So I know I promised many of you that I would upload pictures this weekend, which obviously didn’t happen. There are two reasons behind this failure: 1. My Kenyan internet connection is about as reliable as the 2008 edition of the Cardinals bullpen, and 2. I was too busy winning fame and fortune in my world debut on the international camel racing circuit. That’s right: to the ever-expanding list of things I never thought I could (legitimately) call myself (but always dreamed of), you can add “2010 Samburu-Maralal International Camel Derby Bronze Medalist.” And before you ask, the answer is yes—I have already discarded my previous C.V. and medical school application essays, replacing them with a new streamlined version, which reads: “Andrew Hoekzema. Bronze Medal – International Camel Derby. Let’s just skip the interview, shall we—when do I start?”
So this is the story of my weekend in Maralal. Maralal is where you end up if you take the last matatu out of Nyahururu to the edge of civilization…and then drive into the desert for another 5 hours. In honor of the Friday the 13th shenanigans that flavored my trip up there, I shall now present my vast accumulation of travelling wisdom to you in the form of this handy 13-step travel guide:
How to Get to Maralal in 13 Easy Steps:
*Reference Note: “matatu” refers to the ubiquitous, garishly decorated vans which act as a sort of informal bus system just about everywhere in Kenya. Legally, matatus are allowed to fit a maximum of 14 people. I have never seen a matatu with fewer than 18 people inside.
2. Catch the early bus to Nakuru. Try to get some sleep (the secret here is to avoid looking out the front window, which will only make you aware of the repeated games of chicken your driver is playing with the oncoming traffic as he tries to cut around other buses, and can therefore act as a minor insomniac.)
3. Arrive in Nakuru. Find a quick bite to eat somewhere. I do not recommend the samosas at the Easy Coach bus stop.
4. Find a tuk-tuk (one of the cute little three-wheeled taxis puttering around everywhere) to drive you to the matatu stand to catch your next ride. Discover once you arrive that the friendly but clueless Easy Coach employee had no idea what she was talking about when she told you this was the right matatu stand. Turn around and drive to the matatu stand on the other side of town instead.
5. Take matatu to Nyahururu. Be happy about the chance to practice your flexibility as you maneuver your body into a space the size of Nicolas Sarkozy’s left pant leg. Enjoy the beautiful ride through the hills of tea plantations and try not to think about the lifetime of knee replacement surgeries awaiting you.
6. Arrive in Nyahururu. Take a deep breath and enjoy the view for the approximately 2 nanoseconds you have before you are swallowed in the mob of hawkers and matatu drivers trying to sell you things you never knew you didn’t want and/or shove you into vehicles you don’t want to be in, heading for places you don’t want to go.
7. Get hit by a bus. I’m told this step isn’t actually essential, but I found the bruised wrist and adrenaline rush to be an effective means of waking up from the travel-induced stupor which may have set in by this point.
8. Try to recruit a matatu to go to Maralal. Get creative: beg, cajole, sing, cry, do your best Tiananmen Square protester impression (well, maybe your 2nd best—given the choice between staring down a line of tanks and trying to stop a stubborn matatu driver, give me the Panzers every time). Try not to get discouraged when even the dubiously named Nucleur Shuttle company turns you down with an incredulous and vaguely sinister chuckle.
9. Give up. Mill about in an aimless manner. If you meet any other white people, act like you are old friends. Let’s face it: you’re both white and in Kenya. There is a 1000% chance that you have a mutual acquaintance.
10. Stumble across a man who owns a car that he will allow you to hire. Take the offer. Celebrate! Wait for the car to arrive…for about two hours. Celebrate! Load your bags into the trunk. Discover that the driver has gone missing. Wait for him to return…for about two hours. Celebrate!
11. Set off for Maralal! Revel in the gorgeous sunset and the thrill of an open road winding through a starkly gorgeous landscape. Say things like “It’s an adventure!” or “This is the kind of story you tell your grandkids someday!” or “Hakuna matata!” (brief public service announcement: no one in Africa actually says “hakuna matata.” Unless they think you are the kind of tourist who will squeal with delight and buy something from them if they say it.)
12. Don’t panic when your rear tires begin to smell of burning rubber. Or when your driver decides he is too tired to continue and allows the college student from Nairobi who is hitching a ride with you to take the wheel for a few hours in the pitch dark on a road with ruts so big my dog could walk down the center of one and never be seen from the roadside. Or when the guards at the military base you stop at to use the facilities warn you that you will probably be confronted by lions, elephants, rhinoceroses, and possibly even some not-very-nice people if you continue. Or when you actually are confronted by a mama elephant in the middle of the road and she becomes convinced that you are after her children and not in fact on a perfectly innocent journey to go sit on some camels. Just keep driving. Except for the elephant part—for that one you should probably stay very still and wait until she moves.
