It was a sleepless night. I had to finish an essay before I left to Freetown, the book was going into print. I never packed so late, and with such difficulty. The day before I was sitting and sitting in front of my open suitcase, and finally had about five dresses too many in there, which had to be taken out, I like to travel light. That day was hard in more ways than one. Instead of slow and gentle goodbyes, there was quarelling, sulking, and hurting. And now I was tired more than ever. It did it: a crumbling relationship, overload of work, mom's desperate phone calls, and not enough sleep.
Now I was at the airport duty free zone, that in between tampon zone. When you had no idea what was lying ahead of you, when you slowly let go of what was behind. First thing I wanted was a room with a bed, and a bit of peace. At first it seemed, that the change of flights would be tight in schedule, but now Astraeus flight was seriously late. First they announced a three hour delay at the check-in. It meant wandering around Gatwick and unnecessary shopping to waste time. A pair of flip flops, I didn't need, but they were brown with bamboo soles, and had some sparkling ornaments on them. A Body shop body lotion, which wonderfully smelled of tangerines, and was on sale, later on in Freetown it made little girls hang around me like grapes, rubb their hands at my legs and arms and smell them. And Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's book Half of a Yellow Sun, although I had an unread one at home, and another one by Kiran Desai in my backpack, but that was an Indian writer. I was going to leave it somewhere in Sierra Leone anyway. To make up for the big delay, they handed us out 5 pound food vouchers. I managed to use mine for a great potato and chilli soup and an orange juice at EAT. But the time was still moving slowly. Then I already started missing my laptop badly, when I saw a gentleman randomly scroll through his picture file. He was on his way back home from some vacation. Next time, I was definitely going to take it, I then decided.
I was at the boarding lounge, gate 48. Whenever I flew to Sierra Leone, I realized what a small place it was. There were always people who met friends, acquaintances on their flights. Happy recognitions, hugs, greetings, chatting. So many people knew each other. I knew noone. I played with my cell phone. Checked messages. I called to Sierra Leone, and managed to get in touch with my host, to let her know we were seriously late. I didn't want them to wait for me for too long.
We finally boarded the plane. The flight was full. I was sitting next to a gentlemen. He was a dentist working in Saudi Arabia, who used to study and then live in UK. He was obviously doing well. He was also well read. He took out The Road by Cormac McCarthy, his second book was Chimamanda's the same one I got. We had a nice chat about African literature. He was updated. Always read on the flights, when he had a bit of time. It was a sort of a deja vu, the chatting. The plane was still old, a bit dirty, my seat seemed to be in the same row, or almost the same.
The flight turned out to be, how should I put it, another adventure. By the time we took off it was five hours late. After fixing something, whatever, I better not know, and letting us board, we waited for another good two hours, as they had to reload the luggage, obviously they changed planes, and then the traffic at Gatwick was heavy, and we needed to wait to get some time space for a take off. A good three hours in the air, the captain let us know, he got directions from London to land at Robert's airport in Monrovia first. I think it was for the fuelling reasons. People, Sierra Leonans who were going to get home even later than expected, got very upset. They actually almost started a coup. Some got up, and had a meeting in the aisle. The point was that was not how you should treat passengers. Why it was so, the theories were different. The captain's voice came out of the speakers again. He apologised, told it was not his fault. It was not enough to calm down the passengers. Neither the turbulence, as some didn't want to go back to their seats. The stewards and stewardesses seemed quite helpless. Finally some people organised themselves, found a piece of paper for signatures to enclose with a petition letter. Some still wanted to have a word with a captain right there and then. My seat companion was calm. »We are in the air, can't they wait, till we get down?« he wondered.
But it was not yet over. We started landing in Monrovia. It was cloudy. We were quite low, about to land, when the plane all of a sudden abruptly turned its nose up and we were lifting once again into the heights of the cloudy sky. It was strange, we made another circle, the pilot said aomething like: »Dear passengers, we could not land, as the visiblity was too low. A foggy cloud was obscuring my view. We shall make another attempt.« These were my words of course, he used his regular pilot terminology. I was bit uncomfortable, so were the others, I could feel it. What if he can't make it the second time? I started talking with some people behind and in front. »Where are you heading? Monrovia?« The white guy behind me was. But the second attempt was however sucessful. The mentioned men looked visibly relieved, when he got up, to get his baggage from the upper compartment. He wished me good luck, when he disembarked. I was envious, I wanted that journey to come to an end for me as well. All of us, who had to continue the journey did. We had to sit in there grounded for another hour first, for the refueling. Meanwhile, people continued with the planning of the complaint or even a protest. Talking, meeting, passing around the petition to sign. And finally we took off to arrive some twenty minutes later. By then it was midnight, instead of 5 p.m. as was the arrival time. The customs procedure was as usual. Someone with my name was waiting at the customs, at the aisle for Sierra Leonean passengers. »What was he thinking, I am a foreigner?« I waved to him until he noticed me. My suitcase came among the last. I didn't have to open it, maybe they remembered me from last time. I was my private little joke.
