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.