Chloroform

By the end of 2012 I had been without a workshop for almost 6 months so money was extremely tight. It had been a tough time since the lack of a permanent work space meant that I had to take on all kinds of little jobs and undertake the work on site. Not so bad, you might think, but not having transport meant having to carry the required equipment and walk to each job, fun.

In desperation to do something interesting I took on a job to make a table that a client had seen in an Italian designer furniture magazine. I knew it would be a challenge without a workshop but as I said, I was desperate. The table top would be a simple dark wood slab, about 4ft by 8ft and the support structure would consist of inter locking sheets of transparent acrylic. The idea being that the table top looks like it's floating. The first clue that this job would become a nightmare was the availability of only half inch thick acrylic, 1 inch would have been better.

Thinking to myself that I could still make this work I found a workshop that specialized in working with acrylic and they said they could cut the sheets to the shapes I needed. I provided the technician with my plans and we shook hands agreeing that I would return in a couple of days to collect the finished pieces. This was my first mistake, to trust this so called professional!

I returned to the shop on the agreed upon day only to find it closed. The following day it was open so I entered and as soon as I saw the owners’ face I knew there was a problem. He nervously asked me to follow him to the back of the store as he wanted to clarify the cuts which were required. ”Shit!” I thought. The plans I had provided couldn’t have been clearer, at least to anybody with even rudimentary technical understanding. So if this guy needed clarification I knew I was in for trouble. I wasn’t wrong. The pieces looked like they had been hacked up with a machete by someone wearing a blindfold. They were a mess. Dismayed I told the guy to forget it; I would take the destroyed remnants of almost a thousand Dollars’ worth of acrylic and recover what I could myself.

I took the pieces back to the small room I was living in at the time and there they sat for the whole of January. I was busy with other work and took my time to figure out how I was going to make this table work. The original design was to have the acrylic interlock using opposing half inch slots cut into each piece but I had no idea how I was going to achieve this as I didn’t think that I possessed the necessary tools for cutting acrylic sheet. I did a bit of research on YouTube and discovered that I could cut it with a circular saw then tidy up the edges. I had the saw and could buy some super fine sandpaper to clean and polish the edges.

Working on the front step of my accommodation building the cutting worked out brilliantly and I even found a way to weld acrylic using solvents. If I could weld the acrylic I wouldn’t need to cut the slots, which were turning out to be much trickier than I had thought. I would need to get my hands on Chloroform, Methyl Ethyl Ketone (MEK), or Trichloroethane. These chemicals are pretty strong solvents and here I made my second mistake. I assumed that I would be able to get my hands on at least one of these; after all there were three to choose from! I remembered that the guy who printed my t-shirts back in 2006/7, Sergio, also made acrylic signage so he must have a contact for this kind of stuff. I gave him a call and he said that he could get me some chloroform as this was what he and his fellow sign makers used.

It was now March, three months after my client had ordered the table and he was starting to ask how I was getting on with it. I showed him the finished top which I had varnished in my room to keep it from getting dusty when it was wet and explained that I was just waiting for the chloroform to finish the support structure. I had been assured that this would be in my possession within the next few days. Sergio then decided not to answer his phone for the next month and I could see the trust and confidence draining from my client’s face each time I told him about the delays. I finally managed to speak with Sergio at the beginning of May and he told me to come the next day as he was picking up a pint of Chloroform that very afternoon and he could sell me as much as I needed.

I stood in his apartment the next day looking at a bottle of Formaldehyde and wondered if this guy was taking the piss. I’m no chemist but I do know that formaldehyde is a preservative liquid, not an unstable solvent. There was nothing else for it, I would have to buy something on my trip to England in June and find a way to get it back to Venezuela.

