My Second Annual Maralal International Camel Derby

Today is very exciting! I’m in Nairobi working on a project, but this evening I am picking up my parents from the airport for their first trip to Africa. I hope they enjoy it as much as I have and manage to spend their two weeks here without any of the stomach bugs that plagued me during my first months in country. The sanitation on the tourist route should be a bit of an improvement over the living conditions of a Kitui homestay, but I’ve packed plenty of Pepto just in case.

Meanwhile I need to catch up on my latest adventure or I’ll have too much to write about two weeks down the road. This month I once again attended the Camel Derby in the northern Kenya town of Maralal, and once again it was wild. The trip began with full day trek from my house to Nakuru followed by a travel ordeal from Nakuru to Maralal.

The travels to Nakuru were uneventful until we were on the outskirts of Kisumu, where a gasoline truck had tipped over on the side of the road. A mob of people had surrounded the truck and were punching holes into the side of the tank to catch as much petrol as they could manage in their 20 liter water barrels. Every matatu that passed by, including our own, stopped to purchase discounted gasoline from the spilled tanker. The guys that filled our tank used their hands as a funnel and had teary red eyes and welts on their arms and faces from being soaked in the fuel. It was a bit sad seeing what people were willing to go through to earn a bit of cash. The next day the event made the paper, and it said that, despite the health concerns, things could have been much worse. The last time a tanker flipped some brilliant individual had the bright idea to light a cigarette, and many of the scavengers collecting fuel were killed as a result.

We arrived in Nakuru in one piece and I met up with several Peace Corps friends for the journey north to Maralal. After a stay at the dirty but cheap Mt. Sinai hotel, we left bright and early for our trek into Northern Kenyan wilderness. The last real town before the paved road becomes dirt (or in this case mud) is Nyaharuru. We stopped there for a visit to Thompson falls, a huge waterfall spilling into the rift valley. It’s beautiful and we walked down the steep trail to the base of the falls, where we were covered in mist and took some very nice pics that I hope to post soon.

I had anticipated a problem going any further than Nyaharuru, but figured we would get to Maralal one way or another. However, after several hours of searching we became discouraged as it became apparent that no vehicles were willing to take us any further. We were told the road was impassible due to recent rainstorms. We almost gave up when we came across a cargo truck that was willing to take us in the bed. The original price was 100 shillings and we almost took them up on it until the truck was about to leave. At the last minute people swarmed into the back of the truck, and it was stuffed to the brim. The dank, dark ride in an open truck covered by a leaking tarp to keep out the rain seemed extremely unappealing. To make matters worse, they decided the price for us should be 500 shillings as opposed to the 100 the other passengers paid. That was the last straw. The truck took off without us and we were left stranded in Nyaharuru with no way to travel any further north. In retrospect, this was the best thing that could have happened to us.

I called Laura, the coordinator of the event, to let her know we would not be able to make it. She told us to hold tight, because a private matatu that was passing through from Nairobi was carrying people to the event. We continued to wait and after yet another hour the matatu finally came. There was no room at all but the four of us managed to squeeze between seats and barely fit, much to the chagrin of those already onboard. Once again, fate was with us. Despite the discomfort of the extra people on board we became extremely useful further down the road.

Finally we were off, or so we thought. We spent another hour sitting in the vehicle not moving, because the driver, who had agreed to go from Nairobi to Maralal and had already been paid, was not willing to go any further. He was unwilling to refund the money as well. After a very long argument, the driver reluctantly agreed to go forward.

Things seemed fine at first. The scenery from Nyaharuru into the northern Kenya wilderness is dramatic. The scrubby bushes and thorny trees grow sparser and sparser, and there is absolutely nothing except an endless arid landscape in all directions. Last year there were occasional flashes of brightly dressed Samburu people herding their cattle, but even they were not to be seen.

