From Congo to Congo, through CONGO Bobby Nystrom, the U.S. Almost every time I've come to the Congo, I got into an interesting situation. More precisely, the unpleasant situation. But memorable moments were interspersed with the routine, so I thought that if I make a slender chronological account of my travels in this country, the reader is not interested. It was decided a simple solution, build the story in the form of essays, or if you want the sketches, which the author is pleased to offer the attention of the public. Give me your money! He stood on the sidelines. He was half a head taller than me, it seemed that his skin is a pleasant shade of mahogany emits light. His clothes were impeccable. The impression was that the dust swirls in the air, do not lay on his well-ironed shirt and black pants. His hair was cut short and looked like he just stepped out of a barbershop. His cheeks were clean-shaven, revealing a strong cheekbones. Drops of sweat their way through the pores on his nose and temples. They were going to a trickle and trickled down his cheeks. At the temples big wide veins throbbed and acted as a bas-relief, which vainly tried to hide the skin. And somewhere deep in the veins of his body were connected to his black heart. "Give me your money!" - He shouted in my face for the third time. I tried to become invisible, but we were the only two whites in the crowd of 2,000 black Africans and thus stand out, like two burning candles in the night. For a few moments before I saw his club forced a man and a woman screaming in pain, and also saw his fist hit the face of a young boy. "Give me your money!" - It was in a fever of rage and hatred. The tip of his stick angrily gleamed. Small and terrible "No" - I stammered for the fourth time, hoping that someone from the crowd come out and help me, but instead followed a completely opposite reaction. People in the crowd were also scared, like me. They tried to do everything that I retired from a long line of those awaiting the arrival of the train and sought refuge from the use of brute force clubs, sticks and baseball bats, which the soldiers and the police so eager to trot out. Paul Paul-face and Mom finches Regular memories can not do without the unpleasant characters-korrupuionerov. But fortunately, in this sketch appear they are not alone. The sun was setting. We refreshing dip with local children in a small river, and were willing to meet with representatives of border guards. They tried very hard to entice us bribe closely examined our documents, searched the luggage in the back of our "passenger" of the truck and asked stupid questions. The scene repeated itself in the police station, local village, in the office of immigration control and customs. Tedious hymn bureaucracy in the jungle. To somehow speed up the process, I promised at our next meeting to entertain all the beer. In a small village living, only employees of the border services and their families, and the only bar owned by a man nicknamed Paul Paul-face, he lost part of his face in a car accident. He had no lower jaw and nose. His severely damaged right cheek hung out the wet handkerchief, and the right eye was never opened. For a photograph he took a dollar and was famous for the fact that cigarette smoke blew through a hole in his face. As discussed local, this trick was very popular among the drunken soldiers who zahazhivali in his bar. Here in the village was a shabby hotel "Chambre de Passage", which was intended for all who have not sat down to a single bus that went off every day at three o'clock in the morning. As you know, often it includes all visitors as a whole. Local Transport hour later arrived Mama finches, a woman with whom we were traveling in a taxi. This broke a taxi in Gabon. The same merry as ever, she came out of a huge caravan, which was the only vehicle arrived in the city all day. We are terribly tired after a long busy border crossings. A young guy cooked us food, and Mom finches promised to wake us up at 2:45 the next morning. We went to bed. A few hundred meters from the bar came the laughter of the military. Paul Paul-person smoked his cigar. Read more:
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