One would expect Kilimanjaro to be clearly visible from a place called the Kibo View Lodge. But when the sun came up, there was no sign of the mountain. Sarah wandered around the grounds, peering over trees and hedges and scanning the overcast horizon in vain. When her taxi arrived, she asked the driver to point out the mountain. He smiled and shrugged. “Kibo very shy today.”
The road to the hospital seemed barely wide enough to accommodate two vehicles, but somehow it functioned as a multi-lane thoroughfare. Tiny three-wheeled transports trolled for passengers along the shoulders, and motorcycles streamed along anywhere they could squeeze through. The dominant vehicles were Dala-dala minibuses, each with a young man hanging out the door to recruit customers and a driver who felt completely entitled to claim the right of way at all times.
The taxi wove back and forth to avoid potholes, people, and goats. Small shops, vegetable stands, beauty shops, and bars lined the roadsides. Large displays of brightly colored cooking gas containers were arranged in splashes of orange, blue, and yellow. The air was saturated with the aromas of fish and corn roasting over charcoal. A small white coffin lined in pink satin sat in the dirt yard in front of one shop.
Children ambled alongside the road, clustered in groups of color-matched school uniforms, chattering, laughing, and somehow managing to avoid being struck by traffic. The most popular color was royal blue, but forest green was a close second, and there were smatterings of rust, maroon, and mustard. Each uniform, inexplicably, included a pullover sweater that could not be comfortable in this tropical climate.
SARAH’S HOUSE WAS like all the others in the doctors’ compound: cream-colored stucco walls, red tile roof, and battered green garage doors. Built in the ’60s, the homes had not been that well maintained. The linoleum on the kitchen floor was disintegrating and stains on the ceiling provided evidence of a leaky roof. But the house was spacious and clean. Large screened windows transmitted sunlight and jasmine-scented breezes.
Irene, the housing manager, pointed out the large sink near the kitchen door. “The housekeeper, Rosie, will wash your clothes here. You must buy washing powder. And she will i-ron your clothes.”
“My clothes don’t need ironing. They’re wrinkle-free.”
“You must i-ron the clothes. When the clothes are drying on the line, flies will lay eggs. You i-ron to kill the eggs. If you don’t, they will hatch on your skin.”
Sarah fought back the urge to scratch herself.
Irene gestured to a large electric kettle sitting on the counter. “You boil water for five minutes. Then you can drink it. Or you can buy bottled water.” She inspected the kettle and clucked her tongue. “The cord is frayed. You must buy a new one.” She gestured to a switch on the wall. “That is for the hot water heater. You turn it on for one hour, then you have hot water. But it uses much power. You give Rosie money for the power. Then she will go and pay it for you. And you must buy a tank of gas for this cooker.”
Beyond the kitchen was a large room with sitting and dining areas. The veranda overlooked a large and lush but unkempt garden bordered by a hedge of brightly blooming bougainvillea. There were flame trees with crimson flowers, lavender laden jacarandas, and a family of monkeys rustled the branches of a mango tree. A privet hedge that wanted pruning encircled a large birdbath. The lawn was overgrown with knee-high weeds. Irene said a gardener would cut the grass.
“Can you see the mountain from here?”
Irene waved her arm northward. “The mountain is there.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Too many clouds. Maybe this evening.”
In the bedroom, a mosquito net dangled from the ceiling, tied in a loose knot. Irene shook her head. “This has net has many holes. You must buy a new one”
Information overload. It was a relief when the housing manager left. Sarah turned to the daunting task of unpacking and worked steadily, until she heard a loud squawk from outside. A weird green bird about the size of a turkey perched in the crook of a white-blossomed tree near her bedroom window. It was ugly and awkward, with a long, curved beak that gaped widely with each obnoxious squawk. She was captivated. She snapped a quick picture with her cellphone, then rummaged in her backpack for her camera. David had given her a telephoto lens as a bon voyage gift. There was an ulterior motive. He was coming for a visit in September and wanted to get some good closeup shots on a safari. By the time she had the lens connected and the camera poised for the shot, the bird had flown away.
So much for nature photography. Time to go to the hospital and meet with her supervisor.
She followed a red dirt path to the hospital, between fields of corn, beans, and sunflowers. The ground was peppered with little holes, as though some madman with a drill had declared war on the baked earth. The openings were portals to an underground termite network that periodically erupted into phallic mounds, five to seven feet high.
A tunnel of jacaranda trees led to the back of the hospital. There were two rear entrances. One was marked Mortuary. Not Morgue. A small group of people loaded a coffin into a pick-up truck festooned with purple ribbons and a wreath. The truck pulled slowly away, followed by a procession of mourners, singing a melancholy chant.
She took the other entrance and headed for the maternity clinic.