Stepan Semenov - an interpreter of French, Director of the Center for French studies at the Diplomatic Academy of the MFA of Russia, member of the International Union of journalists. Because of the nature of the work travels a lot, including on the motorcycle. On one such journey across the African continent Stepan decided to tell the readers Motonews. EN.

A few days ago we published the first part of the story "night Flight beetle, or notes of the translator", today we present the continuation of this fascinating story of a Russian journalist.

The AIR France plane from Paris visiting Kinshasa once a week. Beauty, tightly Packed people with non-European skin color. Many men in brown leather hats. Women in bright dresses organically dispersed in space and surprisingly silent. French stewardess with persons of Roman Legionnaires. From paleface only our delegation Yes old Belgian with a stain on the face, not issuing from the hands of the leash leather belt of the young African. Whiskey ended almost immediately, but eight hours have passed unnoticed. So I was in this Africa for the first time.

Economic Forum in Kinshasa was successfully completed. The conference such a high level was carried out in the country for the first time and pulled into its orbit a huge number of interested participants. The Russian delegation - representatives of big business and industrial companies with undisguised pleasure began the final part of the event is the reception for the guests and participants, held at the Villa "MA Campagne", located on a high hill, away from the unmanaged and noisy human flows in the Central part of the city.

On the grill sizzled chicken pieces and crocodile meat. Girls without costumes playfully fanning steaming food with palm leaves. Invited members of the local elite slowly walked across the porch with glasses in their hands. Their faces shone like oil. In the branches of palm trees creaked parrots. Boss as always appeared suddenly, radiating kindness and equanimity. As if this was not the expedition to Central Africa, and the unofficial meeting in Geneva. Present, barely stopping to chew, formed in a dense ring.
"Now listed a couple of toasts and go to the airport, the road is difficult, the move will be column", - said the Chief, and raised his glass. From Kinshasa airport is 30 km strewn with broken bricks and debris polyaspartates roads, crossing the most criminogenic areas of the suburb. Our passports and baggage were sent to the customs office in the morning to complete all formalities. At the gate presented to the border authorities in the jeep was sitting and nagged nuts belted cartridge belts group of people in uniform for our escorts.

A column of three SUVs and cars with guards slowly made their way along the city streets. Last moved, buffed-out Nissan Patrol 90-ies, in the depths of which I was an employee of the company Frenchman Raymond and our driver Papa. It should be noted that tube in Kinshasa can be compared only with Moscow, while vehicles in the capital of the Congo is much less. It's all in overwhelming chaos, day and night prevails on the roads. And without the slow motion at any time may be suspended stalled truck without the engine and cabin, discussing what happened several hundred people joined this event a funeral procession. Chasing diagonally and the oncoming lane motorcyclists also order add.
Darkness suddenly covered the city like a dark blanket. At some point, our driver must have been distracted and turned down a narrow lane. As he later explained, he just got tired of drag in the tail, and he decided to overtake the column through a side street. But Papa mistaken. No side streets in this part of town was not in sight. Lane corkscrew went into the unlit depths of the quarter. Life here raged even stronger than on the Central line. In iron barrels blazing flame, ominous lighting similar to the big box buildings. Windows without glass, as in a puppet show, appeared and disappeared silhouettes of people and animals. Our Nissan dragged to a crawl. After a while he just slowed down and stopped. Ahead, in the middle of the road, was burning in the frame of the car, around which, as if in a dance, ran black shadows. As it turned out, this was the dance. Dance in honor of expensive white guests who dared to visit the area. Enjoy the folklore there was no time - the body of our car was already knocking at the Windows looked excited and unfriendly person. The car from all sides have stuck to a throbbing mass of the human condition I did not have time to ask the Pope Jean, what happened, why, he would not have time to answer me - dozens of hands have already pulled him through the side window. On the driver's seat was left with only his green shoes. Raymond, obviously remembering the code of the white man, with dignity opened the window and asked a question. Responded quickly and very loudly. The essence of the answer boiled down to the fact that we just exceeding permitted in the area of speed, hit a pregnant girl and tried to escape. Judging will be by local law at the crime scene. On the windshield of the web is spreading cracks - it was beaten scraps of iron pipes. Papa appeared in the window as suddenly as it had disappeared. Two men held his twisted hands behind his back, and the third by the hair.
"We'll have to wait a bit, awkwardly, he announced, " we'll have to wait for the local authorities to solve the problem". I glanced at the clock, before departure to Paris remained an hour and a half. It seems we were already late.
With a crack that opened the cargo door of our car. In beauty gushed suffocating wave of moist air. From immediate contact with the external environment we were separated only boxes of whiskey, a pile piled in the trunk. And suddenly, the movement around the machine fell silent. It was incredible! As if an invisible conductor in one motion stopped raging in creative ecstasy orchestra. Out of the darkness appeared a stout man with sunglasses. His chest was decorated with a metal chain with thick washers medals.
In complete silence the crowd surrounded the stranger impenetrable ring. About us, it seems, just forgot. There was no time to think. Fate has given us a chance, and I heard her clock is already counting the allotted time.
Man with glasses spoke, all listened with bated breath. Opening the door from the opposite side, I pushed Raymond and he tumbled to the road. Luckily for us this side of the street was a garbage littered the ravine. In a minute we already ran through some bushes. Monkeys with persons drunken babies was shouting something after us from the prickly branches. I stepped into the nearest alley, I realized that Raymond was lost in the vegetation. But something told me that he is not far. Way to go, I had no idea. From the suffocating heat wanted to remove the skin. The street was deserted, only at the intersection of a group of teenagers were basking in the burning tires. One of them was holding a white motorcycle helmet. Next in the mess were motorcycles. "Who's the boss?" I cried the first thing that came to mind.
Forward pop the guy years 16.
"I need to go to the airport, just quickly, I'll pay!" The young man immediately identified me interested client. "100 dollars", - smiling, he said, and without waiting for my answer, rolled out like a grasshopper motorcycle. The tiny fuel tank and saddle motika were covered with the fur of a beast, but I managed to spot a powerful shock absorbers and toothy rubber. "Now appears my friend, he is also in the airport!" - "$100 and it gets behind you," came the reply.
In a minute we were cut off, wet night. Engine Mota cheerfully hummed, adding bass notes from a broken muffler. For all the last time I heard the soundtrack nicer to my heart. I already had the cabin and the flight attendant with a glass of champagne. Suddenly, emerging from the next pit, motorcycle taxied to the lighted concrete pad and stopped. There are signs I determined that it was located in the middle of the desert plains gas station. Just in the grass lying on the side of the orange truck. Somewhere in the distance rumbling drums.

