Airports

I don’t know what it is about me, but the security guards just love to pester me. Before even going through the second screening zone, I got called back into a security room and told to open my checked bag (the one crammed with all of the random things that I knew I couldn’t carry on). Luckily alarm was dismissed by politeness and the setting up of a tripod, the likes of which none of them had seen before. Next in Addis Ababa, without leaving the airport, I had to go through security again. This time, the guard didn’t believe that my little duck tape pouch was only used to hold my credit and health cards. He examined it for over a minute. I was then instructed to drink from my unopened and recently bought bottle of whiskey. I had some leftover money in Togo and there wasn’t an exchange bureau. I laughed and said “you have to be kidding.” He watched me open it, take a pull, and swallow all the way down. Then upon arriving in Kenya, the immigration officer gave me a rough time because I didn’t have an address. The address was totally my fault in lack of preparation, but it never came up in any of my quick messages to Simon and I didn’t exactly have a ton of time to arrange everything electronically. But if he had let me walk another 50 ft. Simon and a monk were there waiting for me. In any case, I got through and will never see him again.