I’ve never been on such a long flight, but night-flights really don’t give you much to do other than eat and sleep. Even if I wanted to look out of the window and see the world far below, there’s nothing to see other than the occasional lights from a small town or village and, with much of our journey passing over the ocean or the Sahara desert, even these are few and far between. By the time I’ve seen the lights of Sicily pass back behind me, I’m drifting off to sleep.

I feel like I’ve barely slept for an hour, landing three time zones early and at the crack of dawn.

Landing in the darkness of the pre-dawn means that there’s little to see of my destination either. Just an expanse of airfield and the looming building of the terminal. We’re quickly offloaded onto waiting busses and whisked into the arrivals area. My paperwork is, of course, in order, but the process still seems interminable. Fingerprint scanning, stamps and stickers in my passport and a photo all seem to be duplication and take some time to process.

The longer wait, however, is for luggage to come onto the belt. The whole area is packed with people before the belts even start moving and my single suitcase seems to take forever to appear. I suppose I should be grateful that it actually does appear eventually. I’ve nothing to declare to customs, so I’m finally free to walk outside into the sunlight of what is now early morning.

Being one of the last to find their luggage has given me the advantage of a thinning crowd in the greeting area. There’s a very tall man, 10cm or so taller than my own 1.80m and maybe a similar age to me, in a bright but office-suitable shirt and neat black trousers standing off to one side with a sheet of paper held to his chest. It has my name on it and I make my way over to him. Apparently, he has seen a picture of me, as he is already lowering the paper and holding out a hand in greeting before I get to him.

“Jambo, Mister William. Welcome to Kenya,” He rumbles in a deep voice with just enough accent to make it obvious that he is local. “My name is Joseph Mulama and I am one of the drivers.”

“Please, call me Will. Nobody calls me William except my mother and then only when she is angry with me.”

“I understand,” Joseph says with a smile. “It is not good to make one’s mother angry. They can be a force to be reckoned with. Please, let me take your bag and we will go to the car.”

I’m perfectly happy to wheel my own bag, but it seems better to let Joseph do it if it avoids awkwardness or offense. He has a job to do and I’m pretty sure that taking my suitcase is a part of that job. Once I actually see how uneven the car-park surface is, however, I’m actually glad that I let him take charge. His short-sleeved shirt reveals muscular arms that are better suited to the effort than I might have been. Lifting the case reveals biceps that threaten to burst the seams of his sleeves.

The car turns out to be a Toyota people-carrier of a model we apparently don’t have in Europe. There are three rows of seats and Joseph quickly opens one of the rear doors and the tail-gate with apparently practiced efficiency. I might have preferred to get in the front, but perhaps this is not something that a professional driver likes.

Still, the seats are comfortable, with plenty of leg-room and the air conditioning has apparently been on at some point because the air inside is a little cooler than outside. It’s not exactly hot yet, but it is already considerably warmer than the temperatures I have just left behind.

“You need to have your seatbelt fastened, Will,” Joseph tells me as he closes my door and gets into the driver’s seat. “We will get a ticket if we are seen without one at a checkpoint.”

Once we are away from the airport terminal, the green of irrigated lawns gives way to drier and more sparse vegetation. Our route takes us south for a couple of kilometres, down towards the sprawling suburbs of modern developments. I’m now studied enough to know that we’re on the main road south towards Mombasa, but as soon as we turn off to the north-east, I’m lost in moments.

It doesn’t take long, however, until we are pulling up in front of an impressive set of iron gates. A young man in a uniform, clearly a security guard of some sort, dashes out of his little hut and opens the gate for us. He merely nods at Joseph in acknowledgement and we pass on through.

Just a few minutes in the vehicle has seen a noticeable increase in the temperature outside that I’ve avoided because of the air-con. I note that Joseph is careful to park in the shade of one of the many large trees, clearly hoping to keep the car cool. Joseph jumps out and opens my door before heading towards the rear to presumably get my bag.

