Sotokoto 6 with ones and firsts

Sotokoto 6 with ones and firsts

One am
I slept at one AM on July 3, 2016 – same day of the big run.  Thank Germany for this.  I had bet on them winning the quarter final match against Italy at the ongoing UEFA European Champions Football tournament in France.  I was confident of sleeping by 11.30pm when they scored their first goal in the second half for the match that started at 10.00pm.  However, it was not to be.  The game ended 1-1 by 90 minutes.  Extra time was a must, and no more goals were scored in the additional 30 minutes.  

I was therefore awake past mid-night to witness the penalty shootouts.  I have been ‘listening’ to the penalties in the last month, but I discovered that a local free to air channel was showing the matches and had my opportunity to watch the shoot-outs.  And who would have expected that both teams can squander three penalties a piece at the initial five kicks each?  The match was therefore won on the 9th kick of the extra five kicks.  I hope ‘the machine’ does not keep me waiting this long as they advance to the semis.  (Read a previous blog story where I lost a bet on some matches leading to this quarter finals stage.  I was therefore a bit passionate about my bets at this point.  So far all but one had come true.  The single miss being the Portugal-Poland tie, where the penalty shoot out let down my Poland bet)

Kumi na moja
That is the time was that I was taking breakfast, ready to leave the house for the bus stage.  I was at the Nakuru highway at 5.20am and got into a matatu ten minutes later.  I landed at the city centre at six and walked to Haile Sellasie – Uhuru Highway junction to await a vehicle.  This next vehicle took me past Nyayo stadium to the diversion at T-Mall, where the left side of the road was already closed and had to share the wrong side of the road with oncoming traffic.  I walked from Wilson Airport to Uhuru gardens – a ten minute walk – to warm me up ready for the run.

One toilet
The athletes had already started gathering at Uhuru gardens by the time I arrived at the gardens compound about seven.  It is usual to empty the body ready for such a run, and that is what forced me to the usual directions of the washrooms.  I was glad to see the single toilet block, though I wondered why they did not think of portable ones or any other way of coping with the expected numbers.  Woe to me, when I reached the block to find it locked.

“Wapi choo?,” a colleague in front of me asked the stranger standing around.  He could have been an official of Sotokoto or a cop or just someone in some uniform.

“Eh!... Imefungwa?,” he asked and answered himself, “Sijui”
A lady who was just ahead kind of pressed her mid-part with his hands, tried to walk aimlessly, but could not hold it any longer.  She just crouched and let go.  The two gents, and those behind us, now at an abrupt stop, just out of a locked block, decided to look elsewhere.  Luckily, there was a ticket on the fringes of the gardens.  The guys just watered the thicket.  Those with ‘heavier’ ideas fertilized the thickets, just almost in plain sight.

Saa moja
“Ni saa moja,” someone announced on the public address system, “Twakata kuanza mbio.  Wote waende kwa barabara nje ya compound hii.”

For the benefit of the foreigners, evidently Japanese, who were the main sponsored, she translated, “We are about to start the run.  All are asked to get out of this compound to the main road.”

Soon a crowd gathered outside Uhuru gardens, on the tarmac road now closed to traffic, next to some two signs of both of the road, written “START”

First Lady
We got to learn that the run shall be flagged off by the first lady of the republic, Mrs. UK.  Time started running and no sight of our host. Runners just milled around, some in chatter, others in thought.  Some took selfies, others watched them take them.  Some warmed up, others stayed put.  Some complained loudly of the delay, others were indifferent.

Three outrider motorbikes followed by three dark Mercedes Benz saloons signaled the arrival of the guest.  A fourth big van, same dark colour, followed at the rear.  As usual, these machinery forcefully ejected the once settled runners out of the comfort of the tarmac and had to seek refuge on the road side for the 30-second duration of the drama.

One hundred
One hundred is the number of runners that I counted at the starting line.  Is this not the worst publicized run in Nairobi?  Raising only 100 runners out of a city of over 1 million!?  Is this a joke or what?  I wonder why the organizers cannot raise the numbers, when other runs are twice expensive in terms of registration fees and these usually marshal over five thousand runners.  

This was the worst attended run ever.  I was been to other three Sotokotos in the past, 2009, 2010 and 2013, but none was this bad.  I tend to think that the organizers just woke up some day in mid-June and decided that they are holding the run.  Contrast that to the Nairobi International marathon, for example, which is already registered runners for the October event, over 3 months in advance.  And, this is just because it is local.  Other international runs at the big arenas in the US and UK register runners almost one year to the event, and close half year before the run.

