“What goodies shall I bring to the project?” I asked Dr E. She said, “The staff like sweets.” I thought that this was not such good advice because my new mission deals with chronic diseases, such as diabetes and hypertension. Sugar is the enemy! But I found I was wrong when I had my briefing in the office.
“What we want is Quality Street! Not Celebrations. As children we found out where my father hid the Quality Street and we ate them,” she said.
“Even the green ones?” I asked.
“No, they were our least favourite. We liked the red and yellow ones.”
“What about the purple ones with the soft toffee and the brazil nut?”
“We liked them too. When he discovered what we had done and he asked us if he was the father of thieves!”
My departure to the field was delayed by an enormous traffic jam caused by a lorry and trailer jack-knifing on the Mombasa Road. It had been loaded with cement, which was tipped over two carriageways of the highway. It had been raining since midnight, so the cement must have been setting. In my mind’s eye, I could envision workers chipping away at the hardening cement of the road surface, trying to clear the way.
We set off and joined the traffic jam. Some roads were raging torrents of orange water. Our twin cab Toyota Pickup truck ploughed through the flood, creating a bow wave. A truck passed us on the inside lane and drenched my side of the vehicle with a tsunami of muddy water. Unfortunately, I had left a crack of window open to prevent the glass from steaming up with condensation…
As we left the city en route to Embu, the rain stopped and we were able to make good progress. I sat back in the passenger seat and drank in the atmosphere. I made some notes:
Most locals use minibuses called matatus. Some matatus were named after Manchester United. Another was called, “Addicted to Jesus”. The message on a truck’s mudflap was “Almighty Leader”.
The side of a bus was painted with the Nike swoosh and the slogan, “Jesus did it.”
Motorbike taxi riders wore yellow tabards, advertising their sponsors. Some bore the name of the President. To shield passengers from the rain, a few motorbikes sported elongated umbrellas which must have limited their speed. But not as much as one man with a two-seater sofa balanced across the pillion seat.
About halfway to Embu, there is a village which is famous for its catfish. I spotted saloon cars with fish hanging from their wing mirrors, presumably to keep cool.
The countryside was verdant and sparkling after the rain. Villagers were slashing the vegetation at the side of the road, to keep the verges clear. Some workers had tucked their trousers into their long socks, which gave them a “plus four” appearance. The privet hedging around some of the petrol stations’ forecourts had been clipped in a more careful manner, with topiary which would not be out of place in the Home Counties.
Some of the roadside hotels had great names. “Beach Hotel” and “Red Soil Hotel” were two that stayed in my memory. We arrived in Embu just before lunch. Across the road from the office is the “Kryptonite Hotel”. The sign above the entrance glows green. It’s fortunate that I am not “Superdoc”.