As time drew
nearer to departing Ethiopia, I started getting more and more anxious about
getting the skateboards into Kenya. I’d given my full attention to just getting
them to the African continent … Turkish Airlines came through in the 11th
hour by allowing me to bring them as luggage at no additional charge; I had a
back-up connection at customs in Addis Ababa; and the guys I was working with
in Ethiopia were Australian, which, retrospectively, gave me a little
confidence knowing that they understood what I was bringing (as opposed to the
Ethiopian Embassy, the representative for whom couldn’t get her head around
“skateboard” and questioned whether they didn’t need snow and would be useless
in Africa).
The guys I’d hooked up with via Facebook
in Kenya were native to Kenya and skateboarders in their early 20s who were
desperate for decks, let alone completes, and who had not been having great
luck getting them. Leo and Asim from the Skateboard Society of Kenya (S.S.K.) told
me that once a guy brought them 10 decks—not even completes—and customs charged
US$400 in tax, $40 a board. Worse, other efforts had resulted in the
confiscation of “unidentifiable materials for probable resale,” never to be
seen again.
I’d heard about the harsh Kenyan taxing
issue but I hadn’t given thought to what I’d be willing to pay to get the boards into the country, let alone how
I’d pay them (I left Ethiopia with US$65 in cash). I wanted to try the
“contribution” angle, which had worked perfectly in Ethiopia, but anyone and
everyone to whom I had spoken on the subject of Kenya simply shook their head,
painted a picture of corrupt, unsympathetic customs agents, and accepted it as
a fact that if you wanted it in Kenya, you were going to pay for it.
Further, it occurred to me that I wasn’t
flying altruistic, donation-loving, skateboard savvy Turkish Airlines to Kenya;
I was using Kenya Airways … probably the same outfit that flies the corrupt
customs agents around. Sigh. I decided I needed to tackle this hurdle first.
After working at the feeding center on the
Wednesday before my departure, I caught a taxi to Kenya Airways’ Addis Ababa
office to plead my case. Assuming (correctly) that the agent would be Ethiopian
and not Kenyan, I brought along phone photos of the Ethiopian skateboard day
and curbed my story just enough to imply that the Ethiopian group wanted to
support the Kenyan effort by sending a box of “their” boards with me to try to
elicit a little national pride in the project. The Ethiopian agent wasn’t
impressed. I tried to recall the weight of one of the boxes that Tim Ward had
sent me to use the “it’s not even that heavy” tactic; 29 pounds, I thought I
remembered one of the boxes weighing. I whipped out my conversion app: 13
kilos.
“At
the end of the day, it’s really just a box of wood that weighs about 15 kilos,”
I said casually, giving myself a cushion since each of the boxes Tim sent had a
different weight.
“Fifteen kilos,” the woman said, making a
note on my itinerary. “Skateboard,” she added, confirming the contents. “No
problem, let me just call someone who works in the cargo department.”
Cool. She spoke Ahmaric to whoever
answered the phone and hung up after only a brief exchange. “It’s no problem,”
she said plainly.
“Okay, thank you,” I said, exhaling my
relief. “Thank you very much, a lot of kids will appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem,” she repeated. “Your
weight limit is 30 kilos so it will be no problem.”
Uhhhh … I have luggage … and I didn’t count
the trucks and wheels, which was probably another 10 pounds or 4.5 kilos. Argh.
Despite my reputation for tenacity, I sensed that the discussion was over and I
started thinking through Plan B, which would be to pay for the additional
weight, a seemingly complicated and expensive proposition on Kenya Airways by
what I’d read.
By the time Friday arrived, my anxiety had
risen … at what point does it simply not make any financial sense whatsoever to
bring the boards in? If I had to pay additional baggage fees that was one
thing, but if I also had to pay a customs tax that could top $400 (thinking
that if the decks were taxed individually, all the trucks might be, too), that
just seemed absurd and I suspected that even Leo and Asim wouldn’t want me (anyone)
to burden all that. Perhaps I could ship them, I thought. Shipping from the US
was astronomical (a friend helped investigate the option and white-flagged the
search when the heaviest box at 59 pounds was going to cost in the neighborhood
of $1,000 via DHL). But Kenya was just over the boarder now … how much could
that possibly cost?! I stopped in at the DHL office in Addis before going to
the feeding center to inquire: it could possibly cost $388 to take one lousy 15
kilo box from Addis Ababa to Nairobi.
