Descriptive Writing

I’ve always enjoyed flying. Something about traveling and exploring hundreds of feet in the lightly clouded sky draws me in every time. This journey, I’m headed far away to the hurricane-stricken Madagascar not only to help these poor, innocent people, but to retrieve the information that the greedy news people just have to have.
We are beginning to land, and all I see is disaster. Our landing pad - a small pile of rubble. The helicopter is so loud that I find it hard to think. The swish of the propellers as they slow numbs my mind so I can’t hear myself think. My cameramen and I slowly step out of the roaring plane, and the permanent grey atmosphere abruptly makes my feet stop. Although curiosity pushes my feet forward again, I try not to look around at the dark-skinned villagers that surround the area. Even from small glances I can notice each and every sunken-in, muddy face in the crowd. I walk as swiftly as possible to a tall, dark-skinned male who smiles widely at me. I return the smile, and then he nods and welcomes me in a deep, soft voice.
Suddenly the scorching heat hits me, but I ignore it and follow closely behind the abnormally tall man that leads me through the destruction. I stumble along with the cameramen following, and glance around, again, at all the faces, staring. Surrounding them, the ground is covered in what used to be homes. Trees also lie horizontally, and the children laugh and play almost as if nothing had happened. The community is thin, grayish-brown in color, and wears very little clothing. The sky is almost clear now, and the heat in unbearable.
Once here, I realize that all I want is to do my job and leave. To help, we bring a huge package containing food, sleeping bags, clothing, and small essentials. The people are more than thrilled and wait patiently in line. The atmosphere is lightly improved, and it is time to leave.
Dozens of cheerful villagers approach me with thanks. They then gather in small crowds a safe distance away form the helicopter and we turn our backs to the Madagascar people and head to the plane. The black and grey helicopters’ engine starts with a roar. The powerful wind from the propellers sends my hair to the left side of my head and I board the plane.
As I stare with wide eyes at the humble round faces, one warm tear falls down my face. Sand and dirt swirls on the ground beneath us like another terrifying storm. The loud noise is again soothing as it erases my thoughts. I lean against the cool window with a thud, and then quickly drift to sleep…