DRC extract for Global Connection magazine, my first revised story

I make small steps on the slippery rocks, holding tight Alex's hand, my skin wet and pale. The water falls so noisy we can barely hear each other, a consistent noise I can't take out of my head. This is Seli beach, les chutes de Zongo. The local guide asked for one dollar from each person to take us here; the famous beach is gone, but this doesn't matter anymore. We are out of Kinshasa, first time after two months since me and my partner Alex have moved to DRC. I was sent by the Company for a short term assignment. I miss my family, I miss walking just to see places around, I feel trapped in a country that I don't know, that I can't yet understand.
We reach the plateau and the rocky wall stands in front of us, the water falling heavily to embrace it in glittery stars. Wow! I wish this lasts forever. It does, but not for people like us. Bare feet, this is the end of our road, we need to get back to the group.
We return to descend and find our comrades shouting. We realize they are shouting at us. Something has happened while we were up there. What? "You cannot return". "Don't get down!" My mind is puzzled. I don't understand, as they are pointing to our path, and I hear something about a snake.
The guys come to help, and we are finally back. Safe. What is safety out here in the jungle? They found a big poisonous snake in the cracks of the rocks, we passed just next to it on our way up. We could have been dead if it reacted. Our guide is alarmed, looking for something. He produces a bat out of the twisted trees, goes back to the snake, and starts hitting. He outrageously hits. And hits. The group cheers. I'm speechless as I see the snake's demise, and all this joy around. Its body, crushed head, still pulsating, is brought on the shore next to my bagpack.
"Anyone a knife?" asks the guide in the sketchy French. I see Alex holding on to his, the one we use to peel off fruit to eat. No, he gives it away! The head is off quick, the venom sack out, the white alpha males are shooting Facebook photos with the trophy.
We return loudly to our jeeps, the guide carrying the pray, a convoy of laughter, as I am trying to erase the image of the dead snake from my head. I cannot speak a word. I feel my steps heavy, the red sandy sole wanting to suck me in, all the jungle creatures stocking me from the foliage. All I want is to get out of this place, out of Africa, back home, far away, in my cosy and silent apartment.
As we reach the cars, a stingy smell like a heavy brick crushes my chest. I cannot breathe anymore. It is here, in the middle of a metal barrel, gathered the group around to get its last applause. It takes me a moment to process what is happening, as the skin is taken out in a piece, the body gutted, and cut brotherly with a rusted machete. Three locals, coming from nowhere, take their parts, pack them in palm leaves, and disappear back in the jungle. It's going to be an enjoyable feast for some...
On the way back to Kinshasa, we are stuck in traffic. Broken down cars, colorful dressed people, stuff to sell and animals are out for the Sunday market, all covered in a thick dust. They sell whatever, cook in the street, sing and dance and blow us kisses. The window of my jeep gets filled with curious faces. « Mundele!» « The kids... haven't seen a white woman before», explains my driver. I can see happiness in their deep black eyes. How come? They've got nothing...I think looking around, their bodies frail, their clothes thorn. I wish I get smaller and smaller and disappear from the back seat of my luxurious car. I want to remember this when I am back to Europe: that Nothing can be Everything.
"Mundele!" I still can hear their voices.

DRC - dincolo de blogging

Am ramas din viata mea in DRC cu un blog, si cu o poveste pe care gresit o credeam inchisa odata cu revenirea mea in lumea civilizata. Asa cum storci tot sucul dintr-un fruct, am stors naratiune dupa naratiune din DRC, cu personaje si intriga, puncte culminante si reflectii, uneori pana la nivel de aha personal, dar cu un final inevitabil - intoarcerea acasa, care pe multi i-a dezamagit, chiar si pe mine. DRC e chiar gata? Fin si atat?
De o vreme, simt ca vine momentul sa pun pe hartie multe lucruri nespuse inca despre experienta DRC. Abia acum, dupa un timp, inteleg ce impact major au avut acele sase luni pe care asteptam cu atata ardoare sa le trec la experiente trecute. Pentru ca au durut mai mult decat am spus-o vreodata. Azi DRC isi baga coada in tot ce fac si in tot ce simt, si inteleg ca sunt altcineva decat eram cand am plecat acolo, o fetita cu o bocceluta de vise, un geamantan de haine nepotrivite si un mare spray anti-tantari tropicali.
Si am astazi o revelatie: chiar ca nu e gata, mai este mult de stors din DRC. De fapt, abia incepe, DRC n-a fost decat impulsul. Am gasit in mine, sadita bine de acolo, asteptand sa rasara in Olanda sau orunde m-as fi putut afla dupa DRC, samanta unui nou fruct.

Dupa doua ore de rasfoit cateva etaje de librarie cu draga mea C., imi alesesem doua carti fresh de business, ca doar sunt corporatista aspiranta la pozitii de senior management, si inca doua reviste pentru sufletul meu - Yoga Journal si Artful Blogging. Nu ma las cu balanta viata profesionala - viata personala, desi uneori da cu virgula. Au un Espresso Book machine, la care iti poti tipari din pdf cartea ta, fie ca e ea de cooking, poeme sau memorii. Intreb de preturi, procedura, optiuni de tiparire, pentru ca as vrea sa fac cadou catorva persoane povestile mele din DRC.
La casa primesc cadou un card de reducere de 10% cu invitatia de a vorbi 5 minute cu domnul de la masa din dreapta.
Un editor olandez avea intalnire cu scriitorii aspiranti, unii mai in devenire decat altii, chiar acolo sub nasul meu, pe strada Lange Poten 23. Daca tot mi-a iesit in cale, ma caut de idei si de intrebari pertinente, si fara niciun manuscris la subrat ca mai toti ceilalti care stateau la rand, ma pun pe asteptare.
Si-i spun ca n-am de gand sa-l conving sa-mi publice o carte, ca n-am inca una intreaga...am doar un blog cu povesti. Ca scriu pentru mine si pentru cei dragi cunoscuti. Asa cum au nevoie sa faca mai toti rupti de casa. Ii spun, in cateva vorbe, ce si cum. Ma intreaba : "Si de ce n-ai scrie mai mult, si pentru altii necunoscuti?" Asta e roulul editorului, sa-ti spuna daca ai putea scrie si pentru altii, necunoscuti tie, din Olanda sau din Romania sau de oriunde din alta parte, sa scrii pe o tema universal valabila si de interes. Si ma gandesc atunci ce-ar trebui sa fac sa duc blogul meu, the story, la urmatorul nivel? Si-i spun cam ce, asa cum am simtit eu ca lipsea din DRC, pe vremea cand eram acolo si nu puteam sa spun tuturor lucrurilor pe nume.
Si vrea sa ma citeasca. Din respect, ca asa o fi zicand la toti, 30 de pagini traduse in engleza, sa i le trimit neaparat. Recunoaste ca asta e jobul lui, ca e-n cautare de talente. Din prea mare curiozitate, probabil ca i le voi trimite.

Asa ca as vrea sa fac un sondaj intre cititori...  :), ipotetic vorbind:

Dragi cititoti, care mi-ati citit blogul sase luni de DRC, daca ar fi sa scriu o carte pornind de la DRC, voi despre ce m-ati sfatui sa scriu?

Imi puteti lasa aici comentariile voastre sau trimite pe adresa de mail: r_dobrescu@yahoo.com.

Cand cartea va deveni un bestseller international, celor care raspund promit sa le-o ofer cu dedicatie:)

Va multumesc, cu drag,
Raluca