July 1
Looking back, I was at Uhuru gardens secretariat office of Sotokoto on Friday, July 1 to collect my run number and kit.  This was after receiving official communication that the kits would be ready for all to collect from 9.00am on that Friday and the following day only.  I was taken aback as to how they can issue the runner kits just 48-hours to the event, for all the runners that they were expecting?  Had they deliberately orchestrated this run to fail or what?  How many people can collect kits within 48-hours at such a remote location?  It took me two hours on two public transport vehicles to get to these offices (plus a third broken down matatu and double the fare as a consequence).

“We do not have T-shirts yet,” the lady at the unmarked reception and the equally concealed secretariat office started when she saw my approach.  The reason why I was able to trace this office location was due to precedence.  I just recalled where I got it three years ago.  Without that experience I could have been lost.

“What do you mean?,” was my answer.  They had communicated to me that I should pick the gear, and here they were telling me that there was nothing.  Could they not get their act together first before inconveniencing such philanthropic runners?

1pm
She tried to explain that the kits were late, though they had the run numbers only at the moment.  She said something about suppliers, delays, expected after 1pm, come back later, or come back tomorrow.

“I come from Uthiru, which is in a different province” I told her, “I am not coming back here!  Get me someone who shall give me a solution.”

She hesitated.

“Make no mistake,” I reiterated, “Am not coming back to Langata road until Sunday.”

There is nothing that breaks the toughest of situations that some simple words, which I encountered when finally some guy came into the office, “Apologies, we are very sorry that the T-Shirts are not available yet.  Truly sorry.  Accept our apologies.”

What say you, when someone apologizes over a situation?  You are completely broken down and your defenses are no longer in place.

“Get me the run number.  I shall use a previous T-Shirt,” I assisted them.

0011
Was I really runner no. 11?  I registered for the event on June 15, having received an invitation through email the previous day.  The registration fee was KShs.1,050 – a strange figure, but when I finally saw the receipt showing only 1,000/=, I understood that the organizers did not want to incur any processing charges through the PesaPal platform that was handling the online payments.

If it was true that I was the eleventh runner, based on the run number, then the registration for this event was worse than I thought.  Add to the delay in providing runner kits in time and you have a situation at your hands.

One stanza
We sung one stanza of the national anthem just after her excellence arrived.  Thereafter, it was a matter of the flag off though a countdown from 10.  At count 1, the blast of a starter gun was heard and all started the run.  I started my timer.

The run route had changed.  I have run from the Nairobi National park to Nyayo stadium and back as was the inaugural run circuit or from Uhuru gardens to Nyayo stadium with two loops and back, as was my second run in Sotokoto two.  

This third run on Sotokoto 6 was taking advantage of the newly build Southern by-pass that connects Langata road to Nakuru highway.  It was a simple enough route – a run from Uhuru gardens, straight to the by-pass to head towards Ngong forest side upto the 10.5km mark for a U-turn back to the stadium.  Just 21km of nothing but pure, dark, hard, unforgiving tarmac.

One water point
I had expected some water points along the route, especially at the 5km marker, but this did not turn true.  The ‘5km’ board was lonely at the centre of the road with no water point on site.  It took sheer will power to just keep running without knowing when this vital hydrate shall be available.

The run was uneventful.  They elite runners just sprinted off, while the rest of us veterans tagged along.  The runners were quite few, and that meant that the crowd was think, in fact just a file of runners, usually 20-50m apart.

I met the first runners, the fast ones, at a time of 0.38.00.  They were already on their way back while I was yet to hit the 10.5km turning point.

Water relief!  I meant what a relief!  I finally reach the U-turn, to get the first water point, even as I dip my fingers into the basins that contain some ink.  Just like the First Lady marathon in March, we have a similar dip-fingers-in-ink situation.  Please, invest in some simple timing chip.  Those transmitters cost less than a cent for crying out loud!!  I briefly glance at my stop watch which reads 0.50.00

One (more) water point
I encounter a second water point on my way back, at the 5km mark.  I know it was now there for long, since that is the route I have just been through some 30-minutes ago.  One other rule in running is to ensure that you have some water at all time.  I apply this rule by throwing away the almost empty bottle that I took at the turn-back point and pick a full one.  I run with this to the finishing point.

The way back is easier.  I just realize that the first leg was hilly and the way back is generally on a downhill.

