The Fambula Fail

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The Fambula Fail

Long story short I woke up in the banda on Sunday, unsure of how I got there. I suspect a watchman who spotted me wandering from the banda carried me there. A large number of bumps all over my body suggest that he either dragged me or I blackout-walked on full autopilot to my bed.

Fambula (it’s a house thang!) is a celebration of house/edm/fusion music held at irregular intervals at Fisherman’s Camp in Naivasha. From what I have garnered between sips of Whitecap and the occasional outburst of “more tequila!” the choice of music is varied, the DJs hail from all over and the Bloody Marys the following morning are to die for.

At the last Fambula, during a quick conversation with Paniq DJ extraordinaire (who I was always sure was from Mzansi but happens to be from right next door in Nyeri), I asked how he got to be there with his own music equipment. “We played a gig last night and since the equipment was already in the car,” he enthused, “we decided to come join in on the musical awesomeness that usually happens here.” The same could not be said for me; although I was sure the music was going to be great, my mission for the night was to get smashed and to find Dagetari, my longtime high-school crush. The plan was to give her an impassioned speech about why I’ve always been infatuated with her.

Earlier in the week, I’d been harassed by cab guys and saved by prostitutes, so my decadence quota had been pretty much filled by Wednesday morning. However, a failed attempt at not drinking at Creatives Garage the night before, meant I was engaging in a gin and tonic hangover cure from the outset of our little weekend jolly.

Arriving at Fisherman’s was a pretty straightforward affair. If you’ve ever tried sharing accommodation with a group, you know that everything should get sorted out before you get to said destination. How much it costs, how many you are and where said accommodation is. This is exactly what happened, no thanks to me. Praise Bacchus that everyone else in my group had a modicum of sense, otherwise I might have ended up wandering in a circle around my friend’s Pajero or cuddling up with the hippos by the lake.

Fast forward a few hours, two bottles of dry red, enough Whitecap to drown a mammoth, more cigarettes than I can count and many poorly mixed gin and tonics, and I was ready to find the aforementioned childhood crush. So I wandered the camp grounds, trying to find my way to the bar area but unfortunately got very lost. An amazing feat considering the bar was actually straight ahead of me. Eventually, after taking nearly thirty minutes on what should have been a three minute jaunt, I spotted her. She was talking with a guy one of our group later defined as the “ideal male”. Even through the rot gut’s winning fight with my liver and brain, I could tell I stood no chance against this chiseled chap who looked like he came straight out of an African superhero comic book.

I walked, or rather staggered, away, down the stairs and flopped down into the grass facing the lake. The booze was finally winning the long battle that had started on Saint Paddy’s. I was musing over ways to defeat this African superhero, when I heard her shout out my name. I turned and saw her coming down the stairs towards me, arms open. And then darkness enveloped me.

Fast forward a couple of days and here I am, matching with Dagetari on Tinder, so I’m assuming that I probably sleep-mumbled something good. Hopefully nothing to do with the conspiracy with my drunken self to murder the African Adonis who, I eventually figured out, is a friend of mine from years ago.
Photo credit: Julia McKay

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