Ndakaini Marathon 2016 – the 21km run that turned out to be 26k

Ndakaini Marathon 2016 – the 21km run that turned out to be 26k 

Early
This is surely the earliest that I have woken up this year.  I was up at 3.30am on this Saturday, September 10, 2016.  Come to think about it, I was generally sober from 1.00am, having made the mistake to tuning on to radio and listening while pretending to sleep.  The topic of discussion was unbelievable on live radio, but… the airwaves are liberal and you can tune in or get out if you are offended.  Who in their right mind discusses ‘jomvu miritini’ (Two towns at the coast, I assume) and ‘aina tofauti ya duka la asali’ (different types of honey shops) on open air!?  Is it that my Kiswahili is so rotten that I do not understand what this is all about?

“Surely, we have lost it,” I said to myself as I got out of bed to mix the cup of cocoa, which was strategically positioned besides the bed the previous night – this is called advance preparation.

I was dressed and ready to leave at 0345 hours, my runner number 723 having been affixed on the Tshirt same day when I got it on Wednesday from the IMG offices at International House 4th floor.  I managed to wake up the watchie, who was sleeping on the stairway of the residential block, to allow him open the gate for me.  He had a puzzled look on his face, partly dazzled by being woken up ‘at midnight’.  I know that he thought it was midnight.  I even got scared, as he locked out of the compound and wondered what would happen if I was to be forced to bolt back.  However, such bad thoughts do not occupy the mind of a marathoner.

Liars
I was at the main Nairobi-Nakuru highway by 3.50am.  I could only see the night buses from Western side of Kenya zooming past, momentarily lighting up the otherwise dark night and dark tarmac.  No matatu was beckoning for passengers, as they usually do at the right time.

“Why did I get out of bed early,” I clicked.

I attempted to get into a country bus that had dropped some passengers at the highway stage, only for the makanga to cheat me that they are not going to town, but to Kawangware.  There was no need to lie.  I was ready to pay!  It was not for free!!.  I watched in total disgust as the bus went straight ahead toward Kangemi (and town) – BAD KENYAN that lying makanga!!!

Nonetheless, I was lucky to get a matatu at 4.05am.  It packed us four per seat, instead of three.  Anyway, it was the only one on the route all the way to Westlands.  Seated in front of me were two ladies, evidently drank, calling the conductor like every second, speaking loudly over nonsensical issues, laughing at the slightest of no joke.

“Hapa ni Westlands?,” they asked, almost in unison, as the matatu stopped at Kangemi.
“Poeni waresh,” the conductor reassured them, “Tukifika Westy nitawashtua.  Musiwe na wass.”

The matatu set off from Kangemi to a stop 15 seconds later at the Kangemi flyover to pick some other passenger.
“Si tumefika Westlands?,” one of them asked.
We had hardly moved for crying out loud!

Ten such questions later, the duo was dropped at Westy, after which peace prevailed in the vehicle.
It dropped me at GPO around 4.20am.

Wabera
I walked a stretch of Kenyatta avenue and then turned at Wabera street towards the High Court, then to Re plaza, the pickup point.  I was to be ready to catch the 5.00am bus arranged by the organizers of the run – not for free.  I had paid 700/= together with the 800/= for registering for this run.

“Mwathani!,” I found myself shouting.  Subconsciously.

“What!?,” came the response from the three ladies, whom I had just overtaken on Wabera Street pavement.  My exclamation was due to the skimpy way they were dressed.  One had a skirt whose length ended almost at the waist.  The other had something that was pretending to be a sleeveless top, my observation wat that it was more of just a bra.  The third had a combination of the two.  The corner of my eye caught a few other gals who seemed to have an issue with dressing, they seemed to hate clothing and preferred to have the bare minimum.  Did I say they preferred ‘bare’ and if not possible, then ‘minimum’.

Last year the buses were late, forcing runners to wait for them until almost six.  This morning the three buses, branded ‘Double M’, were already parked next to Re plaza when I got there around 4.30am.  I was probably the third athlete to arrive.  From then on, it was a matter of getting into the first bus, the 21km bus, so that we can set off at five.  That was not to be, since the athletes were late forcing the first bus to leave the city at 5.44am.

