I was fortunate enough to visit Ngong Racecourse, thrice.
Once on a visit, the second time to a race day, the third time, my band headlined a music festival there, writes Tony Ridgway.
My first visit was overshadowed by my earlier visit to Karen Blixen’s home, at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I felt like Finch Hatton, traipsing through rooms, kitchen, gardens, waiting for the Baroness to bring me a glass of chilled chablis on the veranda.
First impression of Kenya: HOT.
I had to settle for swigs of tepid water out my satchel, but the thrill of seeing where Blixen cooked, entertained, wrote, and slept kept me cool. I got even cooler shortly thereafter, with a few ice cold beers at a bar nearby where Hemingway slaked his thirst.
Thirst slaked, my Mombassa-born driver, Cedric, led me into Ngong Race Course, which lies off the insanely long Ngong Road, which, in turn, is an insane miles long strip of informal shops, some exposed, some in containers, others unaccountable, inexplicable.
In my cowboy hat and Who t-shirt I walked the course, popped into the stipes room, a few other officials’ rooms… all empty. In fact, an eerie air of long lost finery and colonial amenity proliferated: remnants of OUT OF AFRICA, WHITE MISCHIEF, old English opulence turned to paucity.
Yet the wide, green track on which Nairobi’s ponies run, amazed me.
Yellowwoods , Fountaintrees and Moringa enfold the racecourse, the short rains Kenya’s famous for keep the track green and salubrious, even though 65% of Kenya is arid… and HOT.
When Cedric sped away to my impressive hotel on Parklands, my mind filled with wonder: how interesting would tomorrow’s race meet be, at The Jockey Club of Kenya; around since 1898, when they first raced Somali ponies.
Formerly East African Turf Club, they flourished since 1921, in 1926 history was made when infamous vanilla-Kenyan Beryl Markham (Aviatrix and horse trainer) trained Kenyan legend, Wild Child to win the St Leger. Markham was also the first female trainer (at 19) to get a trainer’s license in Kenya. Years later, after her correlation in the break-up of Karen Blixen and Denys Fich Hatton, she became the first person to fly solo, non-stop across the Atlantic from east to west. Racing folk ain’t normal!
History, antiquity, providence lie in the air; 50% humidity, 34kmph Lake Turkana wind, the promise of a “short rain”.
I ate like Louis The King at The Mayfair, drank like Gazza, before going to bed in a room that might have been near Ascot. Or Morgan Leafy’s bedroom.
Cedric, in a Man United jersey, was watching Leon Schuster video clips in the lobby, when I came downstairs, in my Toon getup. Ready for a black and white day. And several Tuskers.
The four ticks on my new Nikes bought from a vendor out a container outside my hotel made me poised, sure, of a pleasant, fruitful, day. I had 6000 shillings in my track-bottom pocket, a spring in my step.
Cedric showed me another Schuster gag on his phone, laughing like a manic hyena, and I laughed along, sunnily. When we got to his van, I felt Saudi-Arabia under my Geordie attire, a magpie flying into dante’s inferno. 42 degrees.
Driving to Ngong Racecourse was… again, insane.
Cedric played De La Rey on loop, driving like a loon amongst other loons on the roads, cell phone in his left hand, seeking more Schuster clips. I don’t think there are stop signs, traffic lights, yield signs, right-of-way signs, any signs directing traffic, in Nairobi. Just manic drivers, with huge smiles on faces, and not an iota of animosity.
Foreign passengers require sedation before riding with these folk, on Saturdays. They have an it’s-the-weekend-baby bubble around their ebon heads; they go twice as fast, twice as furiously, as in the week. They let off steam.
“Steam” describes Ngong Racecourse, to boiling point, when we enter the antidelluvian premise, many old and new cars, bicycles, scooters, motorcycles, taxis, mini-busses and tuk-tuks.
Race 1 is on. Ending. The commentator is getting excited, through distorting speakers. A flash ago, he was muttering in pidgin english like an old fridge humming in monotone. I see many people, running around like it’s a riot. Evidently, the favourite won.
Cedric suggested a drink, taking words right out my mouth.
There’s a bar, abstract paintings and ding, no bling, down some stairs. We sat there for half an hour. I felt like a bad man in Africa: I wanted to go home.
After 2 Tuskers and a shot of label-less tequila, I got the boere courage to hit race 2.
We watched, bet on 3 races. Ended even. The first Ngong race I watched was mystifying: I couldn’t even concentrate on where my horse was in the race; horses were tugging, rearing, flying, fly-jumping, going sideways, galloping, streaking, flailing, neighing, swaying, running like Monty Python horses, and that before they even entered the starting stalls!
Needless to say, after 3 races, and several more Tuskers I was like Hemingway, a headless horseman, in need of bed. And lots of water. Thank Bob I was at a Southern Sun Hotel. My mini-bar had an array of homesprung spring waters.
I slept like Arap Moi, with great hopes for Sunday.
Watch Rocking Horse live at Fogeys, Railway House, Muizenberg, Cape Town -the author is on lead vocals
Sunday morning, my bandmates arrived, fresh as Barberton Daisies, from good old RSA.
Breezed through customs with guitars, mask-wielding health inspectors waving them through like they were Van Halen. Not far wrong. They were Rocking Horse.
Rocking Horse headlined at Ngong’s “Boots And Hats Festival.”
There were plenty cowboys there. Horses. Goats, even. Beer. Dancing. Lots of horseying around.
We were royalty, for a day. Swear we were Queen. Not Elizabeth, but Mercury & co. A Night At The Races never forgotten.
And so, consequently, ended my horseracing experience at Ngong.
When I watch it today, see those jockeys ignoring every rule of riding, horses breaching every imparted standard, animated folk running and jumping around after the finish, like Swahili danseurs on dope, I reminisce.
I should revist “West With The Night” again, “Red Strangers”, “The Green Hills Of Africa.”
Or, Karen Blixen’s “Out Of Africa.” The book, not the movie. I’ve watched that too many times.
