Skating into Kenya

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 11^th 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!