Huntington, an Englishman in his late forties, attractive and intelligent, had become a special friend. He was in Kenya on a three-year assignment with the United Nations. He loved Africa and was hoping to stay on indefinitely, perhaps even to settle permanently in Kenya. His young wife, Amanda, however, found life in Nairobi difficult. She was clearly homesick for England. It had become an issue between them. David and I had met at a United Nations–sponsored conference in Nairobi on aid. He took me under his wing and helped me learn the ropes in and around the city.
David had developed a healthy disdain for those in the aid business who he felt profited from Africa’s misery. Nairobi served as a base for a proliferation of aid agencies, most with headquarters in Europe and the United States. The United Nations had its own private, fenced-in compound situated in northwest Nairobi, with its own modern supermarkets, theatres, sports facilities, and schools. A large expatriate community lived there in relative comfort, with tax free salaries, free housing and schools, expensive four-wheel-drive vehicles, and special discounts at designated expatriate stores beyond the reach of Africans. One had to question whether these agencies were organized for the benefit of the aid receivers or the aid givers. David had strong views on the subject and over time he struck a sympathetic, though less cynical, chord in me on the complicated business of providing aid to underdeveloped countries. David would become a close friend to whom I could turn for advice concerning the restructuring of the Flying Doctors Service.
The evening of Krystyne’s arrival, December 10, I was stuck in rush-hour traffic on my way to meet her at Kenyatta International Airport. The length of Kenyatta Avenue was blocked solid. Waves of pedestrians streamed between my Nissan and the line of cars stalled in traffic. A haze of suffocating exhaust hung over Kenyatta Avenue like a dirty blanket. Stoplights in Nairobi took forever to change, causing frustration for drivers who sat immobile, staring grim-faced in the heat and pollution.
Without warning a loud bang interrupted my daydreaming as a beaten-up Ford Opel sedan struck me from behind. Both my tail lights were smashed and the trunk acquired an ugly hump. The driver of the Opel, an older African, and his terrified wife were shouting excitedly in Kikuyu, while he waved his arms and pointed to the empty space in front of my car. Apparently, he felt I was to blame for not having advanced quickly enough. It was a hopeless argument. I re-entered my car and resumed the frustrating crawl towards the roundabout, cursing.
A small boy in rags ran in front of the car and around to the driver’s-side window, “Please, Mister, give me something,” he held out his hand pleading. I kept a bag of sweets in the glove compartment for such occasions; within seconds the car was surrounded by a band of urchins, brown eyes imploring, fingers tapping the window, eager for treasure.
Begging in Nairobi is an art form. Mothers supervise their daughters from a distance as they work the street. Six-year-old girls dressed in rags with totos (small babies) on their backs are trained to run into the thick of traffic to secure a shilling from white female drivers waiting at a stoplight. The boys are more aggressive, working in packs, waiting for an open car window so that they can grab whatever is lying on the back seat or snatch a watch off a wrist, or earrings, sunglasses, or even necklaces from unsuspecting drivers. The older ones ply the traffic lanes, selling newspapers, magazines, and articles ranging from full-length mirrors to cosmetics, toasters, hammers, and toilet paper, most of which have been stolen during the previous night’s escapade. The jumble of traffic and frenetic market activity along the street provides an exciting sense of energy; everyone is hustling, hands and eyes active, never missing a trick.
Finally breaking free of the jam, I circled the roundabout and bounced along the Valley Road to the Mombasa Highway against the piercing headlights of oncoming traffic. My excitement mounted as I turned into a parking space and headed for the international terminal building to meet Krystyne.
Krystyne, tall and regal (a shade under six feet), stood apart from the bustle of tourists and Africans scrambling to extract their bags from the luggage belt. She looked lovely, dressed in linen, standing under the garish neon light of the arrivals terminal. I slipped past the guard into the baggage claim area. We met over a pile of luggage— our first embrace in Africa.
Night fell with a thud over the Nairobi plateau. We emerged from the glare of the airport into the unlit parking lot. The crumpled trunk of my Nissan refused to open. I loaded Krystyne’s bags into the back seat and we headed into the chaotic rumble of traffic towards Nairobi. Krystyne gripped the armrest, bracing herself against potential accidents as cars careened towards us like alien meteorites off a video screen. The drive had her guarded and nervous as she related home news. It was only when we entered the Nairobi Club that I realized how incredibly shabby the place looked, paint peeling from the ceilings, leather chairs disgorging parts of their interior, carpets threadbare and unable to hide the creaking, wax-caked wooden floors.
We made our way up to our small room and squeezed into the small space available between the bed, the chintz-covered armchair, and the small writing table. For Krystyne it was a stark change from the comforts of Toronto, where the luxury of space and a garden were taken for granted.
“Think of it as a cabin on board ship,” I said enthusiastically. “You’ll see, space is relative,” I added optimistically. “Did you know that Nelson, after a year of chasing the French back and forth across the Atlantic, refused to disembark in Toulon, preferring to remain in his small cabin?” Krystyne let this pass without comment. Sure enough, our little room soon became a real home. In a curious way, it drew us closer together; closer than we ever could have imagined that evening, her first in Africa.
TUESDAY MORNING, following my first meeting with Gerber, I entered the Flying Doctors Service hangar and found it a mess. Surplus equipment lay abandoned in every corner. Damaged propellers hung from the walls, old engine blocks gathered dust in the back corners of the stock room, and tools were scattered everywhere. More than half the hangar floor was occupied by two “hangar queens”—partially dismantled planes that were a permanent feature of the hangar but had not flown in years and were not even owned by the Flying Doctors Service. Aircraft wings, parts of airplane fuselage, spare seats, damaged instrument panels, the list went on and on. Parts were piled high to the ceiling. A pack-rat mentality prevailed, understandable in Africa, where spare parts were almost impossible to obtain. The place had not been properly cleaned in years.
On the mezzanine floor I toured the offices of the manager, the chief pilot, and the dispatcher, as well as the pilots’ common room. At the far end of the corridor I found the flight records squeezed in alongside the HF radio set. Space was at a premium, and here, too, nothing was ever thrown out. Loose papers and files bulged from filing-cabinet drawers and shelves sagged under the weight of aviation operating and regulation manuals.
Engineering and maintenance departments were housed on the hangar floor, with their own set of records and a sizable inventory of spare parts. Aviation legislation required detailed records, which added to the duplication of paper, spare parts, and tools. It was all an invitation to waste, inefficiency, and loss of money.
The magnitude of the task of transforming the Flying Doctors Service into an efficient, self-sustaining operation hit me like a ballpeen hammer. The clean-up alone would be monumental, let alone the necessary change in attitudes among the personnel. Suddenly, the idea of coming to Africa on such a project seemed ridiculous. This assignment had the sag of hopelessness about it.
