to hand the money over immediately to the Flying Doctors Service. The Society’s board believed their first obligation was to Society members to ensure that monies raised were properly spent.
The Society had lost confidence in Mike Gerber, and because they felt that the Flying Doctors Service was poorly run, the Society’s board felt justified in withholding funds. While there was some justification for their complaints, no one on the board had a clue about the operations of an emergency medical flight evacuation unit, and this led to ferocious arguments and much bitterness.
Since the Society had few expenses and no obligations, it had accumulated substantial amounts of cash. Its board met infrequently to review its bank account and members debated whether or not to make a “donation” to the Flying Doctors Service, usually amounts that were pitifully small and bore no relationship to the actual costs of operation. To make matters worse, the Society did a lamentable job selling memberships; they had little incentive with so much cash in their bank account. Meanwhile, the Flying Doctors Service, carrying all the expenses of running the medical-evacuation service, was cash-starved and hounded by outraged creditors who threatened to close them down.
Gerber’s frustration over this impossible situation and his uneasy relationship with his own board had him pacing the room. Part of his problem lay in the fact that AMREF was still living under the shadow of his predecessors, Sir Michael Wood, whose reputation had taken on mythical proportions, and his younger brother, Christopher Wood. Sir Michael’s charismatic personality had been universally attractive to all those connected with AMREF, making him a tough act for Mike to follow.
Mike Gerber was an American who had grown up in New York City, received his doctorate in Asian studies from New York University, and then became a professional aid worker. He had spent a number of years in the Philippines and India before joining AMREF’S national US office in New York. Tall, warm, and gregarious, he seemed nevertheless out of place at AMREF. It was generally agreed that he was the complete opposite of the legendary Sir Michael Wood.
Over the years the Flying Doctors Service focused on emergency medical evacuations, employing professional pilots and nurses, sometimes accompanied by doctors. Seriously ill patients were flown from outlying areas to Nairobi to be treated by doctors at one of the major hospitals. Since most emergency evacuations involved Africans who had no money, the Flying Doctors Service division, without access to the Society’s cash, eventually became a financial drain on its parent, AMREF—a drain that AMREF could ill afford. My assignment was to free Gerber to concentrate on AMREF and to reorganize the Flying Doctors Service, making it more efficient, providing it with a renewed sense of purpose, and, more important, reversing its financial losses.
Mike Gerber and I quickly agreed that I should spend a few weeks at the Flying Doctors Service hangar to assess the operation, produce an initial set of recommendations, discuss and agree on a business plan, and then submit it to the board for approval.
“Well, that’s fine, Scott,” he said. “It’s wonderful to have you with us. I really need your help and I look forward to your recommendations.”
Suddenly, he seemed to realize that he hadn’t made the proper polite inquiries about how and when I had arrived in Nairobi and whether I had a suitable place to stay. We took another few minutes on the subject, following which he insisted that I join him and his wife for dinner. By the end of the evening, I realized that I could be of real help to Mike. His daily routine had become a struggle, made difficult by a political board and a recalcitrant Society. I sensed he was looking forward to early retirement.
The next day, I bought a second-hand Nissan sedan, and soon discovered that driving in Nairobi is a blood sport. It is not so much that drivers drive too fast, which they do, but that virtually all cars on the road are unsafe, wrecks held together by a grotesque patchwork of metal and body filler. No matter how old or damaged cars appear, however, they remain a potential target for thieves. The manufacture of security devices ranges from enormous links of chain to bars inserted through the steering wheel and red-blinking lights that warn of electronic sirens—mostly non-operational. The sale of security systems was and still is a thriving industry in Nairobi. Popular bumper stickers read “This car is protected by the blood of Jesus.” Expensive Land Cruisers and Mercedes-Benzes usually carry the added protection of a chauffeur armed with a billy club or a pistol, the use of which is never really in question.
The roads in and around Nairobi when I was there were a disaster. Potholes were so numerous they served as speed bumps or what some called “sleeping policemen.” On occasion, I would bring my Nissan to an abrupt stop as the frame rested on the edge of a hole, leaving a front wheel hanging suspended in mid-air. Extrication from one of these craters entailed commandeering a gang of youths to lift the car bodily out of the hole, and then enduring the inevitable haggle over payment.
Driving at night with no streetlights, behind billowing clouds of black exhaust and defective headlights was nerve-racking. Rules of the road were simply guidelines. Assuming safe passage through a green light could be as dangerous as running a red light. High beams were used as a weapon and passing was considered a competition.
Matatus, or privately operated small buses, are now regulated, but during our stay in Africa they were not, and merely added to the confusion. Matatu drivers—usually young men in their twenties— were paid by the number of passengers they transported over a ten-hour day. Passengers were packed like sardines inside a matatu by “touts,” or encouraged to hang from the sides, roof, windows, and bumpers—wherever a hand- or foot-hold could be found. Once passengers were on board the matatu, the driver and the “tout boy” assumed no responsibility for safety.
Matatus, although fast and frequent compared to the lumbering, unreliable public buses, were dangerous. They competed for riders by using moronic-sounding horns, neon lights, psychedelic paint jobs, and trendy names: Muscat Candy, The Undertaker, Shaggy by Nature, The Smasher, Brown Baby, Bad Manners, Fly Baby Fly.
Matatu accidents were frequent and horrific. A typical Monday-morning article in the Kenyan newspaper The Nation reported that a matatu, with a legal limit of sixteen passengers, had broken through the barrier of a bridge and plunged into the Athi River, killing the driver and all forty-three passengers.
My poor old Nissan sedan took incredible punishment over the two years in Nairobi. Aggressive driving seemed mandatory and I entered the fray with unabashed enthusiasm. On one occasion, I was trapped in a full-scale downtown riot caused by the political tensions over the 1997 elections. Surrounded by an angry mob throwing stones and bottles, I realized I might have to abandon the car. Tear gas and policemen wielding clubs had worked the crowd into a frenzy. The street was blocked at both ends. Drivers had deserted their cars and were running for cover. I swung the steering wheel hard over, drove up onto the curb, and, with a fearful bang to the under pan, drove over a flower bed between the trees bordering Uhuru Park, and raced across the grass to the Haile Selassie intersection. I escaped with only a slow, thin leak of oil that traced my whereabouts in and around Nairobi for the next thirteen months.
By November, the rainy season had ended, leaving Nairobi caparisoned in fresh flowers. Krystyne was still in Canada and I anxiously awaited her arrival. I had negotiated a long-term rental of our room in the Nairobi Club, and made a few exploratory forays beyond Nairobi to the districts of Thika and Karen. I was beginning to get the feel of things, know my way around Nairobi, make a few friends, and assess the size and extent of my assignment at the Flying Doctors Service.
David