111
I hit the finish line inside the Uhuru gardens and the organizers hand me a small piece of paper.  The number 111 is written on it.  This is my finishing position.  I guessed the runners were one hundred only, but maybe I was wrong.  However, I doubt if they shall be more than 200, based on the numbers that I encountered on the route.

Another round of recording names on the finishers’ sheet, and then a walk to the tent where the blank finishers’ certificates are issued after they put a big cross with a marker pen on the runner bib having the run number.  

The predominantly red lettered cert reads, 
“Certificate of Completion – 2016 Sotokoto Safari Half Marathon.  This Certificate is hereby awarded to dash dash for succeful completion of the Sotokoto Safari Half Marathon dash dash category (21km/5km) race in a time of dash dash.  Awarded on this day of 03rd July 2016.  Signed (signed for sure) Douglas Wakiihuri, SS, Race Organiser, Sotokoto Safari Marathon”

The typo on ‘succesful’ is real.  I had to re-verify to confirm that this typo shall last with us for eternity.

Good thing is that I shall be having the first certificate to show for this event – which I had previously described as the run with nothing to show – no cert no medal.  At least they have now worked the cert part, albeit a dash dash version.  Maybe, just maybe, we shall be looking at some medals soon.

This is what I shall fill on one of the dashes… a time of 1.34.18.  The other parameters such as distance, calories, average speed, max speed, slow speed were not available since I just replaced the bat of the gadget and forgot to calibrate.

11.11am
I alight from the matatu back home at 11.11am.  I finally have my T-shirt as a carryon luggage.  I collected this T after the run.  The organizers had asked me to check before/after the run.  I managed to check after the run, and after sms reminder that, “Pick your size small T-shirt as the only ones remaining”.

I was categorical on the application form that I needed a size L.  I was even the eleventh athlete to register.  How is it possible that I can get a leftover T-shirt of size small?

“You are lucky,” the gentleman at the secretariat office informed me, “I stumbled upon this size M”

Lucky?  Really?

Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Nairobi, Kenya, July 3, 2016

Of Lost Bets and Broken Buses – My Latest Run Down Coast

Of Lost Bets and Broken Buses – My Latest Run Down Coast

No where
“Shukeni.  Basi imefika,” that was the announcement that got us out of the bus at 0345hrs at the wee hours of Monday morning on this 27th day of June.  It was cold, chilly, drizzling.  We were in the middle of almost nowhere.  My Google map on the phone indicated the position as somewhere about 10km from the Voi turnoff from Mombasa direction.

The passengers got out and momentarily settled on the ‘new’ bus.  This bus was a distant relative of where we had come from.  Open-the-window air-conditioning instead of ‘real’ air-conditioned.  Rattling-structure-and-almost-deafening-engine, from the quiet and almost inaudible hum of an engine previously.  From hardly any movement, to almost earth quake vibrations.  From free wifi, to what-is-wifi?  From projection screens for watching movies to nothing!  From Oxygen to eh… No-Oxygen!  It was a compulsory move to the rescue bus.

Impunity
I was seated on no. 25 seat before the move.  This was almost mid-bus, aisle side, on this 45 seater.  The next seat passenger was on the 26 seat by the window.  We left Mombasa at 2230hrs on the dot.  This was a bus B for sure.  The bus A that my colleague Charles took was a real bus A – with all things ‘A’ class, including personal video screens behind each seat.  I was seeing such show of tech for the first time on a long haul bus.  I cursed under my breath for having been given a ‘B’ bus despite having booked before him.  How do these things go?  Same price, different offers, no explanation?  Both buses left 10.30pm – probably the latest departing buses from the ocean front towards the inland.

“That is meant for both of us, stupid!,” I did not say, but I considered saying.  This happened when the bus had departed and the attendant was issuing small packs of juice and equally small packets of biscuits.  The juice part was smooth.  He handed a couple.  I direct one to 26 and it was taken.  The biscuits arrived when I was already reading through One Bright Summer Morning by Chase.  I saw the two packs being handed over, which were picked by 26… who proceeded to keep both!  Without even blinking an eye and just kept quiet as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary!.  Now, do you get why I almost called names – surely!  How dare he!!  I considered asking, but avoided the likelihood of an exchange over a 20 bob packet.  However, I kept this experience for a future blog story.