We had several close calls in slippery mud but after a few hours we mistakenly became convinced the road was not nearly as bad as we had expected. Kenya has a way of doing that to you, so of course once our hopes were high we came across mud so deep that it was impassible. A line of trucks, at least a mile long, was stuck in place and buried up to the wheel wells. We attempted to bypass this by cutting through the brush, and passed vehicle after vehicle, including the truck that refused to give us a ride at a fair price. We also passed at least a hundred people stranded in what has to be the closest possible definition to the middle of nowhere. We were in still in good spirits, fishtailing through the muck as revving the engine high as we spun through the brush and mud, but we soon became stuck ourselves. Our driver had absolutely no idea how to maneuver through the mud, and as soon as we became stuck he pressed the gas peddle to the floor, digging a huge trench with the spinning tires that made matters much worse.

The next three to four hours consisted of getting unstuck, edging forward, and getting stuck again. It took everyone in the vehicle to keep us moving along, and before long we were completely exhausted and caked in mud. A small pickup truck behind us had the same problems, and we worked with them to keep both vehicles moving. Sometimes it took 20 people to lift the tire out of a rut just to keep going, and I’m sure we destroyed the vehicle before we finally struggled through the 5 mile stretch of impassible road. At one muddy rut, with ropes tied around the bumper to pull it through, we managed to actually tear the bumper from the vehicle. Later a tire was destroyed and the spare, which had unknowingly fallen a kilometer back, had to be located. Several petite Kenyan girls were on our matatu, and they were the real lifesavers. The women here never cease to amaze me and more than anyone they were digging through the mud to remove obstacles and keeping the vehicle inching forward.

The ride to Maralal from Nyahuru takes around three hours on a good day. In our case we spent over 10 hours on the road. When we finally made it through the mud it was dusk, and we were treated to a phenomenal wildlife show, as hundreds of large animals that had somehow been hiding during the day started to emerge. Near the road we saw plenty of antelope and gazelle, giraffes, zebras, and even a buffalo. As we continued things got a little too close for comfort. It was dark and around a bend our driver almost ran head-on into a full grown Elephant. The animal was three times the size of our vehicle and the driver slammed it into reverse and flew backwards to keep from being too close. A baby elephant was on the other side of the road, and we were very thankful as we cautiously edged past that we were not charged by an angry mother. Finally, almost kissing the ground, we arrived at the campsite. By then it was late in the night but at least we were there, and we had a camel race to look forward to the next day.

The travel was more of an adventure then the event but we had a great time at the derby too. After my extreme discomfort on a camel the year before, I decided to refrain from the 10k amateur race. I gave my handler and champion camel to another participant, who would have been the winner if she had not been directed down the wrong path. I decided instead to focus my attention on the camelathalon, where I became the two time 1^st place winner. The biking and running wasn’t too terrible, but trying to stay balanced on an extremely unpleasant and uncomfortable animal after a full throttle run and bike ride nearly killed me. I was so glad to be finished with the race and very happy to once again have enough prize money to cover the cost of the trip.

Even better then the camel races is the cultural experience of being in Maralal at the event. Because of the road less than 100 tourists were there for the games and races, but at least a thousand locals were present. The Samburu people gathered together to dance and sing in traditional clothing and beautiful beaded jewelry. Unlike the Masai Mara, where Masai people will perform “traditional dances” for tourist tips, these people were genuinely enjoining themselves. They were clustered into groups without any foreigners around, dancing and singing and jumping in a competition with the other Samburu tribes present. The event was extraordinary to watch.

The return trip from the Mara was a bit less painful. It was an adventure the first time but the though of going through it again was less than pleasant. Luckily the rain had held out and some of the trucks were even starting to drive out of the muck. Also, our matatu had four wheel drive. Even though we had to walk along side the matatu several times as it spun through the mud, the driver never got stuck. I loved the derby and can’t wait to show off some pics. I’ll post them once I return from my travels with my parents. Now I need to go and prepare for their arrival tonight!