Granted...I was coming off 4 years at Dartmouth when I spent more time perfecting my pong game than...anything else. But I would also casually bike to Lyme - or maybe today Fairlee - and back. And I dutifully would just jump on my pink bike to ride a century for the Prouty every year. And...well...biking (naked) was how most people at Dartmouth were first introduced to me. (#i305...still going strong! Hi Bustard!)
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Which is all to say...I didn't identify as "a biker" at that stage in my life...but my casual biking was still intense.
So when I arrived in Rwanda without a bike, I felt a bit lost. Oddly, I also lived down the street from the Africa Rising Cycling Center. I tried to mention to them a few times that I was a cyclist and suggested it might be nice to borrow a bike and ride with them and they were just like "lolz...girl...we're not giving you one of our nice bikes. Sit back down." So yeah - that never happened.
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| Africa Rising Cycling Center in Musanze, Rwanda - great organization! (Even if they never let me bike with them...) |
I finally got pointed to Cycology. There will be more about Cycology in a later blog post(s). What's relevant for now is that it meant I should *bring my bike* with me.
So one not frigid day in January when I was feeling not deathly ill (maybe more on that later), I rode my trustly pink bike to a local shop and paid them too much money to pack it up all nice for me. (I debated paying for this a bit given that I had all the time in the world in Janaury...but it ultimately came down to just the process of getting a bike box and packaging supplies (i.e., bubble wrap) when I looked online started to cost just as much as paying them to do it for me.)
And then I went back in an Uber XL to pick up the box and had my first encounter with male-chivalry/chauvinism-hurting-my-poor-bike...when the Uber driver insisted that HE (not ME) should get the bike box into the car. He proceeded to put it in upside down and I hopelessly tried to interfere and take over.
Tejas luckily let me manage the bike box between our apartment and the car when he took me to the airport. (Thanks babe!)
But that...my friends...was the last time I touched the thing. At the curb at JFK, the bike box was whisked away from me (from somebody who did not realize that it had handles...) to an oversize check-in as I continued to check my other bags. When I got my tags for my checked bags and carefully filed them away - I immediately realized my predicament because I never got a bag tag for my bike. Given my previous travel to Africa I knew this would surely create an issue...
- If somebody tried to steal my bike box...I'd have no way of proving it's mine
- If my bike box didn't arrive...I'd have no way of getting the airline to track it
- I'd most definitely need to show my bag tags to be able to leave the terminal. Because Africa. Africa might selectively follows rules. But they rules they do follow...they follow to a T. (Yes - I'm generalizing for a whole continent. Sue me...and then scroll down to see that my fear was valid.)
I was worried for a little bit but not for long. Because Clear and TSA Pre Check were both shut (I've asked before and I will ask again: WHAT IS THE DAMNED POINT IF THEY'RE ALWAYS SHUT??) so suddenly I was in a legit security line. I barely had time at the gate to get confused about the boarding process before I got on the plane, took a sleeping pill...and...woke up in Nigeria.
And then I remembered my predicament. Well I had two predicaments...if you remember from my Visa post (likely not)...I had opened up my immigration envelope which I was apparently NOT supposed to do...and I had no claim tags for my bike...
Given my #deltastatus, I was able to deplane fairly quickly and run through the airport to be...5th in the immigration line. This was not good enough. I still waited for a good 45 minutes as the immigration officers debated whether or not they were in the mood to work that day, as the American mother in front of me tried to insist that her son didn't need to list an "occupation" on his form ("He's my SON! His 'occupation' is 'son'!" "So...student?" "NO - SON!") and then also try to insist that he shouldn't have his picture taken / be finger printed (lolz...good luck lady), and then for a "VIP, VIP" to cut through ahead of me.
Luckily, before I got up to the front of the line, the [employer name redacted] "arrival ambassador" spotted me in line (I guess I'm easy to spot) and gave me a wave. He was behind a glass pane watching everything, but knowing that he was there and could see me with my opened immigration envelope, gave me a bit of reassurance.
