginning to lose my nerve. Earlier in the day, drinking bovine blood had seemed like a good idea. Now, upon seeing the animal, and having just learned that one of the warriors would soon be shooting an arrow into a vein in its neck to induce blood flow, I was having second thoughts.
I was in Kenya as part of a press junket exploring emerging destinations in the safari lands of the country’s national parks. That morning, we’d taken a break from our usual game drives to visit a village of the Samburu, a particularly isolated sub-tribe of the Masai. In the village, we met a warrior who had just returned from a stint in the field protecting cows, prompting Ali, our guide, to explain the integral role the animals play in Masai culture and diet. In the West, cattle are typically raised to produce beef. In Kenya, cows can be prohibitively expensive. For a tribesperson to kill one just for food would be the equivalent of a Western farmer pushing a perfectly good tractor off a cliff, destroying an investment that could otherwise provide years of use. Instead of slaughtering their cows, Masai periodically drain them, drinking the blood as a substitute for meat. They mix the blood with milk for wedding ceremonies and other rites of passage and, believing it to have healing powers, serve it as a tonic to the sick, the elderly and women who’ve just given birth. I was intrigued by the potential healing powers of cow’s blood—and in a position to put it to the test.
Two weeks before landing at the Nairobi airport, a surgeon removed a metal plate that had for the previous nine months helped my broken clavicle piecemeal itself back together. The new surgical wound was still fresh, the stitches not yet dissolved. Having been sidelined from skiing, lifting weights and even practicing yoga for the better part of a year, I was feeling weak and vulnerable. The thought of drinking blood was a bit unsavory, but I reminded myself that I enjoy my steaks medium rare. How different could it be?
My traveling companions had other concerns. “That sounds like a disease waiting to happen,” my photographer Claudia warned as we pulled away from the village in a jeep. “And what about AIDS and mad cow disease and malaria?” She had a point. A Google search on “cow blood disease” back at Larsens Camp, the safari lodge where we were staying, proved discouraging. While cattle don’t carry HIV, they can transmit mad cow disease and other maladies like anaplasmosis, a vector-borne, infectious blood disease caused by parasites. Symptoms include anemia, fever, weight loss, breathlessness, uncoordinated movements, spontaneous abortion and death.
Death? I decided to consult the locals.
Saiton, the 17-year-old Masai warrior who worked chasing monkeys away from the lodge with a bow and arrow, said he had his first taste of blood when he was 7. His father made him drink it mixed with fat because he thought the boy was too thin. Our jeep driver told me no one has ever gotten sick from drinking cow’s blood. “One liter of blood mixed with 1 liter of milk will raise your energy level even when you’re ill,” he said. “And it cures all coughs.”
I had a collarbone in the final stages of healing and, with cycling season just around the corner, was willing to try just about anything. My friends remained less optimistic. Fortunately, they were curious and agreed to let me hijack our plans for a sunset cocktail. Instead, we hopped into the jeep and headed back to the Masai village.
Hiking to the cattle pasture beyond the village brought out my first real reservations about the experience, as Ali explained what I should expect. First, the warriors would select a small, young female cow—they’re weaker and easier for the warriors to hold while draining the blood—then they’d tighten a leather strap around her neck to force a vein to the surface. A warrior would then shoot an arrow into the vein to open it up. No more than 3 liters of blood is taken at a time, for the cow’s safety, explained Ali. By the time we reached the pasture, I felt nauseous. Half a dozen warriors were waiting for us. My victim had already been selected.
A warrior placed one hand inside her mouth and held her ear with his other to control her head. A second warrior held onto her shoulders. A third tightened the strap around her neck. She yanked her head from side to side in protest. Warriors 1 and 2 struggled to keep her still. A fourth warrior knelt beside her, pulled an arrow from his quiver and loaded his bow. As a woman who can’t stomach the sight of her own blood being taken, I had to force myself to watch.
The warrior hovered his arrow 6 inches from the cow’s bulging vein and pulled it back about a third of the way. I watched his forearm muscles contract as he struggled to keep the bow steady. Precision was key. He released the arrow. And missed. His arrow struck just above the vein, then fell to the ground. The cow jerked, her eyes wild.
He tried again. And again. And again. He was patient, methodical. I was frantic. I held my breath, wishing it would just be over. I felt bad for the cow and guilty for having subjected her to this. She was bleeding from multiple small punctures from the arrowhead. I reminded myself that the Masai drink a cow’s blood to preserve the animal for milking instead of slaughtering it for meat. It wasn’t exactly fun for the cow, but it wasn’t dangerous, either. She’d be OK.
But I might not be. Feeling dizzy, I shot a pained look at Claudia. She looked equally disturbed. I was considering calling off the whole thing when a cheer went up from the warriors. The arrow had found its target. A stream of blood sprang from the cow’s neck. The bowman rushed forward with a gourd to capture the flow. Then it was over. Warrior 3 released the rope. Warrior 4 patted a clump of mud over the cow’s wound. And with a slap on the rump, she scampered off.
Meanwhile, the warriors were chugging the blood, passing around the gourd. I gathered my courage and walked into their circle. They fell silent. Maybe they expected me to back out. I thought about the cow—I owed it to her to see this through. I held out my hand. The warriors whooped.
I grasped the heavy gourd with both hands. A warrior helped me tilt it back. I could hear the blood moving toward my mouth. I closed my eyes. I had no idea what to expect.
When the blood hit my tongue, it was neither as hot nor as salty as I’d expected. I took another swig, feeling braver. The taste reminded me of a barnyard red wine I’d had in the south of France. I drank with more gusto. The warriors murmured their approval. The blood was rich, satiating. I liked the way it felt coursing down my throat. I tipped my head all the way back, and blood overflowed down the sides of my face. I released the gourd and stood tall. The warriors cheered. My friends stared in horrified admiration. I felt strong, powerful.
And full. So full I skipped dinner that night. I had an e-mail waiting for me back at the lodge from Shawn Talbott, a nutritional biochemist, whom I’d written just before I’d headed back to the village. He wrote that, assuming I drank from a healthy cow, I’d just consumed a rich source of nutrients, including protein and iron. The protein bovine serum albumin (BSA) has an unusually high bioavailability, making it terrific for healing, which requires absorbing as many amino acids as you can. He also cited studies proving that the immunoglobulins extracted from bovine blood are effective immune system boosters for preventing infection.
Back in Boulder the next week, I went to a follow-up appointment with my surgeon. The nurse came in with my X-rays and hung them on the wall. Dr. Dolbeare studied them. “Well, you get the award for the most perfectly healed collarbone,” he said. “Even your scar looks perfect. Did you put anything special on it?”
“No,” I said, hiding a smile. “Just took some supplements—you know, iron and stuff.”
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