Khat Run - Part One

Immediately prior to heading down to New York in the summer of 1995, and meeting Robert Roche upon our return, we were indeed getting by on fingernails and spit.  Things were looking grim.  Family and friends (with money) were few and far between.  There was the occasional meal.  Pizza crust was a luxury.  One day Al called.  Not Al from Trigger Happy, who at that time was helping us immensely by contacting bands who would gladly appear on a new Raw Energy compilation for a mere $500.  No, the Al that called was phoning to find out if we needed money: fun money, but money nonetheless.  All that was required was to take a trip to England, pick up some bags and bring them back to Canada.  If we – and the offer was extended to anyone who needed money – were interested than he’d have the guy contact us directly to explain further and make the necessary arrangements.

It happened rather fast.  One minute Chris is talking to Al about possibly making some money and getting a free trip to England and the next minute Abdul is asking who’ll be the first to go.  I volunteered to take the trip, as I was the lucky holder of a British passport.  Shortly thereafter he called back to say he needed a second volunteer – and that was John.  We’d each get paid $600 if we brought the bags back – full of Khat – into Canada.  Kkat (pronounced Chat) is a grass that is grown and harvested in Eastern Africa.  The men of Somalia and Ethiopia, of which they are plentiful in Toronto, chew it.  At a party years back, I was introduced to Khat at a party; it’s completely harmless and at the time was not illegal to import.  However, if caught, the product would be confiscated by customs officials.  Plants, in general, cannot be imported into Canada without proper permits.  Unfortunately, there is a timing issue with Khat, in that it goes bad quickly after being cut.  People need to arrive in London, pick up the bags and return immediately.  We were under no illusion that we would be given the opportunity to catch a few sites, or drop by the local pub, while there.

Well, the arrangements were simple: go to the Kipling Subway station and find the purple van that’ll drive us to the airport.  As well, the driver will give us an advance of $200 cash to cover any incidentals along the way and as a sign of good faith, I suppose, not to mention the air tickets, phone number of the UK contact on the ground and the bags, empty. John and I decided to both wear our suits, crumpled.  In anticipation of re-entering Canada, we thought we’d at least look “respectable” as opposed to the half-starved label guys living on office couches that we were.  

We got to the station on time.  We waited at the pre-arranged exit and eventually met up with our driver, Abdul, and another employee who was also taking the trip.  She’d done it (imported) before and was making a lot of money each week apparently.  Yes, we were now in the Import business.  It was dark and we didn’t see the bags, but as planned, we were given our tickets and the initial money.  We were also given some last minute instructions from Abdul: if asked at the airport what we are carrying in the bags, the appropriate response is “personal effects”.  He then jumped out the van upon arriving at the departure terminal and opened the back door to unload the “bags”, which were actually the biggest muthafuckin suitcases you’ve ever seen in your life.  One last piece of advice: “Stay apart.”  

Armed with the tickets, cash and two suitcases each, we headed to the check-in counter.  Oddly, there was no response from the various clerks, regarding our weightless luggage, who efficiently sent us on our way.  Naturally, we then went straight to the closest bar for a refreshing libation.  A few later, we were all sitting in the plane – separately – waiting for the bar cart to arrive.  When the plane was in the air, we met at the back of the plane to talk more with the veteran courier. Her name was Denise.  She was American.  She didn’t drink and suggested that John, who was pounding back JD and cokes, and I take it easy, as the alcohol would affect us more greatly upon landing – something about the air pressure.  Who can remember the movie or the meal?  Not I.  Completely forgettable.  But the next thing you know, we’re getting ready to land in London.  John was bombed.  He was excited to see Big Ben, and a pub.  

I picked up my suitacases without incident and proceeded to the lineup for British passport holders and noticed that Denise was already in the other lineup.  John, however, was still waiting for his suitcases to drop and blubbered that he’d meet with us outside.  Denise, in the meantime, had also phoned the contacts – unfortunately they didn’t answer the phone, as it was still 6 in the morning.  After gliding through immigration, and while we waited for John, Denise continued to phone the number of the house in London.  Finally, there was an answer – and due to the time that had been wasted (we should have been picked up and been on our way) – we were told to take a taxi.  Denise and I hailed a cab, a Toyota Camry, and began to stuff our suitcases into the trunk.  At the exact moment we had given up on John and had shut the car doors, he arrived at the sidewalk next to us, threw his suitcases onto the roof rack and hopped into the back seat with me.

We were on our way to collect the Khat.  We drove through the London suburbs, and didn’t see any of the famous landmarks along the way, arriving at the house.  We must have smelled, I’ll admit, except Denise, and when the door was opened, the contacts simply couldn’t believe their eyes and noses, undoubtedly.  “Would you like a cuppa nice hot tea?” they asked, “while we pack your bags.”  They were upset they had slept in and that we were late.  The plan was to turn us right back around within a matter of hours to be back in Toronto later that night.  I had a tea.  John slept.  Denise helped with the packing.  A couple lived in the house: not African, but rasta.  The girl had long blonde flowing dreads, and the fellow had long black dreads.  They packed the Khat really tightly into the suitcases, and when they were nearly finished, they selected John to go back first and called a friend to drive him back to the airport.  However, before giving him back the two full suitcases they asked if he could take another bag – for an additional $100.  And so they gave him not a plastic bag or a vanity case, but a hockey bag.  Each bag weighed, easily, 100 pounds.  John and his three bags then left for the airport.  I followed him shortly, and Denise followed me.  We had been on the ground in England no more than 3 hours.