13. Arrive in Maralal! Promptly collapse from exhaustion.
So at this point in the story, we have finally made it to Maralal. Despite sporting a locale only slightly less convenient than your average Al Gore documentary, it is actually a charming little town:
That’s it there on the left. No, not the tree. Behind the tree. You might have to squint a bit.
So it’s got size issues. Except, apparently, for one weekend a year, when it becomes the center of the international camel-racing universe and transforms its main (read: only) street into something like this:
That is the view from the starting line. And the entire population of Maralal.
So, having gotten to Maralal, how does one go about finding oneself perched on a camel, about to fling yourself headlong into 10 kilometers of pure one-humped fury?
Step 1: Make friends with an expert camel handler.
The guy in the red cap is Lawrence, and he is from Marsabit. Marsabit is where you find yourself if you start from Maralal and walk north through the desert for 5 days. Every year, Lawrence and his six brothers make the five-day trek through the wilderness to get to the camel derby. They are hardy people who live in a very harsh place, and they know their camels.
Step 2: Make friends with a camel. (You will likely find this significantly more difficult than Step 1. Unless you are also a camel.)
This smiling fellow is Dhakhan, my trusty one-humped steed. The racers from Marsabit have a tradition of naming their camels after defining characteristics—one of my friends had a camel whose name meant “earlobe”, a traditional symbol of wisdom and serenity, because it was so calm and aloof (and slow. I think he finished in 20th or something.) The tallest camel is called by the word for “tall”, the fiercest camel is called “cobra” or “shark”, and mine was named Dhakhan, which (fittingly? Ironically? Coincidentally?) means “white.” The goofy grin is a brilliant cover-up—he’s a cold-blooded cutthroat on the course.
Step 3: Mount the camel. This is the real start of your beautiful relationship. Like the start of most beautiful relationships, it is also extremely awkward.
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Step 5: Race!
I have no pictures from the race itself—believe it or not, when camels run, they do not glide gracefully along in a smooth canter. Instead, imagine one of those jerky, gangly robo-walker things from Star Wars waddling its long legs off like a freakishly tall four-legged penguin. It’s not exactly poetry in motion. And I know those roped up plastic sacks and leather hides I’m sitting on look pretty luxurious, but they are in fact supremely uncomfortable in places you really don’t want to be uncomfortable. After nearly an hour in the saddle, I could only remember one time in my life when I felt more cramped and sore, and that was after running a marathon. But if you want the glory, you’ve got to pay your dues, and it’s easy to forget the pain when you’re galloping clumsily towards the finish line, using one hand to urge the camel onward with a stick-turned-riding-crop and the other to alternately hold on for dear life and attempt to whip up the crowd lining the final stretch, your handler running alongside shouting words in some guttural desert language that makes it sound like he’s actually speaking in the secret tongue of camels…and then all of a sudden it’s over and there's 40-something riders behind you and only 2 in front and everybody's calling you "Numba Tree! Numba Tree!"
After that, well, then it’s all roses…
…and photoshoots (thanks for all the practice, Jef & Arif!)…
…and interviews (Mom, did you hear me?! I said hi to you in front of the entire viewing audience of north central Kenya! Which I think normally sits at around 3 people. At least 2 of whom were probably at the derby, and hence not tuned in to my epic victory speech.)….jpg)
…and trying to avoid toxic globs of spit frothing from the mouths of pooped camels.
Aside from my brief flirtation with Kenyan radio stardom, the chance to shake hands with some insignificant member of parliament (who, as far as I can tell, gets the privilege of representing a quarter-million square kilometers of utter nothingness in the Kenyan legislature), a lovely “Visit Kenya!” gift bag complete with handy tourist map, and of course eternal glory, my podium finish came with a cash prize equivalent to nearly US$125, which is an absurd amount of money in rural Kenya. I gave it to Lawrence. He tried to refuse, but he earned it far more than I did. Needless to say, we were both pretty stoked at the awards ceremony that night:
Afterwards, Lawrence told me I would have won…if I had been 20 kg lighter. So I’m going on an intensive diet in preparation for next year’s race. I call it the “I live in freaking Kenya” diet.
And Dhakhan the camel lived happily ever after. The End!
More pictures to come later this week! ("A likely story!" you say, to which I retort "...yeeeah..." and try not to calculate how many months it will take to get the rest of my photos online based on the three entire days of sucking up office bandwidth it's taken to upload the 10 pictures in this post. Stay tuned.)
I can honestly say that I was captivated by step 7, hit by a bus; however, we are talking about Andrew here, the guy that ran a marathon but the less known story is how he played frisbee that same night. Awesome stuff A, keep them coming.
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