So I’ve been on a helicopter. Wow, it was pretty exhilarating, and at the same time terrifying. My legs have not gone genuinely wobbly for a long long time. Yes it was old, yes the seatbelts didn’t work and yes, bits of the roof seemed to be falling whilst some of the windows wouldn’t shut, seemingly painted open. The helicopter is one of 3 options to get from Freetown airport, which is situated on a small island, into the town (the others are hovercraft – which has broken down – or 3 hours road journey via a ferry).
We joined the funny mix of foreign NGO and UN workers and locals, all of whom seemed terrified deep down, but at the same time, all seemed intent on keeping up the ‘isn’t this so funny, I’ve done this so many time before’ relaxed look. It was a case of don’t blink first. I think if one went, we all would have begun hysterically holding hands and telling eachother all our deepest darkest secrets in what we thought might be our final few minutes.
As I happened, the ride itself was awesome. I know it sounds stupid, but I was not expecting it to go straight up, which shocked me at first, but as it swept majestically over the coast of Freetown, we could see the flickering lights of the city that was to become our home for 2 weeks and the mountains and hills that encradle it. The open windows had gone from cause of great concern and anxiety, to one of splendid views and intriguing smells.
Certainly beats the Stanstead Express.
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