My departure date arrived. I was a bit apprehensive as I hadn’t left the country in over seven years, in other words I had been living illegally in Venezuela and this would become unavoidably obvious to all the immigration and military officials I would be encountering over the following few hours. Much to my relief the departure from Margarita was a breeze. It was an early domestic flight so low priority for those officials who could have made my life uncomfortable and expensive. I arrived in Caracas without any problems and again passed through without hindrance.

I had to wait most of the day for my flight to England, an overnight via Madrid. I made my way to the international airport a short walk away from the domestic one; it was a nice day so I ambled. As I walked out the doors I was set upon by the hoards of porters. In friendly tones I told them that I needed no assistance and they dejectedly drifted back to the big doors to wait for their next victim. I always prefer to get ‘air’ side as soon as possible when negotiating airports. Maybe because I’m a bit paranoid or, I prefer to think, I’d just rather get any unpleasantness out of the way as soon as possible. It took me a minute to navigate to my gate. Caracas international is a bustling hub of activity. One can see the new rich flaunting their wealth, the weary backpackers being set upon by the money changers and the porters, people taking loudly on mobile phones, the kids running off ignoring Mum’s pleas to stay close, and a hundred other sights and sounds. I found myself beginning to enjoy the change of pace, island life can be slow.

I arrived at my departure gate and saw a squad of green clad, sun glass wearing military types setting up a baggage search area and zig-zag fence to funnel us towards our check in desk. I experienced a rush of adrenaline and smiled. I was just taking hand luggage and although I was a little nervous about my total lack of visa I was enjoying this mini adventure and I found the uncertainty a thrill. I was questioned a bit by a spindly low ranked official. He wanted to know what I had been doing in his country. Inwardly I chuckled, if only he knew! I told him that I had been on holiday and after looking me in the eye for a moment more, I was allowed to pass. I strolled towards immigration with a little more confidence and managed to time it just right so as to get the slightly chubby, friendly faced female official rather than the morbidly overweight, sweaty and thoroughly belligerent looking male official.

I approached her and greeted her with a smile and a bright “good morning” in my best Spanish. She responded with the same and smiled as she requested my passport. She leafed through it, clearly looking for my entry visa stamp. Rather than let her discover its absence I told her straight that it was a new passport which I had left with Immigration on Margarita whilst my residents’ visa application was being processed. I offered no other explanation but did produce the laminated photocopy of my receipt from Immigration. This was enough for her, she looked at my ticket and said that I should make sure I show the receipt again when I returned in two weeks. I smiled and replied that I certainly would as she said “See you in two weeks” with a big smile. I was surprised; I expected to have at least a little more explaining to do. I strolled over to the metal detectors with a smile on my face.

It was a long flight. I’m cursed with extremely short legs and a bad back so sleep is out of the question in these most excellent economy aircraft seats. I arrived in Madrid, a truly massive airport, tired and in some pain. I had to take a train to the other side of the airport to meet my connection. When I received my travel confirmation I had been happy to read that there was only an hour stopover time in Madrid between connecting flights. Unfortunately the Venezuelan National Guard had set up a baggage search in the gondola to the airplane before take-off. They had been doing this for all international flights for some time in retaliation for some perceived slight by one of Europe’s leaders, I forget which, and as a result I had arrived in Madrid thirty five minutes late. The train took an age to get to the other side and I was tired and anxious not to miss my connection. We had to pass through another security checkpoint at the entrance to the long line of gates and I was beginning to lose my cool.

They confiscated my shaving foam and deodorant and I nearly lost it when I was asked to take off my shoes. Shoes duly removed, inspected and swiftly put back on I sprinted down to gate 23. I was tired and soaked with sweat after the run and felt hope as I saw the self-important gate crew were still stood there. I thought I’d made it, but I missed my flight. Feeling defeated, I stumbled over to the British airways desk to find out when the next available flight departed. Once again happy that my Spanish is fluent I asked for and got on the next plane out with only an hour of extra waiting time.