Got through immigration with a stern "you should not have opened your envelope" and a meek "sorry....."
Then onto the bags. I told the arrival ambassador right away about the bike box. Both that it existed...and that I didn't have bag tags for it. He exhaled deeply. He understood my concern. And it was a legitimate concern.
We found the first two bags easily enough. Then the anxious waiting began. Obviously the bike box was going to take longer to come out...and come out to a different area...but...was it starting to take too long...what if it never even got on the plane in NYC...I had no way of describing it beyond saying it was a bike box...I had hastily sharpied my name and phone number on the side...but considering nobody even saw the handled ont he side...would they see that?...how would I communicate with anybody here what to expect...?...was it just sitting on the tarmac right now...?...and then...the doors opened and there it was! In all of its battered and beaten and taped up with "TSA INSPECTED" tape glory. Ah...so I guess this was of interest to TSA. Which worried me because of how carefully I had been sure to protect the wheel spokes so they wouldn't have stress on them...something tells me the TSA didn't pay as much mind as they were sifting through it.
My arrival amabassador not shockingly insisted on carrying the two checked bags and my bike himself. He let me wheel my pink carryon, which was nice of him. I cringed watching each step he took, imagining the wheel spokes jamming up against the frame, while he tried to angle his body up into the box to keep it from slipping...and like CAN YOU PLEASE JUST LET ME CARRY IT? No.
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| My poor battered, broken, inspected bike box. |
As expected, leaving the baggage claim area, you need to show your bag tags. My arrival ambassador casually went up to the agent and handed over the two bag tags I had for the suitcases. (Yes - I packed in two suitcases!) Then there was a motion towards the bike box. Then the ambassador motioned back to me, looking clueless. Then the ambassador started running off. Then the inspection agent looked at me. I looked at him. He motioned for bag tags. I motioned that my bags were running away, and went running after them.
First inspection agent cleared.
Second inspection agent.
After leaving the bag claim area, there's a customs declaration area. Weirdly (or not), there are no customs declaration forms, or the green/red declaration lanes you see elsewhere...instead...just a bunch of agents walking around and flagging down anybody who looks interesting enough to them. My bike box was interesting. We got flagged down. And then an awkward conversation ensued...
Agent: What's this?
Me: *checks with ambassador that I'm supposed ot answer* It's my bike
Agent: Is it new?
Me: No - it's about 15 years old...
[awkward pause]
Me: *proudly* ...but it's pink! So it looks pretty!
[awkward pause...I look at ambassador...am I supposed to be doing something?]
Agent: I want to see it
Me: Okay!
[awkward pause]
Agent: I want to see it
Me: Okay!
[awkward pause continues. I expect her to take it. Or to lead us to an inspection room. Or something. I said okay...I gave her permisison to see it...why is she not doing anything? I look at ambassador. After his performance with first inspection agent, I've now written off his usefulness.]
Agent: *rolls eyes* Here *hands over a box cutter*
[ohhhhh...so I was supposed to open it for her!!]
[ambassdor jumps back into chivalrous role and proceeds to use box cutter on some of the tape, but then rip the remaining tape, just so that I can cringe a litlte bit more as he struggles to rip the box open / starts ripping through the box and I'm thinking "okay okay...I need to use this same box to get my bike home! Can we please not ruin it?? Also...my poor bike!"]
Then, my friends, agent takes one cursory look at the bike, suddenly recoils, clearly repulsed by its condition, and waves me through. I hurridely run over to the box to make sure that the bike is at least still in tact. Indeed it is...she was just repulsed by what a 15 year old bike looks like.
Second inspection agent cleared.
Third inspection agent.
Of course on the way out, we had to put the bike through the xray scanner. The other bags didn't have to go through, just the bike. I wasn't worried at this point...but it was certainly just another opportunity for the bike/box to get banged up without me able to do a thing about it.
Airport cleared.
...and a week later...bike assembled!
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| My disassembled bike! There was also an adventure with re-assembling the bike...but that would bore you, so we're not going into it. |
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| My assbembled bike! Yay!! |