But not yet.  What impunity!  Imagine he went ahead and started munching from the first packet, hardly 15 minutes after setting off, immediately after the lights in the bus went off.  I was almost kicking the front seat in anger when I stopped short, remembering the saved trip to the dental unit.  I cheered up – my good, his bad!

Bolts and nuts
About 30 minutes into the drive, I kind of noted some change in the vibration from the wheel, which was just under my seating position.  It is like it started consistent bursts of vibration just beneath our seat, though the bus kept going and the internal smooth ride persisted as usual.  I even proceeded to sleep, ignoring this as some uneven road or something.

Out of my unconsciousness, I noticed that the bus had come to a halt.  I thought it was probably a police stop or they were waiting out on another coach that was on distress.  However, it is usually difficult to sleep when the soothing hum of a moving vessel comes to an end, and this is what brought about my momentary awakening.  So, I started becoming consciousness of my surroundings, noting that it was 2.00am, based on the prominent display at the front of the bus, top left, just above the door.  It oscillated between ‘2.00am’, ‘25C 45%’ and ‘8m26d’.  That last combination did not make sense.  If it was meant to be the date, then it was 2 months ahead or 10 months behind.  Maybe it was something else.

Jumping ship
At 2.15am there was a kind of a stir, causing a number of mainly sleeping passengers to awaken.
“Watu tano, wenye haraka, washuke waingie gari lingine,” someone at the front of the bus announced.  Some passengers grabbed their carry-ons and left stumblingly, on the relatively dim bus – just as the internal lights were switched on.

“What is going on?,” someone asked.

No answer, was the answer.

The group that stumbled out just disappeared, the rest of us just sat.  Others stirred from their sleep.  Small murmurs started.

At 2.20am, the same voice that made the first appeal came back to the front of the bus with an update, “Jameni, muwe wavumilivu.  Basi limeharibika lakini tutalitengeza tu.  Muwe na subra” (Please be patient.  The bus is having a mechanical problem but we shall deal with it.)

Aha!  So that is why we were stuck something, actually nowhere!  It is at this point that I switched on the virtual map that revealed our location – we were about a dozen kilometres after after Voi turnoff.  On a deserted patch of the great Nairobi-Mombasa highway.  I was facing a second breakdown, in as many years, with the same bus company, only that the direction of the travel was different this time round.

What's your name?
I decided to exit the bus, as others moved around the bus aisle.  I could see another bus from the same company stopped besides the road, just behind ours.  Those who disembarked with their luggage must have got into this particular bus.  It left while I was still out, only for us to all observe in amazement that they had not locked their side luggage compartment.  

It was useless shouting after a bus that had zoomed off on this still dark night, and shot through the smooth tarmac, hitting cruising speed in under five seconds.  Our driver tried in vain to remember the conductor’s name… and driver’s name to no avail.  We were of no help either.

“Sasa yule Kondakta ywaitwa nani yule?,” he asked the group of six or so passengers milling outside the bus on this pitch dark part of the highway, occasionally illuminated by blinding headlights from approaching vehicles on both sides, then left darker thereafter.

No one answered.

“Huyu nani, huyu jama wa kuenda Kampala ywaitwa nani huyu.  Huyu mwenye kelele kelele huyu!”

No answer from us.  What were we to answer?

At 2.30am the driver asked us to embark so that we can move to a ‘safer’ location.  

“You mean we were unsafe all this while?,” I thought of asking the obvious.  I kept this question to my worried self.  But surely, being deserted in the middle of nowhere must be unsafe.

Abandoned
Moving at a slow pace took us to an abandoned fuel station, about 2 minutes from where we had broken down.  The driver then switched off the engine and all systems, including air-conditioning… and we started waiting for we-do-not-know-what-next?  

From chatter, I gathered that there was a kind-a bolt on the rear left tyres that had broken and fell somewhere on the route.  This caused a noticeable instability on steering the left side of the bus.  It is upon stopping to check the cause of the unstable movement that this discovering was made, and the captain decided to abandon ship, Ok, bus.  I also gathered that they had called for an ‘emergency’ bus from Mtito Andei, which was to be with us in 15minutes.  What a relief!. 

However, the relief came 1hr later, at 3.45am and it was a contrasting relief I can tell you for free.  Reaching Mtito an hour later ourselves confirmed that we were surely far from that haven all this time.  The rest of the travel back to the capital was uneventful and we disembarked at the Modern booking station in Nairobi at ten, about 4 hours from our expected arrival time.  However, there is a saying that “Msafiri ni mkafiri” so this was OK – to me, another adventure in the course of travel.