Upon arrival in London I met up with an old friend. He hadn’t changed a bit. We sat on opposite sofas and chatted as if the almost eight years I’d been away hadn’t happened. We both expressed that we had calmed down a lot, hardly drank anymore as we couldn’t handle the hangovers you see. By this time I had been awake for almost thirty hours and I was feeling it. The phone rang and I began to drift off. As I nodded away on the sofa, he spoke to a client on the phone. It must have been only a couple of minutes later that I snorted awake and, feeling better for my power nap said “pub?” Without a word we both left his apartment and headed out.

The next ten days I spent in England were some of the best I’d ever had. I met my Nephew, great kid. I managed to put an end to the troubles always simmering below the surface of my relationship with my father. I enjoyed the company of my Mother, Stepfather, Father, older Sister, her boyfriend and their son without losing my mind. Since my teenage years, and the momentous events that transpired then, I have found family gatherings difficult and usually avoided them if at all possible. As the finale to a great trip I had the honour to be present for the wedding of two wonderful friends. The whole crew were there. These people whom I love, and who are in my thoughts always. We had a delightful afternoon and evening which I will never forget.

Anyway, I digress, back to the chloroform...

While I had been travelling around visiting friends; my father had been searching for an outlet where I could buy one of the chemicals I needed to complete the table. He came good and procured me three small bottles of a chemical used to weld acrylic. It wasn’t Chloroform but it was just as effective and just as volatile. Not wanting to put all my eggs in one basket I had already decided that I would transfer the contents of two of the bottles into a cologne bottle which I would carry in my hand luggage on the return trip, the other bottle I would stash in my suitcase somewhere. I figured as good a place as any was in my bag of used underwear. My preparations complete, I caught a taxi for my early departure from London Gatwick.

At 5 am it’s a quiet place. As I checked in and passed through security, the sun was just coming up. It was a cloudy day so the sky was a mixture of oranges, yellows and that archetypal English grey. I had no idea that I would have to put all liquids and gels in clear plastic bags and hold them ready for inspection. Oh shit! I had transferred the solvent into a CK One bottle and then replaced it in its box. I hadn’t been able to put the cellophane cover back on so I was hoping that since it was such a mundane item, it would pass unnoticed. I put my backpack in the plastic tray, unbuckled my belt and it joined my phone in the same tray.

I passed to the end of the conveyor and waited, and waited. Double shit! The customs guy sauntered over and engaged me in a polite exchange of good mornings and where are you off to. I was extremely nervous, If they had picked up that I was carrying a prohibited substance in my hand luggage, I mean, it was obviously premeditated as I’d put it in a non-standard container. My backpack passed through x-ray and was guided down the red conveyor. My heart rate quickened to that of an Olympic sprinter. It must be obvious, I thought. The customs guy handed my bag off to a female officer who, taking a set of tongs in one hand and placing what looked like a swab made of flannel between the jaws with the other, asked me to open my bag.

I complied with mounting dread. She then proceeded to take every item out of my bag and separate the contents into a green, safe, tray and a red, to be checked more closely tray. Into the second tray went my CK One bottle and two squeezy bottles of Marmite which I had forgotten were in there. She then rubbed everything except the clear plastic bag containing the CK One with the swab. At this stage it felt as though I was having a heart attack, my chest was tight and my heart was beating so fast, my vision was starting to blur. I took a deep breath and willed myself to calm down and watched as the red tray was taken, along with the tongs to a machine next to the x-ray. The swab was removed from the tongs and placed in what I can only assume was a machine to test for absorption of any chemicals which appeared in the prohibited list. I couldn’t remember if I’d spilled any of my solvent on anything in my bag or indeed on my hands whilst I was handling in it. It was a long minute, waiting in hope that all would be ok. She came back, holding the red tray with only the CK One box left in it. They had to confiscate the Marmite as the limit for gels and liquids is 100ml and the Marmite was in 200ml bottles. Nothing was said about the cologne. Unbelievable! They had confiscated the food but hadn’t bothered even to open the CK One. I’d just made it through one of the strictest airport security checkpoints in the world carrying a prohibited solvent. Big smiles!

