Left home at 10am, a slight lump in throat saying goodbye to my
housemates – you know who you are. Quick train to Waterloo, then
Bakerloo to Paddington, then the Heathrow Express. Mental note – if
you want to get to Heathrow quickly and for free, check TFL first – if
the Piccadilly line is not working properly, Heathrow express accept
underground tickets – including the fact that you imply 'hold' an
oyster card – just say you were trying to get to Heathrow on the tube
and they'll let you on. Obviously this is at your own risk, and please
don't sue me if you have to pay…
Fairly eventless journey to and through Heathrow; 3 trains, a plane,
then the most exciting/dangerous form of transport ever devised by
man, which is also the most scary, but I'll get to that later.
BMI fly direct from Heathrow to Freetown 4 times a week. They have
taken over the old SL national airline; Astreaus, but have
good/reliable looking planes, although sometimes parts of the planes
look like they haven't been touched/polished/repaired since the 80's.
Airline Food.
I've never grumbled about airline food, but this time I might have to
break my silence. As this is a blog, it also seems a bit like I'm
following the stereotype of moaning about every small detail. I won't
profess to compare with the frankly award winning airline food bashing
extravaganza by Mr xxxxxx(ref virgin atlantic – who was later employed
by Mr Branson to advise him on food). In comparison, this does sound
like a small detail, but I'll go ahead anyway.
The knives that BMI provide were laughable. I now know why airline
cutlery is always so ridiculously undersized – because if they try to
make full sized eating implements from plastic the resulting tool
would be so flexible that it would barely cut through a lump of melted
butter, let alone the soggy airline food that is prevalent at 35,000
feet. I won't ask why they can't use metal anymore – they've obviously
done some tests, and I'm guessing that at least seven out of ten
terrorists, when questioned, preferred miniature metal spoons as their
weapon of choice, so out went sensible eating practice on all planes,
and in came safer, terrorist friendly folding-tray-table accessories.
Back to BMI, and their choice of cutting weapons (an ironic name for a
knife, especially in these circumstances). I admit I'm exaggerating
slightly, but it was about 12 inches long. Now, if it had been made
from sterling silver, with a good weighty handle, it may have been
appropriate, although the 4 inch plastic fork may not have made a
suitable accompaniment. Moreover, the 3 inch diameter baby food sized
plate also made it feel like you were doing keyhole surgery with a
whacking great samurai sword, except in this instance, the knife was
made, not from hundreds of "waffer thin" layers of finely crafted
Japanese steel, but from a single layer of equally "wafer thin" wobbly
plastic.
Now the next step – trying to use this terrorist friendly wafer thin
children's samurai sword replica to try to cut a tiny chicken breast
that was about as tough as you might politely put up with, without
sending it back. As I think I've made clear, it certainly made for a
good workout, trying to saw a lump of chicken with an unserrated,
long, thin, wobbly bit of plastic that really should never have been
called a knife.
I never thought I'd say this, but bring back miniature cutlery!
Preferably metal, but plastic would do – at least it wouldn't be so
wobbly.
Anyway, I digress, and I promise the rest of this blog won't be so rant-shaped.
Waiting/Helicopters
On arriving in Freetown airport, (which is not really Freetown, but
Lungi Airport – across the bay), I chose to take the helicopter to the
town, to meet my new employer, Kamal. Before that, I'm reminded of a
custom that I experienced briefly on my last trip to Africa. Waiting.
You cannot rush anyone, or anything, especially if it involves buying
anything, or moving things, especially people. Simply leaving the
plane took long enough, but that was nothing compared with waiting to
buy a ticket for the helicopter, waiting for the helicopter to warm
up, take off, even taxi down the runway. This last point amused a few
of us on the aging Russian chopper, as I would have thought one of the
advantages of a helicopter is that it needs a very short runway – some
might say none at all. Anyway, run it did, as a fairly sketchy video
might show (although it was dark, very noisy, and incredibly windy, as
all the windows were open) I'll try to put this on youtube one day,
but don't hold your breath (Internet commentary to follow later). I'd
compare the level of wind to standing in front of an air compressor, I
seriously feared I might lose my tight grip of my camera through the
porthole, into the murky waters a few hundred metres below.
Eventually the chopper did touch down with a more traditional vertical
landing and, somewhat to my surprise, there was no round of applause,
as seems to be the case with most other forms of air transport in this
country. The last few BMI landing have been greeted with rounds of
applause. I admit, I would have proudly given the helicopter pilot a
round of applause, but for the noise, I wouldn't even have been able
to hear my own hands in front of me. By the looks and sighs of relief
of the others on the helicopter, I think everyone else was of the same
opinion, extremely relieved to be on dry land. I later found out that
most of my fellow passengers were Royal Navy, so would have been used
to alternative forms of transport.
I don't want to mock the fine service offered by UTair too much, as
they did land in one piece; but the token life jacket stuffed in the
corner, next to a small laminated sign describing the emergency exit
fitted into some of my preconceptions of what an African helicopter
airline might be like. A large sign on the door labelled "EXIT" was
also helpful, in case you didn't notice that when you climbed onboard
through the same. I made sure I sat next to this. If you're worried
that I voluntarily took the most dangerous form of transport, the
British High Commission regularly review all modes of transport
to/from the airport, and at the moment, the chopper is rated equally
good/bad as the ferry across the bay.
At the heliport was the son of my employer, ready to take me out to
dinner with his brother and father – a restaurant overlooking Man O
War bay (look it up on google maps – it's pretty spectacular at night
with a few shimmering lights of the hotels of Aberdeen, a few
fisherman starting their nights work, and the faint din of a nightclub
across the bay).
We came back to the complex around midnight, (1am BST) which felt much
later after such a long day. As this is a large family business, most
of Kamal's family live in the same compound, with armed guards on all
gates. I'm staying in one of the houses, sharing with a Lebanese site
foreman by the name of Josef.
I rapidly emptied my two carefully packed bags; remembered how much
I'd managed to squeeze in them; found enough toiletries to have a
shower, then went to bed, in a nicely chilled air-conditioned room.
