I was looking over some older posts the other day and noticed that I had alluded to my drama with a certain Turkana Fighting Stick. I thought I would flesh that out a bit more, as I have just finished working a stretch of nights and I don't want to do much more than stay curled up on the coach this afternoon.Last December I went to Nairobi, Kenya to visit my friends Clayton and Esther. Clayton and Esther had been travelling around for some time and I offered to carry home some of their stuff. Long story short, I agreed to carry their Turkana Fighting Stick back to Canada. I don't have a picture of said stick. But...it's a stick, a couple feet high, tree colored. Clay and Esther were working for a bit near a Turkana community and were given this stick as a gift. I should probably clarify that I offered and insisted that I take the stick. I am an awesome packer, honestly, but at times I overestimate my abilities. The stick takes the bus with me back to Uganda.
Fast forward a month. I am leaving for the airport to return to Canada. A couple blocks from the SP guesthouse, I realize I've forgotten the stick! Blast. We race back to the house (as fast as you can race in Kampala traffic) and get the stick. Crisis averted.
We get to the airport to find a loooooooooong line up to get in. This is unfortunate, because we were cutting it a little close as it was. I finally get through the first security point and get my bag weighed. It's too heavy. Frantic repacking and purging commences. Then we stand in line at the check in counter for quite some time. In fact, we are still waiting in line when our plane is supposed to be leaving. Panic! Panic! Luckily, the entire airport was a little behind schedule so we are still okay. (Nevertheless, situations like that really cause me a lot of stress. I was a little bit unsettled.)
At last, I get checked in, get through security, and get on the bus to drive over to my plane. I get to the plane and clamor up the stairs. I'm ready to board when I realize that, yes...I've forgotten the stick on the bus! I tell a member of the airplane crew that I left my...stick...on the bus, and that I really need my...stick. He humors me, the bus comes back, and the stick is again in my possession. The stick and I fly to London, and surprisingly, I remember to take the stick off the plane. While loitering in the Heathrow Airport a man approaches me and says, "Hey, you were on my flight from Uganda! I recognize your stick!"
I stay overnight in London at a hotel and come back to the airport the next day, stick firmly in tow. I arrive 3 hours early, in PLENTY of time, which was great because I had a bit of a time getting to the airport as some key underground stations were closed for renovations. I approach security and I am informed that my stick is not welcome on the plane. I decide to try and mail the stick. I ask around and find out that there is a post office in Terminal 2. I am in Terminal 5, so I hop on the train to get over to Terminal 2. Once in Terminal 2 I get extremely lost. My three hours are dwindling rapidly and my panic level is slowly but surely rising. FINALLY I find the post office and get the stick wrapped up and addressed. The postal service worker is skeptical that I will make it to my plane in enough time. So am I.
Back on the train, racing back to Terminal 5. I go again to security. They tell me there is something wrong with my boarding pass. I run back to a ticket counter and they point a wandy thingy at my pass which apparently solves all my problems. Back to security, this time I get through (third time's the charm, I guess). It is then I find out that Terminal 5 has many different sections. I am in Section A and I need to get to Section B. Surprisingly, I have to take a train (within Terminal 5) to get to Section B. The sign says to leave 15 minutes to get to Section B. I have, like, 8 minutes until my plane leaves.
I get on the train, almost in tears, and the trip turns out to only be about a minute (what was with that sign!?). I get to Section B, emerging somewhere around Gate 5. I need to get to Gate 48. I start to run, dragging my carry-on on the floor behind me because it is just too darn heavy. I hate the stick at this point.
I finally arrive at Gate 48 and find that, miraculously, they are delayed and still in the process of boarding! London is my favorite place in the world, and staying an extra day wouldn't have been that awful, but I was eager to be home...and I could just picture my mom waiting at the airport in Calgary, watching....watching...
So, I get on the plane and come home to Canada, in spite of the Turkana Fighting Stick's best efforts. When I come through customs they ask if I have mailed anything home. Yes, I say. I mailed a stick. The customs agent looks at me curiously but still lets me back into the country.
The stick arrived safely by mail several weeks later. Clayton, Esther and I are still friends (it really was my fault anyways).