"Ran out of gas," I guess. Metal booths man appeared and shouted out some words, showing on the road on which we came. I realized that in some incomprehensible way about our flight is already known throughout the continent. The reality is again opened for me his stinking mouth.
The motorcyclist turned to me.
- Petrol is not. Need to wait. And you still are now caught and will cut the pieces, with a smile he said. I guess that I better understood the meaning, my Savior tried to speak slowly.
They don't like the French. They are already going for you on the machine.
Stewardess with champagne disappeared in the night. It seems that the belts I no longer need.
"What's your name? I cried.
Zabanha.
- Listen, Zabanha, I'm not French and never was. I'm Russian! From Russia. I'm a biker, just like you! I have a Honda motorcycle Africa! By his expression I knew he didn't understand half of what I say. Our delegation! We brought a gift to your President!
I was still trying to fight for their lives. But what I wanted to hear in response?
The reaction of my new friend was unexpected.
From Russia? And I will be a gift? From Russia! he asked and held out his hand. In the pink palm shone the keys to the motorcycle.
- You will be the greatest gift!
"Your French friend also Russian?
Of course Russian, his name is Roman, he just speaks good French. I was out on the road.
- Russian, you go straight all the time. Just don't leave! Motorcycle leave at the gate. Is it something else cried at parting, but the wind was whistling in my ears.

The ILO has jumped on the bumps, but tenaciously held on to the surface. Apparently, I was already close to the airport - along the road began to appear residential buildings. Electricity was not available. Only everywhere flickered dim lights are locals strolling along roadsides with clay lamps in their hands. Some of them stood with their arms held up to the sky. "Like the dead with braids", - only had time to think I, as a sharp blow to the forehead almost kicked me out of the saddle. Lights lights swirled drunken moths. The first thing I could think is that I was caught and hit with a stick on the head. On his forehead was sujala sticky mass. "It's the brain!!" - burned a terrible idea.
But the movement continued. On my face, moving and covering eyes sprawled the body of a huge beetle. The smaller beetles flew around whistling bullets. Motorcycle flew on the crest of a hill.
At the bottom, wrapped necklace rare lights, casually sprawled runway airport.
Huge Airbus bathed in the spotlight and looked the stranger from another world. Meet me fled the people with guns. Zagluchil motor, I slowly walked towards them. At the gates I turned around and threw a last glance at the motorcycle. A small spotlight shone defiantly in the dark. Meh, my new tank, huddled on his side. "Tricker", I read on the yellow plastic.

The flight was delayed for two hours. It turns out that we were looking for. The Frenchman Raymond, he novel, was successfully transplanted into the path of a police car and taken to the airport. Already sitting on the plane, I tried to understand what has happened.

"You're lucky that the flight has been delayed, otherwise you would have gone with the track," boss stood next to me and held out a glass of champagne. I've submitted my return to the city on a motorcycle. Without a penny of money. Without documents. In the company of giant beetles. Under the drums...

The neighbor on the right too hospitably inclined his bottle of whiskey. Barely conscious, I reached for the French national drink.

"It was not necessary to disturb the discipline," he spoke to the Chef and disciplined went to the first class cabin. Before hiding in the bowels of luxury he turned and added: "As they say samurai: "Do it right" and let it be". The plane, Podravina, was moved out on takeoff.

Already in Moscow, sometimes reflecting on the bizarre modification course of those events, which at any moment could turn around and not in our favor, I wondered what prompted the African guy to give me the keys to the motorcycle? Fear that he'll deal with my accomplice escape? The desire to earn more? Or unexpected, as an attack of malaria, spiritual impulse? And, finally, who was detained on the plane? Everything that happened still seems to me paradoxical synthesis incompatible strategies.
The bike I bought myself two weeks, although you can find this model was not easy. My new friend was Yamaha Tricker 250 - fun and playful ILO able to go in any direction from the main road. I only wish the gas tank is small.
And again captured by the flow of unpredictable events that abound in the life of a translator, I'm waiting for the fate of the newly cast me in Africa, because there waiting for my gift black biker of Zabanha.

P. S. Some are listed in the article quotes do not necessarily reflect the views of the author and the information gleaned them from open foreign sources. During the events described above, with the exception of the beetle, has not suffered no representative of the local fauna. The Frenchman Raymond lives in Paris and never go anywhere. The driver Papa married a daughter of the local authority, which a month later bore him two children. A week after our departure in the Congo was the coup.