First Days of Classes
I apologize, in advance, for the lengthy screed. There are boring self-defense pictures below, I promise.
Claudia and I arrived in Nairobi on Sunday night. It was a short 80-minute flight from Kigali. We had already been to the Kigali Genocide Memorial earlier in the day—a very draining, emotional experience, and had visited Patrick’s family at home. So even though it was a short flight, we were ready to get to the house and crash.
Little did we know, our real adventure was just beginning. Claudia and I hiked the 75 miles through the airport to the Immigration desk. Visas are required to enter. They can be purchased at the desk when you arrive, but it is greatly encouraged to get one in advance. Claudia and I had gotten ours in advance, separately. Hers was an East Africa, multicountry, multientry visa that covered both Rwanda and Kenya. I got a different one, but mine was also multientry and good for a full year.
We step up to the desk together. I hand my passport and visa to the immigration agent, Grace first. One might wonder how we came to be on a first-name basis with Grace. More on that later.
Grace examines my paperwork and notes, maybe 5 times, that for my visa to be valid, it has to be endorsed at the embassy, as per fine print footnote #5. I point out that the embassy is, in fact, on the other side of her desk, so I can’t get it endorsed until she lets me into the country. She clarifies that I need it endorsed before I can use it a second time. OK, cool. I make a mental note that it is easier to buy another visa for the next trip than to schlep to the embassy in Nairobi. Stamps are applied and I’m released to frolic in the wilds of the airport baggage claim area.
Claudia’s turn. This is where it gets interesting. Grace points out that in order to use her visa, Claudia needed a sticker applied to her passport from Rwanda Immigration. The multientry nature has to be memorialized. Now there is no dispute that Claudia came from Rwanda, complete with flight boarding pass and Rwanda exit stamp dated the same day. But, the sticker is missing!!! Claudia is informed she cannot pass “Go” and collect her $200 without the sticker. She is sent to the office. Cue scary music.
The manager of the immigration desk isn’t in the office. In fact, he was sitting on a bench outside the office watching us. Claudia and I stand for a bit. We conclude that I should head on to the baggage claim to rescue our 200 lbs of luggage before it grows legs. Off I go, waving my stamped passport to Grace on the way.
After a suitable time of waiting for no apparent reason, other than he was in a position of authority and damn well wanted to flex that relatively tiny muscle, le grande fromage of l’immigration desk graces Claudia with his presence. She calmly explains the situation. She is informed the sticker scarcity is close to a capital offense and she needs a new visa. She points out, correctly, that it wasn’t her fault that the dude in Rwanda didn’t put a sticker on. How could she know? She was informed, in his not so humble opinion, that fell into the increasingly large bucket of “a Claudia Problem.” She sat down in the office to work on the visa on her phone. He kicks her out of the office, and not for the last time. She is sent to the hinterlands of the immigration room to apply for a new visa on her phone using African airport wifi on an extremely glitchy website.
By some miracle of planning (that I need to follow in the future), Claudia has all the information for the 165 pages of the visa application written in a book. She starts filling it out. Wifi gremlins appear.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, or at least the baggage carousel, I have gathered our 4 suitcases and piled them with my two heavy backpacks on a baggage cart. There is no place to sit. But, Claudia will be along momentarily.
My suitcase with 47 lbs of keychains has been liberally marked with chalk “X”s. Probably at least a dozen. This is the sign for customs that the bag needs to be checked. A dark cloud settles over my head as I proceed to repeatedly spit on my thumb and rub off the chalk, in the vain attempt that I can sneak 47 lbs of keychains through customs unnoticed.
Claudia is still dealing with the website. She is nearly done with the application and the wifi goes down. And stays down. She heads back to the immigration desk to see le grande fromage, hereafter known as “Chukizo.”
She stands in the door, not allowed to enter, for a lengthy period while Chukizo speaks to another person at the desk. Not another person in trouble, mind you. A subordinate. He is refusing to talk to her at all. She informs him of the dead wifi. Another entry into “a Claudia Problem” bucket.
Claudia heads back to talk to Grace, to see if Grace can help. Grace has been informed by Chukizo not to help her. At this point, it seems pretty clear Chukizo is expecting a bribe from Claudia to get through immigration.
Claudia tries to buy an all-new visa at the normal immigration desk, like a normal person. She is refused by Chukizo.
Claudia finally gets wifi and completes the application. She submits her credit card for payment. The website can’t seem to process the payment.
