brother of the famous fashion model Iman, although he remained quiet about that.
On missions, the pilots were supported by nurses—the backbone of the Flying Doctors Service. They were supervised by Bettina Vadera, a young, attractive, blond German-born doctor, who was dedicated to her nurses, never demanding from them anything she was not prepared to take on herself. All the nurses were African, well trained, and capable. Among them were Rose, the oldest, a single mother, wise and competent; Judy, her inseparable friend, the supervisor in charge of training the new arrivals from nursing school; and Rebecca, whose quiet dignity, grace, and gentleness exemplified all that was noble about the vocation of nursing.
The nurses supervised the twenty-four-hour emergency HF radio station housed at AMREF headquarters, a medical radio link that covered all of East Africa and served as a reliable backup for the army when their communication system failed. The Flying Doctors Service delivered medical services to many in East Africa who otherwise would never have seen a doctor or nurse in their lifetime.
In spite of the cash-flow difficulties and the political intrigues typical of most volunteer-based organizations, the Flying Doctors Service was viewed as a first-class organization of vital importance to Kenya. Employees believed they served a higher cause, which nurtured heroic performances by both pilots and nurses that often went unnoticed by the outside world.
On the hangar floor David Mutava, the chief mechanic, was in charge of the men; he was devoted to Jim Heather Hayes, having flown with him in years past. He would point a gnarled finger to his head, saying, “See this white hair? How do you think I got that? Flying with Jim.” David relished telling tales of Jim’s flying exploits. “He was an uncanny pilot, knew the plane’s capabilities, always pushing the envelope. He used to scare the shit out of me.”
David served as mediator between the men and Colin’s wild ranting on the hangar floor. The men trusted David. He had the instincts of an older African—wisdom acquired from years of watching and adapting to the muzungu’s, white man’s, ways, without losing his natural instinct and cunning.
David and his men gathered regularly for tea breaks. They drank a mixture of hot milk and tea, a leftover from English colonialism, in the lunch room, where the language was Swahili and corporate politics were viewed from the perspective of the hangar floor. The place was off limits to senior management, a custom even Colin observed.
After lunch, men and supervisors would saunter out onto the ramp to lie under the wings of the Flying Doctors Service aircraft. Cool breezes blew across the open airfield as they watched the airline hostesses walk by on their way to the Air Kenya terminal two hangars east. There was much informal banter as well as hard work, and in this sense, life in the hangar was like living in a large family.
In many respects the whole of Wilson Airport was similar. It was a close-knit community of flyers, charter operators, mechanics, electronics shops, and flight-training schools. The private companies were owned exclusively by white Kenyans or Asians. Black Africans served as employees, rarely rising to a level above that of mechanic. There was no animosity, no conscious reference to colour or class; that was the pecking order. The British had bequeathed a class system that was firmly entrenched on the airfield. It was just accepted.
Most of the aviation companies teetered on the edge of bankruptcy. Owners spent their days grappling with the lack of spare parts and chronic shortages of cash. It was a tight community in continuous crisis; everyone owed someone else a spare part, money, or a service of some kind. The reconciliation of accounts when an outfit went bust left a wave of recriminations and the licking of wounds.
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