The previous week I had inquired as to the
possibility of driving from Addis to Nairobi, thinking that I could scrap my
airline ticket and make the journey as a tourist adventure. The suggestion was
met with laughter and deemed “impossible” by the two different people I asked.
My only option seemed to bring them with me to the airport Saturday night, keep
my fingers crossed, and take the hurdles as they came.
Several hours before my flight, I
restlessly reorganized my belongings. I had found a small box at the Mercy Home
that snugly accommodated all the trucks and wheels; I threw in the hardware and
stickers, then taped the box shut with packaging tape I’d picked up in Addis
that afternoon. It occurred to me that the easier I could make it for Kenya
Airways, the more likely they might be to bring it along without question: I
maneuvered, twisted, rolled, reinforced, and crafted the packaging tape to
devise a handle for the box so one need simply lift it rather than bend over to
pick it up. Good. I eyed the ten skateboard decks with the same ambition.
When I gave the Ethiopian Skateboard Park
Project their boards, I held back one box to transport Kenya’s skateboards.
What seemed like good foresight at the time was now looking like “one more thing”
that I’d have to fast-talk my way to getting into Kenya. I stared at the box,
which sat among my suitcase, the newly fangled box of trucks, my backpack, and
a PVC pipe that housed a painting I’d bought. Five pieces. Hassle. I could cut
the box down, I thought, to make the cardboard fit snugly around the boards and
be less cumbersome. OR … hmmm … I could bag the box and just tape up the
boards, which would be indestructible enough in the baggage compartment of a
plane. Or maybe I could stretch my newly found talents in
packaging-tape-carrying-device design to fashion a backpack of sorts and carry
on the boards to sidestep the whole weight issue.
It was about then that I noticed that the
skateboards were roughly the same length as the Ogio bag that Richie Velasquez
had lent me for the trip . Um … duh … why did all the athletes use Ogio bags …
because skateboards fit inside them.
Without another thought, I emptied the
contents of my bag onto the bed and laid one skateboard deck inside. Perfect
fit. Yes, weight would still be a question mark, but one less piece of baggage
was a huge bonus and the Ogio bag was on wheels, again making it easier for
baggage handlers. Done.
I placed two decks side-by-side on the
bottom of the bag, then two more decks on top of those. I placed a couple piles
of clothes on top of them, then placed two decks along each side of the bag and
shoved my remaining personal items in the center to hold the side boards in
place. I snugged the last two decks on top of everything and zipped the bag
shut. Nice, I thought. Hopefully shaping the boards into a coffin of sorts to
line the inside of the bag would make them inconspicuous to the X ray guys, who
might assume they’re part of the suitcase? Maybe. I was goin’ for it, pleased with
myself.
I took a taxi to the airport around 10:30 p.m. and unloaded my gear onto a dolly
20 yards or so from the departure gates, the requisite distance for airport
security. I had a long ramp to climb to reach the check-in area: I started
upward, pushing my cargo ahead of me. The weight of the load was winning
against my slippery sandals, the incline, and gravity, and I started sliding
backwards. I kicked off a sandal to get some traction in bare feet and slowly
began to gain some ground. With a little oomph and momentum, I made it to the
top, then went to retrieve my sandals, fully aware that the security guards at
the bottom of the ramp watched my performance: I raised a victorious thumbs up
and they returned the gesture, laughing. One thing was certainly … I had more
than 30 kgs. of luggage.
The front doors of the Addis Ababa airport
immediately presents a security portal; the line began almost outside the front
door of the terminal, which meant unloading everything; taking off shoes;
pulling out my laptop; securing boarding pass and passport in hand; and keeping
an eye on everything as it rolled down the conveyor belt. Luggage carts had to
be left outside, so after passing the X ray test, I scurried to find a dolly
from that side of security, gather all my pieces, rebalance them on the dolly,
and head to the check-in counter. Whew. First test complete.
