First breaths in Sierra Leone
16 June 2003

I was dripping with beads of humidity by the time my bags came off the luggage belt. A trio of middle-aged diamond prospectors with South African – or perhaps British – accents shepherded me through customs and the hoards of young men trying to lead me to their various transports. They sent me off with an excited, wiry man in a bright yellow shirt from Paramount helicopters.

The wiry man whirlwinded me through a baggage weighing station and left me in the helicopter waiting area with a green wooden stick in my hand. He took only my large bag to weigh, suggesting that I carry my two small bags as “hand luggage” because I would be charged for checked luggage over 25 kilos. After running around some more, he came back and stood in front of me with a big grin. I was expecting that he would tell me to pay for the excess weight, but he just stood in front of me and said, “OK mahm, I took care of everything now.” I knew he was expecting a tip, which I didn’t mind giving since he had been quite helpful; however, I didn’t want to reach into my pocket since it had a large wad of cash in it, so I just smiled back and thanked him. He left after a pause, returning some ten minutes later with another big grin to say, “Ok mahm, you can tip me now.” By this time I had separated a dollar bill into my right pocket, so I pulled that out for him.

I sat for a long while watching the sky darken from my seat in the airy hangar. Eventually, a man called for people holding green boarding sticks to board the waiting helicopter. We walked across the paved landing area and boarded the chopper. The whirring blades overhead cut through the air with an audible slicing sound that made my teeth hurt.

The inside of the helicopter was coated in a thick layer of glossy green paint. We sat on two benches facing our line of checked luggage, which ran down the center of the bug’s body like an esophagus. A jovial looking man sweating through his khaki safari vest told me most of the helicopters here are old Russian choppers, typically with Ukranian teams flying them. I peered through the hazy window as we took off, but couldn’t get a view as it was dark and Freetown has few lights. The helicopter flew like a plane, but landed more gently.

A small crowd of people was waiting for us to arrive, including a young man with sign that said ‘Julie Greene' who looked like he'd been there a while. He introduced himself with a relatively American-sounding accent. I wonder if he is one of the many recently-returned Sierra Leoneans, like another guy I met at the airport in London who was going home to Sierra Leone for good after eleven years in Dallas.

He and another driver drove me to house 41 after a stop at house 24 to drop off a Cameroonean transferring from the organization’s Brazzaville (Congo) office. A guard opened the gate and I was greeted by a friendly black and white dog aptly named Cow. A small tan dog named Jesse came around later to greet me.

One of my housemates showed me to my ground-floor room, which has a double bed, a small square nightstand, a closet with a missing door, and its own bathroom. Water poured from the tap in a rusty orange stream. I let in run to clear the pipes, then joined my housemates on the upstairs balcony for some pasta.

In the morning, I discovered that that the balcony (and my room) faces the ocean. From my window, I can see a low plain of tropical greenery to the west meeting the ocean half a mile away in a straight line. From the balcony, I can see rusty corrugated tin roofs shielding a few houses scattered here and there among the trees.

Next article: Trip to the supermarket

Disclaimer: Opinions expressed in the personal notes are my own. Facts presented are accurate to the best of my knowledge, but this site should not be taken as an authoritative resource.

Copyright © 2003 Julie Greene