Big pool
Flashback four days earlier – I had used a bus from the same company, leaving Nairobi at exactly 10.30pm and arriving at the coast at seven.  After checking into the hotel of accommodation, I had spent the day just relaxing, waiting for the arriving of a fourth member of the team, Charles.  Janet and Mercy had already checked in when I arrived at ten since they had arrived early morning.  We could not do the business of the day without the full team.  We were to develop a corporate strategy as mandated back home.

Our second day was fully constrained by the business of this long weekend, which had seven deliverables.  By nine P when we took the dinner break, our list of deliverables was reading four complete, one partially done, two not yet started.  However, the human body can only take so much and so we had to call it quits, have dinner and retire to bed - the earliest we have ever gone to bed while near the ocean.

We were just to take a short walk on the giant pool, with white sandy beaches, on the Saturday morning on our third day.  The short walk ended up getting us to the warm waters, which started being sole deep, then heel deep, then mid-leg deep, then knee deep – that was my limit.  Janet and Mercy had remembered to come ‘dressed’ in inflated tyres.  Charles was the swimmer, and kept nudging them to the deeper waters.  I was the non-swimmer, and kept nudging myself to the shores.

“Dada, nikufunze kuswimi,” I heard someone offer Janet.

“How?,” I heard her, just almost beyond earshot now, mixed with the many noises made by the many swimmers on the big pool.

I could figure out Janet being moved around on the tyre, towards the deeper waters, though at some point she called to Charles for his attention.  At confession time, a few wines down the throat, she said that the ‘teacher’ was starting to massage her legs.

“And what is the problem with that,” Charles laughed out loud.

“You missed a free massage,” I rejoined.

Of course we knew what she was driving at.

“Mwathani!,” she exclaimed.  She only did this special exclamation if matters were elephants, “That guy had started going bolingo*,” she elaborated.

We burst out laughing, momentarily interrupting the concentration of the crowd watching a live match between Switzerland and Poland at the ongoing UEFA championships.

“That is not anything,” Charlie volunteered, “At the deep sea where we were,” he continued, “Things were being done live.”

“What ‘things’,” I asked.

“We WB, wacha kuwa analogue,” Mercy reminded me, “Manze hao watu walikuwa bolish wote.  What else?”

“Mwathani!”

“But you two also disappeared from the shallow water to that place,” I observed, but was cut short.

“So long as you are afraid of the water, you shall be losing out.  Sisi pia tuli…”

I did not want to hear no elaboration.  Liars!  Just because they were 20 meters from where I was!

Shisha
A walk to the rest room brought me face to face with quite some interest observations.  One of the madams seated to our left was actually just having a top (only).  She was bolingo elsewhere!  Just in front of her seating place, about two tables from ours, stood the pool table and believe you me, a pregnant mama was shooting the ball!  A shisha pipe here and there was nothing extra ordinary.  Skirts that ended near the waist than near the knee seemed to be new fashionista.  Just in front of our table were two gals, chewing miraa from a big collection of the herb at the middle of their table.  They both spewed enough nicotine to addict all in the kibanda.  They did not give a damn about other revelers.  We had similar sentiments on them.

A chick moves from her seat next to the one who is bolish.  She moves to an empty seat just next to where a jungu is seating.  That is now just in front of our seats, to the right.  The jungu momentarily leaves, while the chick remains.  When the guy comes back, there is some sort of exchange between them.  What we can see is the shaking of heads.  The rest of their conversation is now muffled by the shouts from the patrons who are supporting one of the teams on the big screen.  It is penalty time after a one all draw.  The situation is tense.  All are tense.  The chick is tense, the jungu is tense.  The chick leaves her seat and goes back to where she had come from.  Whatagwan!  The penalty kicks are taken!  One team kicks one out – the other kicks all their five.  It is done.  I lose a bet.  Damn Swiss!  And to lose a bet to Mercy!?  Of all the people!?  I feel like whiffing onto that shisha thing now.

Maybe that is where I started losing out, since the next day she completely abandoned me and was taking her wine inside the residents’ pool at the hotel, with Charles, both half naked, while I had another humiliation of losing a second bet to the same gal, when Ireland allowed themselves to lose 2-1 against France.

I am not taking any trips down coast during a tournament.  Of lost bets and broken buses – I have had enough.

*bolingo - slang for 'without clothes'.  Short form is bolish

Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Nairobi, Monday, June 27, 2016