Following another uneventful flight, nothing happened in Madrid this time; I arrived in Caracas ten hours later. I entered the cavernous arrivals hall and the sounds echoed off the walls as we tiredly shuffled our way towards the immigration booths. I approached the line of booths with trepidation, would they let me back in? The story about the poor illegal that gets turned around at the airport and has to find the finances to pay for a flight back to their home country is one I had heard often. I had spent the ten hour flight devising and dismissing every conceivable explanation as to how long I would be staying and why I was back again so soon. Again, I needn’t have worried. The disinterested immigration official barely glanced at me as she stamped my passport whilst asking how long I planned to stay. Barely waiting for my reply, she called ‘next’, and that was that.

I reclaimed my suitcase, relieved that it hadn’t been lost and I made my way to customs. I was under the misapprehension that customs would be looking for dangerous items in the suitcases so was worried as mine was packed full of things which could very easily be used as weapons. I had five wood turning chisels approximately two feet long and made of sharp steel with a wooden handle. I had two sets of foot long extra sharp blades for my bench planer. I had drill bits, a hammer and the hazardous solvent hidden in my dirty underwear bag.

Of course when my suitcase passed through the x-ray machine all the bells and whistles went off, I think there was even a flashing red light. A rather pissed off looking Military official curtly asked me what I thought I was trying to bring into his country. I replied that it was just a couple of chisels and nothing to worry about but the guard eyed me suspiciously and sent me over to another guard, a woman who was stood behind a stainless steel table the likes of which wouldn’t look out of place in a butchers. She asked me to open the padlocks on my suitcase. I complied with a sigh. I was convinced that the dubious items in my bag would be kidnapped and a ridiculous ransom would be demanded for their return.

Again, I shouldn’t have worried; all they cared about was how much everything was worth. The new packet of drill bits looked expensive and the guard turned them over and over as she asked me what they were worth. I pointed out the £9.99 in massive red letters but she looked at me with a blank expression, 15 Bucks I told her. She dropped them back in my suitcase. Her hands paused over the towel inside which were wrapped the chisels then she grabbed the loose end and lifted. The towel unrolled and the chisels went flying; they bounced off the table with a clatter and two other guards came hustling over. Ignoring the guards I squatted down and gathered up the chisels and as I stood again the fattest, angry looking guard demanded to know what they were, and what they were worth. I dismissed them as worthless commenting that they were just a gift for a friend. He looked them over and seeing that they were old he dismissed them and walked away. The female guard continued her search.

She spotted the bag containing my dirty underwear and reached for it. My heart rate quickened, the bottle of solvent inside was emblazoned with skull and crossbones and clearly marked as a dangerous chemical. Even though I was sure she didn’t speak or read English, the signage alone would have me busted. She opened the bag and began to reach inside. “Erm, that’s my used underwear” I said. With a look of horror on her face she quickly dropped the bag and, rubbing her hands on her jacket front, dismissed me with a curt gesture and the order to repack my suitcase.

My legs felt a little weak as I walked away dragging the evidence behind me. I had made it this far and the short domestic flight across to the island would be a breeze compared to what I had been through on both sides of the Atlantic. I was right and the rest of my journey passed without incident. A friend met me at the island airport and it was a relief to be home at last. Although I had made it through with the chemicals undiscovered, I determined that I would never attempt this kind of thing again as I was sure that I had aged about ten years in the process.

I finished the table about a week later and I was happy with it. It had been a mission and I’d risked much in the process. Unfortunately my client didn’t even thank me but he did pay me so I guess he was happy. About a week after I had delivered the table I received a phone call from a triumphant sounding Sergio. He proudly told me that he had finally been able to get his hands on about a pint of Chloroform and he was able to sell me as much as I needed.......