From Congo to Congo, through the Congo (continued, p.2) The money for the right to remain in the queue in this essay will be discussed again the arbitrariness of the authorities. Once again we are faced with this on the forecourt, trying to catch the train. On the confused French, I tried to explain to the police that we are just poor people and tourists can not bribe. At one point I even mentioned that we are working on the church, which, of course, was total lies, judging by our dirty clothes and running appearance. He began with authority to tap with a baton on his right thigh and looked into my eyes. At least I thought so, because his eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, but I still felt like he looked right at me, simultaneously explaining what would happen if we do not pay. Uttering his threat, he smiled. Waiting for I can not understand why I called him grimace a smile because, in fact it was so much anger and hatred. On the face of the common man, this expression could have passed for a smile, a contemptuous smirk. Time is working against me. I wanted very much to all the hurry is over, but the moment seemed to be going on for ages. In the end, he was approached by one of the soldiers whispered something in his ear, and together they stepped aside. Then came the police and the broad strokes of clubs has reduced the length of the queue. Several people were forced to leave at the end of the queue, weeping in despair. Now we all tried to unpredictable club has not forced them to leave the queue. "Solidarity" - I thought at the time, as severe a woman pushed me out of the queue, and I had to quickly otprygnut aside so as not to get hit a heavy club. Amateur fotouzhasov in the form of police took another couple of hours. "Mr. Bodie! Mr Bodie! "- Knocked on the door Mama Amandine. "It's time to leave." At first I could not understand why we need such a big truck, because the passengers were few, but as we slowly moved along the dusty dirt roads in the south, are constantly on the road picking up the villagers, I realized that this was the only local Transport across the region. People are increasingly crowded, and in every village, even though it was only a few houses with thatched roofs, are the police station, which had to be celebrated. Generous in printing officers spend valuable place in our passports, taking it completely unnecessary for its huge stamp on the entry-exit. Boot I distinctly remember the plot in the village of Nyanga, where the officer asked us to look again carefully look at the bulletin board, despite the fact that we have already a long time she was treated. This officer was engaged in something of a collectors' shocking photos and gathered in his office a grim collection of photographs the dead. Photo unsuccessful beheading murderers with machetes made me think again about Paul Paul-face. Hanged robber, a man with a few strokes of a machete vsporotym stomach. There were photos and thieves tied to the stolen things outside the police station for a whole day, so everyone can look at them. Victims of car crashes, a few unexplained deaths (largely incomprehensible because of my bad French) and, finally, the scariest of them - a man hanged in a forest. Almost empty "Salon" The police chief explained that this was a political opponent of President (later I realized that probably was one of the guerrillas, who were caught by armed groups, government-controlled). He was not only hung, but splashed acid into the face and body, causing it to look like melting wax. All these pictures were made tasteless, on display, after which the local police chief personally furnished them with the signatures of at an alarming mixture of seriousness and playfulness. Mimicry by missionaries Again station square, and once again fight for the tickets. We were pushed out of a long queue for a place in which we so desperately fought. We have gone 300 meters back and realized that if stand up in the tail, the train we did not get. We are desperately looking for a big crowd, and suddenly a square near the station drove two vans, and from them came a group of young white men. "There's my second cousin!" - Cried my friend Ailey and pointed at someone of the newcomers. We approached them. All of a sudden again there is hope that we can take the train. It was a group of young Christian missionaries, which were sent by train to the city Dolisi, where they waited for another job. Of course, the church took care of everything, the young missionaries allowed to take the train first, much to the disgust of all those who waited their turn. Ailey and I walked next to the group, with downcast eyes, trying to behave as much as possible on the missionary. It worked. We snuck into the car together with the elected, and then fell out with indescribable gratitude to the Catholic Church, from which we have always tried to stay away. Going into the car, we got one more vivid picture of local corruption - for a small fee, our prices instantly turned into a first-class tickets. Start material: Read more:
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