Capture of the Sun

On June 30, a strip of the African continent from the wind-blown deserts of Mauritania to the lava-strewn shores of Lake Rudolf was swathed in the shadow of the moon for as long as seven minutes and four seconds. A total eclipse of the sun of that duration will not recur for another 177 years (TIME, June 25). Joining up with 120 scientists from eleven countries and scores of curious amateur astronomers, TIME Correspondent Lee Griggs camped out in the remote Kenyan village of Loiyengalani, where he found the reaction of African tribesmen as fascinating as the eclipse itself. His report:

The scientists, including 70-odd Americans, had trooped into the village two weeks earlier, bringing with them $1,000,000 worth of telescopes, disk antennas, computers and all manner of other modern equipment. Never had the Samburu, Turkana and Elmolo tribesmen seen anything like it. Their torpid existence in the barren lake area, where year-round temperatures top 100DEG, was rudely shattered.

The government had distributed exposed film strips to protect the retinas of the curious. Turkana and Samburu witch doctors told the Elmolo (who have no witch doctors of their own) that disaster would strike them anyway, that an Elmolo child would die when "the white men steal the sun," and that nursing mothers' breasts would go dry.

Then reporters arrived, and instead of disaster the Elmolo suddenly had unprecedented prosperity on their hands. A Japanese crew from Nippon Television moved in and "bought" the tribe for a little over $7 a day plus two sacks daily of corn meal to supplement their fish diet. In return, the Japanese were supposed to get first rights to film the tribe's reactions to the eclipse. Other reporters started paying with chewing tobacco, beads, mirrors and sewing needles for permission to photograph the Elmolo. Then the Elmolo got really mercenary and started asking $1.50 from photographers for posing.

Turkana tribesmen traded their spears for eclipse buttons and T shirts that visitors brought with them from Nairobi. One tribesman peddled to the gullible round, bleached lava rocks as petrified ostrich eggs. The Oasis Lodge at Loiyengalani charged outrageous prices for drink and accommodation until complaints forced the county council to order a rollback to reasonable levels. Correspondents were being charged $43 a night for the privilege of sleeping in Elmolo huts hastily constructed for the occasion.

Though they were profiting from the eclipse watchers, the tribesmen were plainly worried by all the unaccustomed commotion. The long telescopes looked like guns aimed at the sun; obviously the white men were going to shoot it down, perhaps to punish the tribe for taking advantage of tourists by charging so much for photographs. As a precaution against attack by hostile forces in the dark, the tribesmen recruited a "home guard" of Samburu, armed with spears and with hair ochered to frighten off any evil-minded people.

Eclipse day dawned cloudy, but a slow clearing set in and astronomers took hope. At the nearby Consolata Fathers mission, Father Joseph Polet made plans to ring the bell during totality as a sign that it was safe for the Turkana, Samburu and Elmolo to watch without injuring their eyes. Barely 20 seconds before totality at 4 p.m., the last wisp of cloud moved away. Soon the sky grew eerily dark. Donkeys and camels started toward their manyattas (corrals). Cattle drinking by the lake started moving inland. Kupatwajua, which in Swahili means "Capture the sun," had begun.

Wary Glances. At the Elmolo village, women took their babies inside the huts and covered up the entrances. A few men stayed outside, nervously, to watch. In the nearby Turkana and Samburu villages, women ran home, their heads covered as if against some impending disaster. Just before totality, shadow bands rippled across the ground and the few Elmolo men still outside in voluntarily jumped as if to get out of the way. One came up and giggled at me, taking my hand as if that would somehow provide protection. In Muranga township near Nairobi, a man, convinced the world was ending, locked his house and hanged himself.

Then it was dark. Not night dark, but kind of full-moon dark. Yet you could still see for miles, and every feature of the landscape was visible. Nearly five minutes later, a piercing shaft of sunlight broke through the bottom of the dark circle in the sky. Roosters crowed again and birds chirped once more. Still the Elmolo stayed in their huts. It was a long time before they started coming out, casting wary glances upward. The sun was back and the white man had not stolen it after all. They sang and danced to celebrate its return.

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