The big move

A new start in a completely different country is not complete without shipping some goods. Not all the stuff I wanted to bring could or would be taken as my personal luggage on my flight, so I decided to send it ahead by air cargo. A simple procedure: take the excess luggage to the cargo centre of Amsterdam Airport, complete several forms, pay the shipping costs plus a 35 euro handling fee. All in all this took me 15 minutes only, including receiving the confirmation that my cargo would be transported virtually simultaneously to Nairobi: me flying Swiss Air, the cargo flying KLM.
The morning after my arrival in Kenya, I was kindly informed that my cargo had arrived as well, with the request to pick it up at the airport. So far so good.

Jomo Kenyatta Airport, Nairobi Cargo Centre. Sounds cosmopolite. But it turns out to be an opaque labyrinth of obscure offices, corridors, stairways and halls, which need to be visited in an inexplicable order. Fortunately help is widely available, fixers identifiable by their official airport ID’s are attracted like magnets to the mzungu (white lady). And all the time I cannot help but feel that this is a typical example of typecasting: in their eyes, mzungu mainly means cash! And I am not helping their impression by arriving in the company of two locals, one the driver, the other my love. Two fixers decide to join the entourage and help to get the cargo released.

My escorts are issued with visitor’s passes, after handing in their ID’s. Strangely enough I do not have to follow this procedure, as my passport is needed for the official entry of my goods. We all get a body search, the first of many to follow. And then it all starts, the incomprehensible round to innumerable counters and offices. The fixers do a good job, as the official papers are dug up in no time. Within the hour, it seems we have made considerable progress. So far so smooth.

The boxes containing my goods are waiting in the cargo arrivals hall. A customs officer visits the venue to personally inspect the cargo. Box after box is opened. I try to close my eyes for the rudeness of the inspection, all that digging in my stuff feels like invading my personal territory. In any case, it looks to be a speedy routine. Nothing will prevent a fast release of the cargo.

What follows is a day filled with African waiting, and much African debate. How the fixers are operating is incomprehensible in itself, what they exactly want from me is even more inexplicable. Literally, because despite many questions they seem unable to justify the amount they are asking for. Their request comes down to 12,000 shilling, roughly 120 euro. Only 1750 shilling can really be explained, as that amount covers the handling and administration fees.

And that is exactly the amount I am paying. We end up in a game of chess, negotiating, attracting and rejecting, resulting in a stalemate. They claim to save me huge import taxes and want to split the difference. Then adding some more indefinable expenditure.
I know for sure that I do not have to pay import taxes anyway, as all my stuff is personal effects: clothes, books, camping gear, all of it used. Nothing of real value, no fancy electronics, nothing interesting to trade.
Of course I want to reward the fixers for their help, but giving them more than 10,000 shilling (approximately 100 euro) seems to be exorbitant for half a day’s work. When I tell them why I am moving to Kenya and that they are requesting half of my monthly allowance (and here I am exaggerating a bit), they are completely perplex. A mzungu without a well-stuffed wallet, that is a new concept to them.

In the end all cargo is released, after a lengthy lunch break, followed by another hour of endless stamping. The fixers do protest about the reward I am giving them, but not with me. Very subtly they turn to my love, suddenly talking in Swahili. Subsequently followed by requesting a lift back to Nairobi. Apparently they did earn sufficiently this day.