Xavier (Media Expert, Richard Howitt (MEP) Chief Observer, Mags (logistics) and self at Koidu Heli-field for CO's trip to Kono.
The pilot scolded me for allowing our jeep to drive too close to the rotors. “We’re very precious about our chopper!” He bellowed in a thick Russian accent, patting his reddened forehead, his burly torso jumping out of a side door. I apologised, quickly and profusely. I had never driven to a helicopter before, particularly one sat out on an unmarked field, somewhere in the depths of west African, hidden behind swirls of fallen bush grass. They said the chopper would only wait ten minutes, I was already fifteen late.
Trundling awkwardly along the dirt track, I could hear the pitch and whine of the revving blades. As we got closer, a steady intermittent swoosh, the elevated sound of a focused scythe cutting the hay, filled the air. The palms flapped in the non typical breeze. Scores of children in pristine white shirts and blue uniforms stood-by holding their foreheads, in case their frowns might fall off.
“You’re welcome aboard”, the captain smiled after his terse scolding. I climbed into the spacious cabin, the hot air thick with the stench of fuel and sweat. The cabin rocked gently as the rotors floated past, heavy and brutish. Two men sat silently at the end of the cabin, neatly dressed, brown tan shoes, pressed trousers, flamboyant shirts - civil servants of some kind. They dozed away in the wretched familiar heat unaware of or unaffected by my presence. A metal bench ran down the sides of the cabin. In the centre of the floor a thick rope net pinned down bags and boxes. I pushed my modest knapsack underneath. Through the small porthole, I saw my driver pull away and the children, jumping and waving furiously in the grass. I sat onto the bench, draped in a makeshift red cushion, hardly thick enough to disguise the clanking seat underneath. The cabin door opened, a young man, dark haired, uniformed, pristine, military, stepped out and walked over to me. Smiling, he handed me a card and headphones. Without removing his black sun glasses, he asked had I flown with them before. I shook my head. “You’re welcome. Put these on, it gets very noisy. Do not take them off until we reach Freetown. Read this card. We are diverting to Bo for a pick up. Flight time is approximately one hour.” He turned and walked back to his seat. I looked at the card, frayed, pawed and disintegrating with faded colour pictures of safety procedures. I tucked it into the cushion split beside me. The captain jumped into the cabin and climbed into the cockpit. The metal door slammed shut with a clank and a wheel spun on the inside like the seal between the bulkheads of a submarine. We were locked in now. The air was wet, hot and heavy like a sauna or perhaps more like under the lid of a freshly stewed chicken casserole. The young officer sat into a jump seat and buckled in. The civil servants slept away. I wiped my brow and closed my own belt.
The oven shook and rattled as the rotors energised. The thunderous sound was now muffled somewhat by my headphones. I watched the shadows on the field flit by quicker and quicker. The grass, stalks as thick as branches, flapped like my mother’s laundry in the vortex created by the whirring propeller. The children clutched each other, waving, falling, laughing and then screeching with excitement as grass, sand and pebbles filled the air until they faded into the dusty mist. The cabin rattled and bounced. The young officer lifted his pristine polished boot and pressed it against the bench. We swayed and, then, rose up; up above the ochre grass and sienna dust, freckled with blue trousers and less white shirts, up above tin roofs and swaying verdant palms, up past the cobalt coloured hills into the cyan blue. The officer, tapped his forehead with a small neat white cloth. I sipped some tepid water.
We drifted steadily across the sky, away from Kono, swaying a little here and there, sliding just above the canopy of dense green jungle, thick with a myriad of plant-life, innumerable shades of green, creeping up through colls and over peaks, cascading down the sharp black slopes of diamond hard landforms, an ocean of endless, vast, pristine forestation. At times, we skirted so close over the peaks, it felt as though I could have put my hand out the window and trailed my fingers along the tops of the trees, as though dipping my fingers into veridian water from the side of some speeding boat. All the while, the civil servants slept and the pristine officer stared through his pitch black lenses. I peered through the porthole.