My flight didn’t leave until 1:30 a.m.; I’d arrived early in hopes of
finding the check-in counter relatively quiet and the staff still in a good
mood before throngs of stressed-out travelers began screaming at them. My
effort was rewarded as I walked straight up to the counter, a smiling agent on
the ready.
“Hello!” I chirped, putting on my “no, no,
how can I help you” demeanor. The woman
robotically took my passport and asked me to put my luggage on the scale. An
angry red LCD light glowered in anticipation. “No problem,” I offered. I heaved
the Ogio bag off the dolly and onto the scale in as casual a manner as was
possible, trying to deceive the agent, but knowing full well the LCD light was
indifferent to my effort. I placed the box of trucks and wheels on top, staring
at the red lights as they settled into my fate: 42 kgs. Before the agent even
looked up, I launched my campaign: “So on Friday—yesterday—I went by your
office,” I began, “the one next to the Hilton.” I knew there was only one Kenya
Airways office in Addis Ababa, but by identifying it specifically, I thought I
might impress upon her and her forthcoming judgment to my fate that I really
did go to the office in anticipation of that red LCD light calling me out on my
weight limit.
“I brought skateboards here from the
United States to share with the Ethiopian kids,” I said, pausing a moment to
allow her interest to engage with the word “kids.” Nuthin’. “We wanted to share
with the Kenyan kids, too,” I continued, using “we” in that same “Ethiopia
wants to help Kenya” tactic I’d tried before, “so I’m bringing them some
boards. I spoke to the agent at the office about the additional weight; she
called someone in cargo and they said it would be no problem.” That was more or
less accurate sans the detail about the 30 kilos. Still nuthin’ from her. I
waited, not wanting to over-sell my case. She continued punching on her keyboard.
“Ya know, I wish I’d written her name
down,” I added, placing my itinerary on the counter. “She’d made these notes
while talking to someone in cargo.” I pointed to the handwriting to
authenticate my story. “I guess it would have been easier for you if I’d gotten
it in writing,” I said in a last-ditch effort to crack this woman’s shell.
She did not look up. “Your weight limit is
30 kilos,” she said flatly. “You have 42 kilos.”
I looked her dead-on until she met my
gaze. You win, I thought. I get it … your power trumps my sob story. “Are you
willing to make an exception,” I asked pointblank. “This is a donation. For
children.”
Without ceremony or emotion, she printed
baggage claim tickets and slapped one on the box, another on my bag. “I am
saying it is 30 kilos. I cannot guarantee what they will do about it in
Nairobi.”
“Thank you,” I said thinly. Another hurdle
cleared by the skin of my butt, I thought, and moved toward the gate to await
the next test.
I slept so
hard on my flight that I only vaguely remember a layover—I couldn’t even say
where it was but its location somehow lengthened a 2-hour flight into four and
a half, which was find with me. When I awoke, it was nearly 5:30 a.m. and we were descending into
Nairobi. I aroused myself enough to fill out the customs claim form: I honestly
didn’t know what must or need not be on the form, so I took the vague route and
claimed nothing. We disembarked and I lagged behind the crowd: I had a 7-hour
wait for Robin’s plane to arrive so was in no hurry, but I also thought that
meeting a customs agent in a low-key manner rather than among a herd might work
in my favor by giving me some time to chit-chat and laugh and convince someone
that skateboards and this silly box of trucks and wheels were no big thing.
Yeah … weak, but all I had.
By the time I wandered down to baggage
claim, the box and my bag were making their umpteenth revolution on the
carousel with a few other unclaimed items, so I easily retrieved them and
loaded them on a cart. Uncertain of the next move in the labyrinth of
international airport arrival procedure here in Kenya, I saw to my left
sunlight, implying an exterior wall and windows and therefore stimulating a
sixth sense that I was within range of an exit and should therefore head in
that direction. Three or four simple podiums peppered the pathway between me
and the light. Absentmindedly, I chose the lecturn with the woman, thinking
that if she, too, needed to hear my spiel, I had better chances with the “kid”
angle on a woman than the “skateboard” angle on a man.