Conspiracy
It took us 45 minutes to reach Thika and another 45 minutes to reach Ndakaini, specifically, Kagira Memorial Academy, which was the new parking lot for vehicles.  Previously, we have been parking at the Nairobi City County water treatment plant compound, which is nearer the starting point.  By ‘nearer’, I mean 2km near.

The time was now 7.20am.

I have been to Ndakaini three times before and I knew that we had been dropped much much further from the starting line unlike previous years.

I was vindicated since I had to jog for 30-minutes to get to the starting line, hardly 10-minutes before the run was scheduled to start.  At any pace, I cover 5-7km in that period of time.

“Conspiracy!,” I cried out loud!  

How do you force ‘some’ competitors to start with a 5-km run before the real run?  That is not level.  That is not right!  I am as sure as the first marathon held in Marathon town Greece that I could have missed the start of the run had I not run the distance from drop off point.

Script
The run started on the now very familiar route and the run progressed as per the script.  This marathon is a 10-hill run.  The earlier you get that reality etched on your mind, the better for you.  I now know each of them and I usually count them as I go along.  Those unfamiliar with the route had a hard time, mainly due to inappropriate run strategies, such as sprinting downhill forgetting that there is an unseen hill just round the bend.  However, make no mistake about it – Ndakaini marathon is the toughest in Kenya at the moment.  I can dare say toughest in the world – that is my experience.  I have tried to conquer it but it provides new surprises each year to tame me.

This year’s run brought in the surprise of the very hot sun just as we started the run at about 8.05am.  My legs also decided to pain on the first two hills – for no reason at all, and I really had to reduce pace on these sections.  However, I was back to normal, by the time I hit the 5km mark, after two water points and a sponge station, though that first slow pace kind of affected the rest of the run.

No. 8 Hill
I knew that I was yet to face the real back-breaker, which is Hill no. 8, though the other hills can easily confuse you that they are no. 8 if you are not familiar with this route.  And… finally, there it was… 45 degrees uphill for 1.4km.  Those are the worst 10 minutes of this whole episode.  You face the uphill, you are tired after running 16km, you can hardly move uphill, the back aches, the legs ache, the shoes pinch and hurt, the hill does not end and…. the spectators look (and react) as if you are doing nothing!!

“We mzee, kimbia!  Wacha kwenda pole pole!  Unashindwa tu haka ka mlima” (You oldie, stop running slowly.  How can such a mild hill give you trouble)

“Come try it yourself,” I am tempted to say.  I resist the temptation or rather, I do not even have the energy to get any word out of my mouth.

After that hill it is a relief to face two mild uphills on your way to the finish line – these are some of the best 4kms that you can wish for in such a marathon.  

And just as soon as it had started, the run came to an end at the main tarmac, just 400m from the once starting point.

I stop the timer at 1.47.01 

The winner
After the finish there is nothing else to do, but come back to Nairobi.  The remaining agony was just the 5km walk back to the bus and then a wait until 5pm for the trip back, as per the organizers schedule.

It was a pleasant surprise that the buses had been allowed to park at the Nairobi Water premises, which was nearer the finish point.  It was equally fulfilling that the buses left Ndakaini at 1420 hours, reaching the city a few minutes past four.  Subconsciously, I observed the various shopping centres and areas of interest on the route such as Mbari ya Rugu Primary School (what is name is that?), Mukarara shopping centre (can’t they think of a better name), Mabanda centre (this name may be for a reason), Gahunyu centre (am lost) finally Thika (am found).  From town centre, one last matatu brought me back to my residence – with a headache.  This is something, since I even did a 28km run two weeks ago but did not end up with a headache.  I usually know that a run has got the better of me if I have a headache after the run.  Ndakaini marathon, while commemorating its 13th edition, in my case, for the fourth time in a row, has now officially been confirmed to be yet another run that has gotten the better of me!

Barack Wamkaya Wanjawa, Nairobi Kenya, Saturday, September 10, 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