This time I took the hovercraft, as it was the fastest way to reach my destination. I paid for the ticket and got a wooden stick, it was a boarding pass. I thought it was cute. I didn't think the price for the hovercraft was cute. It was 50 dollars, it went up since the helicopters stopped the service. »Good business,« I thought, »why don't I become more entrepreneurial, forget about research, and art, and such stuff«. I roughly counted the number of passengers and multiplied it with the price. My head spinned. I boarded the bus to the heliport. I was in no rush to get on the bus, but other people felt they might be left behind, they were almost fighting to get on there. Maybe they knew better. I was the last one and therefore a standing up passenger, but it was OK, after sitting for so long. It took us down some dirt road to the beach. We came out and waited a bit more. People rushed again to sit on the plastic chairs of the waiting lounge. I loved to smell the dampness in the air, to hear the sound of the ocean's waves. I walked out of the waiting area on the sand of the beach. It was windy. The hovercraft arrived after twenty minutes. I looked at it. It had a non-African name, Prince Michael. For me it was just a regular ship, with two big propellers at the back. And a rubber hose around, which filled up with air, when it started.
The sea was rough, they warned us. But what could we do. They also told us it was a special compliment to pick us up at all. We were so late, their staff already went home, and they had to hire, whoever they could get. They then asked us for patience. And patient we were. No more complaining and energetic outbursts. People were worn out by then. Or maybe the toughest ones took the ferry. It was good we saved our energies. The sea was indeed rough. A lot of people were suddenly sick, a lady on my right, someone on my left, people in front and at the back. I didn't want to think what you did on this sea, if the hovercraft broke down. What a way to end the journey. I was fine.
Two young men were waiting for me at the port, my host was not around, she went to bed by then, by now it was early morning hours. She was not that anxious to meet me right there and then. They got me in a taxi, and then we drove off to Aberdeen. The windscreen wipers where on. After a while, we took down a rough dirt road. It was dark. The lady of the house waited for me in her white nightgown in the darkness of the house. She gave me a torch, a big warm motherly hug, and led me to a room next to hers, which seemed to me as one for a queen. I dropped down and before sinking into sleep, heard the pattering sounds of rain, maybe some frogs or insects, that came from outside. Thank God I was back.
Now I was at the airport duty free zone, that in between tampon zone. When you had no idea what was lying ahead of you, when you slowly let go of what was behind. First thing I wanted was a room with a bed, and a bit of peace. At first it seemed, that the change of flights would be tight in schedule, but now Astraeus flight was seriously late. First they announced a three hour delay at the check-in. It meant wandering around Gatwick and unnecessary shopping to waste time. A pair of flip flops, I didn't need, but they were brown with bamboo soles, and had some sparkling ornaments on them. A Body shop body lotion, which wonderfully smelled of tangerines, and was on sale, later on in Freetown it made little girls hang around me like grapes, rubb their hands at my legs and arms and smell them. And Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's book Half of a Yellow Sun, although I had an unread one at home, and another one by Kiran Desai in my backpack, but that was an Indian writer. I was going to leave it somewhere in Sierra Leone anyway. To make up for the big delay, they handed us out 5 pound food vouchers. I managed to use mine for a great potato and chilli soup and an orange juice at EAT. But the time was still moving slowly. Then I already started missing my laptop badly, when I saw a gentleman randomly scroll through his picture file. He was on his way back home from some vacation. Next time, I was definitely going to take it, I then decided.
I was at the boarding lounge, gate 48. Whenever I flew to Sierra Leone, I realized what a small place it was. There were always people who met friends, acquaintances on their flights. Happy recognitions, hugs, greetings, chatting. So many people knew each other. I knew noone. I played with my cell phone. Checked messages. I called to Sierra Leone, and managed to get in touch with my host, to let her know we were seriously late. I didn't want them to wait for me for too long.
We finally boarded the plane. The flight was full. I was sitting next to a gentlemen. He was a dentist working in Saudi Arabia, who used to study and then live in UK. He was obviously doing well. He was also well read. He took out The Road by Cormac McCarthy, his second book was Chimamanda's the same one I got. We had a nice chat about African literature. He was updated. Always read on the flights, when he had a bit of time. It was a sort of a deja vu, the chatting. The plane was still old, a bit dirty, my seat seemed to be in the same row, or almost the same.