“Good morning,” I offered sincerely,
looking around to gain my bearings and remembering the early hour. “How are
you?”
“Fine, thank you,” she replied in
excellent English, seemingly in a good mood.
“I’m going to have to learn some Swahili!”
I said, noting from her accent that I was officially not in Ethiopia any more.
She smiled. “How do you say, ‘hello’?” I asked.
“Jambo!” she offered, smiling and seeming
pleased that I was interested to learn some Swahili.
“Jambo!” I repeated. “Jambo, jambo!” It
was fun to say.
The woman scanned the contents of my dolly
quickly, making me realize that she did have some official role here. “What is
in this box?” she asked in a manner that sounded more curious than official.
“Oh, let me show you,” I said, reaching
for my phone. While perusing for a good snap of an Ethiopian kid on a
skateboard, I coasted into my abbreviated story about bringing boards to
Africa, talking to her as if we were new friends. She waited respectfully while
I looked for the shot I wanted to share, which I finally produced and we looked
at it together. I laughed instinctively at the photo, remembering how happy the
boards made people in Addis.
“Ohhhh, oh!” she said, joining my
enthusiasm while studying the photo. “Nice! Do you have your paper?”
“Paper?” I asked, alarmed.
“The paper they gave you on the plane. Do
you have it?”
I gave a blank stare, my mouth agape.
“Uhhh, wow, huh … well, they gave me a paper that I filled out but I gave that
to the last guy,” I began to ramble, “and I filled out a paper when I got off
the plane, but the last guy took that, too,” I said, fumbling to understand
what she needed.
“Okay, don’t worry about it,” she said,
brushing it off as easily as if I were short a penny to make a purchase. “Thank
you,” she said causally. “Enjoy your visit.”
“Thank you!” I said, a little confused
about whatever just went on. “How do you say, ‘thank you’ in Swahili?” I added.
“Desante,” she said, still smiling.
“Deh-SAN-tay,” I annunciated back.
“Desante,” she confirmed.
“Deh-SAN-tay,” I practiced again for her
approval. “Deh-SAN-tay. Deh-SAN-tay. Got it!” I exclaimed. “Okay, thank you!
Desante!” She snickered.
I continued my quest toward the morning
sunlight that had drawn me in its direction, scanning the airport landscape for
signs of the dreaded customs area. I envisioned foreboding dark plinths with
olive-clad, heavily armed agents fiercely raking the crowd of arriving tourists
with evil red eyes, seeking out their prey. My cart clump-clumped over a
threshold separating carpet from linoleum, clearly distinguishing “this” part
of the airport from “that” part of the airport. A jumbled mish-mash of people behind
a cordon rope faced me directly, some with placards broadcasting names, the
brightening morning sunshine backlighting them. I looked to my right: the
barricade opened to hotel kiosks. To my left: money exchanges and tourist
information. I stood dead center in solitary, the crowd looking at and beyond
me for familiar faces. Where am I? I wondered, trying to bring understanding
into focus.
“Excuse me,” I said to a man with a
placard, “is this the airport entrance?”
“Yes,” he said plainly.
I
looked back to look from where I’d come: was she customs? I wondered. I turned to examine beyond the crowd
toward the source of the light … parked taxis, trees, clouds … sun … “Holy
monkey,” I said out loud. “I did it!” The man with the placard didn’t change
his expression. Oh my gosh! I thought triumphantly. I did it! I did it! I’m in!
The skateboards … they’re in! I did it! I stood immobile in disbelief … I felt
as if I’d shown up for a final exam I’d been cramming for and stressing about
for weeks and the professor said, “Eh, never mind, you’re good. Take this A and
go enjoy yourself.” I did it. I got skateboards into Kenya without a hitch.
Skateboards. Kenya. Done. Wow. Done!
