Night. Legs ache, tent gushing downpour. The wind seeps into the cracks under the awning, and walking in a light rain the tent, forcing us to cuddle closer and closer to each other. Involuntarily thought: what are we doing here? But the rain pritchet, and, having come up from under the wet hem of the tent, we do a couple of steps to the edge of the crater of the volcano. A gust of wind blows in the direction coming out of the crater pairs, and we no longer remember anything about the wet tent, nor about the chills. Even my feet are sore, and I want to jump with excitement, but you can’t — boots the fragile pumice, and a few hundred meters below us is boiling orange-red lake of lava. We have already managed to give the Vulcan tripod, luckily, without the camera — it was demolished by the wind, when he was left on the edge for a second. We assume this is a ritual of sacrifice.
The Slope Of Nyiragongo
At the border we met a guide named Emmanuel (the pygmy, although he denies it). After giving him a dollar on visa, we were waiting on a bare piece of land between Rwanda and Congo, not daring to take out the camera and capture photogenic African women, who with amazing agility rushed from border Continue reading