I’m still standing and waiting. I can’t even go to the restroom because of the mountain of luggage. I’ve called our driver, so he doesn’t leave us there.
After 3 tries, the website still won’t process the payment. Claudia is envisioning spending the night locked in a room at the airport. And possible deportation.
She spots a cash machine and grabs about double the cash necessary for the visa. Chukizo has decided that a credit card is the only valid form of payment. But the website won’t take her card. You guessed it: another “Claudia Problem.”
Grace and another immigration agent are taking up Claudia’s case, as well as trying to calm her down. They protest to their boss, Chukizo, that she has everything done. All her paperwork is in order, and cash is acceptable. Chukizo delays longer, then reluctantly relents to deem Claudia worthy of that gilded piece of paper whose sole purpose is generating funds for the government. Or bribes for Chukizo.
I’m still waiting in the baggage claim. I consider going through customs, in order to start the process of being fleeced of the duty on the keychains, also for the sole purpose of generating funds for the government. But I can’t. I have Claudia’s two bags. If customs stops me because of her bags, I can’t open the locks and I can’t prove they are mine. As being arrested for stealing luggage from the Nairobi airport is probably not an enhancement to my resume, I remain inside.
After two and a half frustrating, infuriating, terrifying, tear-filled hours, Claudia flies down the escalator and I try to calm her as best I can. We proceed to customs.
They have an xray machine to get OUT of the airport, to identify suspicious items for the duty trolls. The keychain bag is flagged. I have to open it. 700 keychains. They believe my story, but it is still subject to duty. I am ordered to hand over my passport, one keychain, and the receipt (of, shall we say, questionable provenance, due to some editing on my part), and am guided into the customs office.
Claudia escapes with all our luggage except the 1 keychain.
After over an hour of standing, it is my turn in line. I just want to pay the freaking duty and get to bed. The paperwork is laboriously filled out. The duty is 35,000 Kenya Shillings. About $220. Mind you, this is based on the receipt I submitted.
Cool, here’s my credit card.
Cash only.
Who the &^(# carries $220 in cash? (OK, I started with that much, but needed it for tips in Rwanda.)
So a customs agent has to escort me outside the airport terminal, past Claudia and our driver to an ATM to get cash. The machine does the obligatory counting of the bills and gets to the part where it will spit my card out, before handing over the bills. “Out of Order.” Card returned. No cash. It is the wifi issue again.
I trek, customs agent in tow, to the far opposite end of the terminal to another cash machine. Success!
We go back through the metal detectors and return to customs. I pony up the cash. The shackles are removed from my passport. I’m free to take my keychain and go. After an hour and 45 minutes.
Out flight landed at 9. It is now 1:15. Claudia, the driver and I connect. As one might surmise at this point, Claudia and I are more than a little eager to get the hell out of airport.
The wifi goes down again and the driver can’t pay the parking tab.
Jesus wept.
After pooling our resources to come up with 500 Kenya Shillings in cold hard cash, we get the van out of hock and leave the airport at 1:30.
Welcome to Kenya.
Later the same day, my classes start.
Feeling my most rested, our first class is at the Matasia Social Center. We had about 18 women from the neighborhood. Cedric and I went through our normal class. The women were into it.
At the end, we handed out unga (corn flour) for the women to take home. This is a very poor area, and the unga will feed a family for a day or two.
The center also had a Tae Kwon Do club. They insisted on doing a demo for me, which was fun. They were cool.
The following day, we went to a children’s home is Embulbul. The home was started by a woman for kids in the immediate area who were homeless, abused, and/or abandoned. She and her daughter, Marian, now run it. We met Marian at the center. They currently have 32 kids there, mostly girls. They typically have mostly girls due to taking in girls who have been sexually assaulted or abused. Marian estimated that 70% of the girls there had been sexually assaulted or abused.
Below is Marian, next to me, and the class of girls, ages 10 to 24, lined up.
Below, I’m working with a 10-year-old girl named Angel. Marian had given us Angel’s story. Angel was 7 when she was taken into the home. Prior to that, she lived with her mother, who was a prostitute. Her mother would bring men to the small home. She began offering Angel to her customers for extra money.
Marian, her mother, and the home are doing wonderful, critical work. We had a great time with the girls, and look forward to going back.
I think the girls here were pretty motivated, due to their history and where they live. In addition, Marian participated in the class. Any time a teacher or other authority figure lines up with the girls, the interest level spikes.