The flight turned out to be, how should I put it, another adventure. By the time we took off it was five hours late. After fixing something, whatever, I better not know, and letting us board, we waited for another good two hours, as they had to reload the luggage, obviously they changed planes, and then the traffic at Gatwick was heavy, and we needed to wait to get some time space for a take off. A good three hours in the air, the captain let us know, he got directions from London to land at Robert's airport in Monrovia first. I think it was for the fuelling reasons. People, Sierra Leonans who were going to get home even later than expected, got very upset. They actually almost started a coup. Some got up, and had a meeting in the aisle. The point was that was not how you should treat passengers. Why it was so, the theories were different. The captain's voice came out of the speakers again. He apologised, told it was not his fault. It was not enough to calm down the passengers. Neither the turbulence, as some didn't want to go back to their seats. The stewards and stewardesses seemed quite helpless. Finally some people organised themselves, found a piece of paper for signatures to enclose with a petition letter. Some still wanted to have a word with a captain right there and then. My seat companion was calm. »We are in the air, can't they wait, till we get down?« he wondered.
But it was not yet over. We started landing in Monrovia. It was cloudy. We were quite low, about to land, when the plane all of a sudden abruptly turned its nose up and we were lifting once again into the heights of the cloudy sky. It was strange, we made another circle, the pilot said aomething like: »Dear passengers, we could not land, as the visiblity was too low. A foggy cloud was obscuring my view. We shall make another attempt.« These were my words of course, he used his regular pilot terminology. I was bit uncomfortable, so were the others, I could feel it. What if he can't make it the second time? I started talking with some people behind and in front. »Where are you heading? Monrovia?« The white guy behind me was. But the second attempt was however sucessful. The mentioned men looked visibly relieved, when he got up, to get his baggage from the upper compartment. He wished me good luck, when he disembarked. I was envious, I wanted that journey to come to an end for me as well. All of us, who had to continue the journey did. We had to sit in there grounded for another hour first, for the refueling. Meanwhile, people continued with the planning of the complaint or even a protest. Talking, meeting, passing around the petition to sign. And finally we took off to arrive some twenty minutes later. By then it was midnight, instead of 5 p.m. as was the arrival time. The customs procedure was as usual. Someone with my name was waiting at the customs, at the aisle for Sierra Leonean passengers. »What was he thinking, I am a foreigner?« I waved to him until he noticed me. My suitcase came among the last. I didn't have to open it, maybe they remembered me from last time. I was my private little joke.
This time I took the hovercraft, as it was the fastest way to reach my destination. I paid for the ticket and got a wooden stick, it was a boarding pass. I thought it was cute. I didn't think the price for the hovercraft was cute. It was 50 dollars, it went up since the helicopters stopped the service. »Good business,« I thought, »why don't I become more entrepreneurial, forget about research, and art, and such stuff«. I roughly counted the number of passengers and multiplied it with the price. My head spinned. I boarded the bus to the heliport. I was in no rush to get on the bus, but other people felt they might be left behind, they were almost fighting to get on there. Maybe they knew better. I was the last one and therefore a standing up passenger, but it was OK, after sitting for so long. It took us down some dirt road to the beach. We came out and waited a bit more. People rushed again to sit on the plastic chairs of the waiting lounge. I loved to smell the dampness in the air, to hear the sound of the ocean's waves. I walked out of the waiting area on the sand of the beach. It was windy. The hovercraft arrived after twenty minutes. I looked at it. It had a non-African name, Prince Michael. For me it was just a regular ship, with two big propellers at the back. And a rubber hose around, which filled up with air, when it started.
The sea was rough, they warned us. But what could we do. They also told us it was a special compliment to pick us up at all. We were so late, their staff already went home, and they had to hire, whoever they could get. They then asked us for patience. And patient we were. No more complaining and energetic outbursts. People were worn out by then. Or maybe the toughest ones took the ferry. It was good we saved our energies. The sea was indeed rough. A lot of people were suddenly sick, a lady on my right, someone on my left, people in front and at the back. I didn't want to think what you did on this sea, if the hovercraft broke down. What a way to end the journey. I was fine.
Two young men were waiting for me at the port, my host was not around, she went to bed by then, by now it was early morning hours. She was not that anxious to meet me right there and then. They got me in a taxi, and then we drove off to Aberdeen. The windscreen wipers where on. After a while, we took down a rough dirt road. It was dark. The lady of the house waited for me in her white nightgown in the darkness of the house. She gave me a torch, a big warm motherly hug, and led me to a room next to hers, which seemed to me as one for a queen. I dropped down and before sinking into sleep, heard the pattering sounds of rain, maybe some frogs or insects, that came from outside. Thank God I was back.
2 comments:
That hovercraft story, brings back fresh memories from Freetown. Thanks and keep writing, I love it.
Dear Natasha. I am also interested in Sierra Leone. I was pleased to see that you are also from Slovenia, same as I. Since I am still uncertain about visiting (I am interested in visiting as a tourist but also to seek business opportunities). Can you please contact me at my e-mail jan.baksa@gmail.com I would very much appreciate more of your insight and experience. Thank you very much and happy holidays.
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