They said these things were not very reliable and, now, here I was floating like a freshly steamed dim-sum in this hulking white creaking monstrosity above an alien, inhospitable forest, under the hood of which north, south, east and west meant nothing. I stared out onto the endless forest in which a man from a rocky outcrop in the north Atlantic, or any man might, reliably, have little chance of surviving. Here I was then, with vast dark jungle and fear of flying conspiring in the sweltering heat of an ageing Russian Sykorsky to drive to me to utter madness and yet, staring through that porthole across the rushing tide of evergreen, my throat clutching to thin streams of cool air struggling through a broken vent, I don't think I ever felt so at peace. Funny that.
_________________________________________________________________________________
If you find yourself in Salone one day, here’s a few things you might like or need to know.
Chuck Chuck Plum. This bizarre fruits is a cross between a bony fish and pineapple. I kid you not. Its flesh, soft, spongy, yellow and running with juice, is full of sharp little spears. Its flavour is unique, pear, pineapple, lemon, kiwi and something else . . .
Landing at Lungi. The pilots must love this place, they bank the plane, putting its reputation to the test for a fast and steep descent onto the narrow peninsular landing strip. “Welcome to Lungi International Airport and Freetown, where the temperature is 30C”.
Grilled Barracuda, Tiger Prawn or Lobster. One day, when Sierra Leone’s tourist industry is at full steam (and it won’t be too long now), this exceptional delight will be affordable only to Russian oligarch’s - mark my words.
Rice. Local Salonian rice has got to be some of the most flavoursome in the world.
Country Fowl. It sounds like a nasty event somewhere outside the capital, but this is in fact the local chicken - a hybrid of dinosaur and duck, it is as tough as an old boot but the sweet sweet meat is simply delicious with pepper sauce.
Koidu Bikers. A colourful band of taxi bikers who come close as possible to being a national emblem with brightly coloured hats, jackets and sunglasses spinning perilously about the highways and byways of the east.
Boss-Boss. When the rains starts to pelt down and shake up the forest, out come the creepy crawlies and boy do they come out. Umbrellas up, flame throwers to the ready . . .
Cassava. Burn it, boil it, bake it, stew it, fry it, chew it, grind it. It is to Salone what the spud is to the Irish.
The Sunday Run. Take a city of two million, give them a morning off before Sunday prayers and what do they do? Go a twenty mile jog, right? Right. And, if you can sing - all the better.
Paramount Chief. Nothing unusual about chiefs in Africa, but you gotta love the word Paramount. African English is often glorious to listen to and no better place than Salone to enjoy its richness and preservation of an older style.
Broken Bo. The essential hand washing utensil is ubiquitous and now available in plastic!
Average. Only in Salone can you have the best club, bar, restaurant in town and call it “Average”.
Red on the outside and green on the inside (and vice versa). Salonian Politics summed up.
Jelly. No it is not coconut, its jelly.
Pregnant women and snakes. If you don’t want to get bitten, keep a pregnant woman by your side (diesel also works by the way.)
Connections. Africa is a small place too. The Congolese President, Joseph Kabila, his wife is from Yengema in Kono and pally by all accounts with Koroma, President of Sierra Leone, whose wife is also a local lady.
Roads. The topic of discussion when the rest of humanity is discussing the weather.
Bu Bu. Salone’s vuvuzwuela.
Pepper soup. Salonian cure all
Puto Puto. Ubiquitous red mud on the roads.
Bonfire. It burns bright and all night long and through it the spirits talks and bring resolution to disputes. If only all bonfire could do the same.
Firing. It is worth knowing that parts of Elizabeth Quays in Freetown are not where you want to be hanging out and you definitely don’t want to find yourself being fired by witches and black magic practitioners down there.
Iphone. As useful as a chocolate iron in Salone.
When the trees begin to talk. What on earth this means I have no idea. I have tried to fathom it, but I think its true meaning lies only deep within the mythic and spiritual consciousness of Salonians. But there is something beautiful about the idea or the notion that, for example, elephants only come out of the forests when the trees begin to talk . . .
Some sketches from the field . . .
