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 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,”