The Manticore was critically short of food, so once again hunger had caused us to weigh anchor. We moored in the Gulf of Aden off the coast of Djibouti. The locals in the area claimed that hunting was really good in the Rift Valley a few miles to the south, so I assembled a hunting party to procure some wild game. Within the valley, we soon encountered this young Massai warrior, quite a long ways from home, who was on a lion hunt. We didn't speak the same language, but because of his people's exposure to Arab explorers, I was able to reach a common ground using my limited Arabic. He introduced himself as Mbiraru. He went on to tell us the details of his journey and why he was so far north. To make a long story short, it appears that a local lion from these parts had been mauling the cattle of his tribe. It was rumored also that this lion was an evil shapeshifting witchdoctor. The warrior accepted the honor of setting out to slay the beast for his community. I had offered to help, but my offer was politely declined. He told me that this was something he had to do alone. I respected his wishes. After about 30 minutes of amiable conversation and a snack of gazelle jerky, we said our farewells. I wished him the best of luck and watched him disappear into the mountains. To this day, I never did find out what became of the noble warrior. I can only hope he was successful in his quest.