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A day at the races
It is political correctness gone mad we say, banning the trade Bangladeshi children, stolen or often sold by their parents, to ride as jockeys for the highly unusual but entertaining sport of camel racing. We hold human rights activists responsible for the now ridiculous sight of small, humanoid, remote-controled robots mounted upon camels, resplendent in racing silks and using whips like the very best horse-racing jockeys
But there we were, in our rented car, in the desert, miles from anywhere, armed only with directions from people who didn’t speak English, and with not even a compass or star to guide us. But three different approaches for assistance netted he same finger-pointing so we figured we couldn’t possibly go too far wrong, that was, until we
ran out of sealed road and onto a rutted track. Only partially deterred, we soldiered on like two intrepid Tonto’s, following wheel marks through the sand towards what looked to be a small, but shiny, pod-shaped grandstand in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dozens of four wheel drive wagons, trucks and scores of fine racing beasts. A camel track it proved to be and the race meeting was in full swing.
At first the policeman wouldn’t let our car through the narrow alleyway to what turned out to be the centre of the track. It was too dangerous he warned, but then relented and let us proceed, but only on our promise to park well away from the action. As it turned out his caution was well placed. The track is about 7 kilometers long in an almost elongated horseshoe shape (camels don’t have shoes) and each race is one circuit, finishing at the grandstand. To start, the camels are lined up behind a suspended screen and on the other side, directly in front, stable hands pull at them on ropes. Then the screen is lifted and the race is on. The stable hands that cannot get out of the way quickly, get run over and trampled (this is absolutely true), most of the camels then hurtle off down the course, while others head in other than the intended direction. It seems chaotic. The owners also take off, on both sides of the track, in their four-wheel drives, commentary blaring on radios, horns tooting and, no doubt, ensuring the robots give their charges a fair crack of the whip. It was quickly obvious why the policeman thought it was too dangerous for the only westerners on the course to be centre stage.
At the end of each race (the top ten camels are in the money), the handlers run on to the track and grab their camels, that is those ones that haven’t turned and headed off back down the track in the wrong direction. Camels, tired from the exertion, foam at the mouth making them look as though they are lathered, ready for a shave.
Marty, who had positioned himself adjacent to a TV camera at the start line intending to get action photos of the stable hands being trampled, but was ushered away by a steward, again on the basis that it was it was too dangerous. Anything can happen, he explained, clearly not wanting the maiming or possible premature death of an elderly white gentleman on his hands. By contrast, it appeared that stable boys were entirely expendable. We also learned, only after the race, that it is illegal to take photos on race tracks, and that policeman aggressively remove cameras and have miscreants hauled before the authorities. For that reason our photos should be revered.
Three times we had been to the camel track in search of racing and it was almost three times we didn’t find a single race. The Al Wathba course is about 45 kilometers out of Abu Dhabi, and it was here we were told races are held every Thursday and Friday during the season. Although still in season there was not a sign of racing on the Thursday we went out, but, on enquiring, an attendant at the Abu Dhabi Camel Racing Association office told us Saturday 28th would be the start of a big festival. That would be the day to come, so out again we went, only to find the festival didn’t start until the next day. Out once more and still no activity. We seemed destined to be cheated of this experience, but our repeated requests for help eventually netted the desired result. The racing wasn’t at Al Wathba, that day at all, but away in the back blocks, our perseverance rewarded with a dazzling display of racing at what could be described as a sort of Motukarara equivalent to Christchurch’s Riccarton racecourse. What better treat for Kaelene’s birthday?