There isn’t what might be seen as a welcoming committee, but a couple of people are apparently waiting for my arrival. A short and slim red-headed white woman in light cotton shirt and slacks is accompanied by an older black woman, again in a light blouse and a long, patterned skirt that reaches almost to the ground. Her impressive hair is held partly in check by a brightly-coloured band.

“I’m sure that Joseph has already welcomed you to Kenya, Will, but let me do the same for the company. I’m Marie McGuinness. I’m what is considered the senior representative from head office and your next-door neighbour,” the red-headed woman tells me with a smile. “This is Sarah. She is in charge of the staff here. If you need anything for your quarters or if you want to go out for anything, then she’s the first port of call.”

“I’m pleased to be here,” I manage with a couple of handshakes. “I’m afraid I’m still on GMT, however and it feels like I’m up before dawn.”

“Of course,” Marie agrees. “It takes a day to get used to it, but at least it’s only three hours. I did a stint in Singapore and that was brutal. I needed a week.”

“I’ll be fine. I just need a couple more hours to catch up on that sleep and I’ll be ready to go.”

“Well, let us show you to your quarters and give you the quick tour of the rest of the place. Joseph, can you bring Will’s bag along, please.”

We make our way along a tree-lined pathway between what appear to be half-a-dozen almost identical buildings. Each is just two stories tall and has a flat roof with what looks like solar water heaters similar to those I have seen on trips to the Greek islands. At the end of the path there appears to be a larger-footprint single-story building with some furniture outside that makes it look like a bar or restaurant.

“What exactly is this place?” I ask, somewhat confused.

“It was built as a safari lodge,” Marie tells me as we walk towards the fourth building. “Many of them are built, but they often don’t make it in what is a competitive market that requires only a limited number of beds. Security scares and conflict make the tourist business a precarious one.”

“The company got it on the cheap,” she continues. “It needed only minor changes to make the rooms into small apartments and we decided to keep some of the central facilities.”

“Facilities?”

“Yes. That building up ahead has a dining room and a bar. You can set up a tab and pay at the end of the month. You do have a small kitchen, but you can eat with company whenever you like. This is us.”

Marie indicates the flight of steel steps leading up to the right and onto a concrete walk-way with railings. “I am at the end, but this one is yours,” she tells me at the first of two doors.

Sarah steps forward with a set of keys and opens the door of what is going to be my home for the next few weeks. She places the set of keys in my hand. “This is your set. We have staff keys and the apartment will be cleaned every week on Monday and Thursday while you are at work.”

Inside, it would pass for a comfortable hotel room, if it wasn’t for the row of kitchen cabinets and a stove-top down one wall.

There’s a comfortable sofa beneath the window by the door and a coffee table with a TV on the wall beyond. What is apparently the bathroom is dividing the floor-space in two, with a passage leading into a sleeping area with a massive bed surrounded by mosquito nets. There’s not much to see out the back window, save the other similar accommodation block behind this one.

The space is probably half the size of my apartment at home, but perfectly acceptable. More importantly, it is cool and the air-con appears to be quiet.

Joseph has wheeled my case into the main room and made himself scarce. I had wanted to thank him for picking me up, but he’s already gone. Marie and Sarah suggest that we take a quick tour of the rest of the compound and I readily agree, even though I do feel like I need a couple of extra hours sleep.

There’s more to see than I expected. The restaurant is comfortable and gives one the choice to eat either inside or out on the terrace. The bar is small, but it does have beer and soft drinks in the fridges behind the bar. There seems to be a mixture of local and more worldwide beers and lagers to choose from.

On through the building, there’s an unexpected surprise. There is a pool and it looks incredibly inviting. Apparently one of the first things that I’ll need to buy is a pair of swimming shorts, as I didn’t think to bring any with me on a work assignment.

“The trees look like they have been here forever,” I say as we walk back towards my room. “It’s nothing like I expected. I thought we’d be in some motel-like place.

“I think they have. The developer basically carved it out of the bush,” Marie tells me. “It’s about nine o’clock local now. Why don’t you join me for lunch at about one and then we’ll take a drive into the city and show you the office.”

“Sounds great. I need a couple of hours to rest, but I’m looking forward to seeing the place – and the city for that matter.”