Well, y’all know that what happens there stays there… and if you’ve watched ‘Hangover’ the movie, then you also know that the reason it does is because… well, you don’t quite remember it wholly… rather in bits and pieces that don’t quite make enough sense to you, let alone anyone who might be interested in hearing you recount it to them. Yesterday, while chatting with FG, who I’d hoped to but did not meet there, I realized that not only had I forgotten what had happened there, I’d even forgotten to indicate here or on twitter, or fb, that I’d be attending the USA Sevens tournament which this year was held in Las Vegas. So, not only do I not know whether I met any bloggers, I have no idea if any other than myself had planned to and or did attend this Kenyan National event.
Yeah… It’s National alright. That much I do remember. Rather, I don’t remember feeling so Kenyan, and proud to be it, and acting it, and reveling in it. Visit any IRB site that mentions Kenya and you will be impressed by the awe in which the Kenyan Rugby fan is held, even probably more so than the actual team, which by the way so very well reps for Kenya. You will find that any commentary on the Kenyan team will not fail to commentate on and laud their fans for their sheer dominance of the Rugby events they attend. Vegas was no exception; they were there and they represented….. one huge red body of emotion that stayed continuously high, through the highs and lows and more… aided in part by the unlimited availability of Jeremiah Waters…. well, their US equivalents anyway, but for the better part by the unifying force that being and getting together (behind enemy lines) in a foreign land produces.
So huge a force to reckon with they were that everybody else…. other than the damn Samoans…. wanted to be Kenyan… and even they too will.. sooner or later. I mean, we (my group) hadn’t been inside the Stadium doors more than a minute before we were accosted by a seemingly sane white girl who, recognizing our nationality from our attire, had to touch ‘real live Kenyans’ and did not leave until she had kissed one of us… am not sure who it was that got the honor… I think it was Njeri… or was it? Well, it couldn’t have been me…. while she could have mistaken me for real, I couldn’t very well pass for Kenyan despite the camouflage, much less a live one.
Soon after, soon as the good Capt. M had ministered to my lifeless body… I too…. as Kenyan as I’m not, was a tiny part of the Red Madness…. dancing, stomping, singing.... yelling… and shamelessly making a grand fool of myself; and making sure that the beer vendors recognized that something great had just happened in Vegas that weekend. And that didn’t just go for the concessions at the Stadium…. Heck! I only made it to the stadium once, and that was on the first day and then at 4p.m at that…… but well in time for the last (for Mashujaa) game of the day…. Owing to the fact that the nightlife – which in Vegas, quite reminiscent of hengs back home, extends to the wee hours of the morning; and our tendencies or mine at least, of wanting to make all of life one continuous party.
The madness was as evident at the clubs at night as it was at the Stadium in the day. I don’t suppose Vegas has ever had such a huge influx of Heineken drinkers as that weekend.
Anyway…. Yeah, I finally attended the US Sevens…. and the whole way there bemoaning the fact that just when I finally decided to attend, they moved the venue from San Diego… but not anymore. The few coherent memories I have of Vegas have not a hint of regret… and I did go to San Diego later in the week for some R n RJ.
