Camel Derby, Maralal, Samburu, Kenya

My lovely husband has taken to my new job as the post newsletter editor and CLO admin, so much so that he provided a story of our most recent adventure here in Kenya...This is the unedited version. Enjoy :)


Even before moving to Kenya, I had heard about an annual camel race in Maralal, a sun-baked, dusty outpost in the Northern Frontier District. It sounded, fun, exotic, and sightly preposterous. I decided I would check it out if I got the chance. 

There was virtually no information about the 2014 edition of the race. I wasn't even sure it was going to happen until a week before, when finally an inn-keeper in Maralal confirmed the dates for me through e-mail. It  wasn't much to go on, but I didn't care. I was somehow able to convince my long-suffering wife to agree to the trip, and on Aug. 29 we piled our four kids into the car to make the five and half hour journey north to Maralal.

It was a nice, smooth ride for about four hours, until we passed Nyahururu and the tarmac road abruptly ended. We kept bouncing down the dirt road for a while, and then - to my great surprise, considering we were in one of the most drought-stricken areas of Kenya - the skies opened up and started dumping rain on us. Although there were only about four other vehicles on the whole 150 km stretch of road, they all immediately got stuck in the mud. On a single-lane road, that's a problem. Everybody got themselves unstuck eventually, but the delay cost us a couple of hours and we didn't roll into Maralal until it was almost dark. I then made the rookie mistake of asking a random Boda Boda driver if he knew the way to our campsite. He led us on a wild tour of seemingly every corner of Maralal, before finally admitting defeat and puttering away in the rain. Somehow, we finally found the campsite and pitched our tent. That night at about 2 AM, in the cold and rain, with my 1-year-old boy screaming his head off in the tent, my wife looked at me with pure hate and said "I am never going $#&@ camping ever again!" It was a real family bonding moment.

In the morning we got up early and drove down to the actual site of the camel derby. I still had no idea what to expect. What I found was a poop-strewn enclosure with about two dozen filthy camels and about the same number of nervous looking expats who were all probably having the same second-thoughts I was. Yet, insanely, we all agreed to pay 5000 shillings for the privilege of humiliating ourselves in the 10 KM race. Having never ridden a camel or spent any time around these beasts, I was a little put off by how irritable and mean-tempered they seemed. Plus, the sounds they were making were horrific, kind of like gargling and vomiting at the same time. Nevertheless, I mounted up and we were led over to the starting line.

By this point a good portion of Maralal town had come out to watch. Most folks were in their traditional Samburu outfits - big beaded necklaces on the ladies, bright cloaks and daggers on the guys. They seemed to be getting a big kick out of watching us try to control our unruly camels. The governor of Samburu appeared, and gave a little speech for the TV cameras. Then he started to give a dramatic countdown: 10, 9, 8 . . .  But before he got past 7 all the camels erupted across the starting line in a wild, grunting stampede. 

I didn't know what I was doing but I figured if I just held on tight I would do okay. Plus, every camel rider also had a young guy running behind him swatting the camel's behind with a stick to get him to go faster. Truthfully, these guys were the only athletes in the race, since they had to run the whole 10km.

After a few kilometers, me and my camel were starting to get into a nice rhythm. I decided to stand up in the stirrups the whole way, instead of sitting in the saddle and having my butt and other important areas smashed to bits. This seemed to work pretty well, and we started gaining speed. At first, I only entered the race for the novelty of it, but suddenly the thought popped into my head: "I can win this God-damned camel derby!"  

We passed through the center of Maralal town where people on the streets watched us pass by with only the faintest interest. "Oh, it's that time of year again when stupid Wazungus ride through town on camels."

As we rounded the town traffic circle and came out on a long straight-away heading for the finish line, I was feeling confident. There were two camels ahead of me, but I thought I had a chance of catching them. But then my camel started to tucker out. I called out to a bunch of school kids sitting by the side of the road to come help. They came running over shouting encouragement and my camel started to perk back up. For the next couple of kilometers I ran with an entourage of about 20 kids, plus a guy on a motorcycle constantly beeping his horn to inspire us (or maybe just to be a jerk).

I was getting close to the finish line, but by this point I could tell that the two camels ahead of me were too far off to catch. "Well," I thought, "I'm still in medal contention." Third place would still be pretty good. But just then a riderless camel came galloping past me on the left-hand side. It was really moving fast. I was wondering what had become of the rider when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a motorcycle come roaring up with an expat woman on the seat behind the driver. She had a race bib safety-pinned to her shirt, meaning she was one of the contestants. It was the old switcheroo - she had dismounted way back at KM 2 and was planning to jump back on just before the finish line. 

I was calling her every filthy name in the book to no avail, but luckily when the motorcycle pulled over and she tried to re-mount her camel, it refused to move. Good sportsman, that camel!

So now third place seemed right within my grasp. I was in the home-stretch. I could hear the roar of the crowd as the finish line grew closer. I was almost there, but behind me I could hear another rider on my heels, gaining fast. We were neck and neck for a moment. It was a duel. I shouted encouragement into my camel's ear and we seemed to pull ahead. I looked over and saw my wife and kids on the sidelines, faces beaming as my moment of glory approached. The finish line was there . . . 

And then my camel decided to stop moving. I screamed, pleaded, and cried, but nothing worked. He just stood there as the rider who had been behind us came rushing past and crossed the finish line to a huge roar of applause. I couldn't believe it. I had come so close!  Eventually, some dude grabbed the reigns and dragged my camel across the finish line. No one seemed to notice. Bummer.

Ultimately, of course, I could give two craps that I didn't win the race. It was a lot of fun regardless, and something I'll always remember. If you are interested in participating in the Maralal Camel Derby, start searching for info next year around July. The derby almost always takes place in mid-late August. Even if you only go to watch and not participate, it's still worth it. Samburu culture is fascinating, and the landscape around that part of Kenya is incredible. 

Camels don't seem to like having riders, but Maggie didn't care, she was riding that thing!

Our 4th place daddy!

As the sky's opened up.