Category Archives: Burundi

How to Celebrate Burundian Independence Day for Beginners

  1. Take your AK-47 out to the street and hold it up with both hands.  Glare at everyone passing by.
  2. Go to the flower market.  Buy several plastic bags of ground nuts.  Shuffle back and forth outside the T-2000, the Chinese convenience store, while eating said nuts.  Glare at everyone passing by.
  3. Open a fresh box of grenades in a vacant lot.  Let the kids play catch with the dummies.  Those are the ones with the red plastic tabs on them.  Aren’t they?
  4. Mumble bad French to the aged, syphilitic Belgian who runs the only café with internet.  Get seated immediately and order something in a bottle.  Try to connect to the internet for 2 hours.  Fail to connect.  Glare at everyone in the café.  Realize it was a bottle refilled from the tap.  Go home and vomit for 6 hours.
  5. Take a walk in the public gardens.  Witness people healthier than you with better attitudes and better immune systems.  Go home and glare at yourself in the mirror.
  6. Go to bed early, vowing to sleep in.  Wake up an hour later with a giant cockroach in your hair.  Scream for a while.  Drink heavily with all the lights on in your house until dawn.  Produce a 15-page handwritten short story that you cannot understand the next day.
  7. Talk to the house guard.  Learn how to say “good evening” in Kirundi.  Come away feeling that you’ve finally met one of the best people alive today.
  8. Attend a Marine Corps pig roast at the US Embassy.  Come away feeling that you’ve finally met some of the worst people alive today.  Decide that they aren’t really alive after all.
  9. Visit Rwanda.  Return with a suitcase packed as follows: 1 jar boric acid; 1 pack candles; 1 pack cockroach glue traps; 3 40oz bottles of Primus Lager; 5 bars “Genital Wash” brand lavender soap; 3 cartons mosquito-repelling citronella incense; 1 small bird carved out of white stone; 1 bullwhip; 1 Chinese good luck medallion for Year of the Ox covered in red foil.  Pour boric acid around baseboards by candlelight.  Set up glue traps on kitchen countertop.  Light some of the incense.  Put bullwhip on nightstand outside the bed’s mosquito netting.  Drink the beer. Wake up the next day and realize you did it all wrong and lit one of the curtains on fire.  What happened to the medallion?  Bad luck.
  10. Sit in the living room, trying to train a mustard-yellow gecko to fetch a piece of grass.  Do this for hours.  Conclude that the gecko is actually training you to throw the piece of grass and fetch it.  Wonder about the hidden world of geckos.

June Bujumbura 023

Advertisements

The Blue Hills of Kigali

Blue Hills

The city of Kigali is built on a series of ridges, with the geography mirroring the relative affluence of the city’s districts.  Downtown, which is in the center of the city (whOutlying District of Kigali from the Airere I’m sitting as I write this), is on one of the higher ridges (about 5k feet above sea level).  Mt. Kigali looms blue-brown in the distance and can be seen from most of the nicer neighborhoods.  The poor, shanty-like areas down between the ridges show the breadth of economic stratification here.  Still, it’s a pleasant place to be after the dust and entropy of Bujumbura.  The espresso is drinkable, which is a tremendous plus.

It’s raining today.  So instead of walking around like a muzungu fool, bothering people and taking pictures, I’ve found a quiet corner in an upstairs café where there is a great view of the distant hills.  In spite of its horrific history, Rwanda seems—at least in my Suburban Kigalioutsider’s perspective—to have worked hard on recovering.  The sense one gets in Kigali is similar to the nicer areas of Tijuana.  Yes, the streets are sometimes unpaved or broken; yes, the cars smell bad and the crows are noisy; but, all these urban characteristics are relative.  I imagine even the highest-maintenance North Americans, would find Kigali pleasant much of the time.

I’m enjoying my few days here before I return to Bujumbura.  And I can only hope that the political situation here does not degenerate.  People here, like people anywhere, are trying to lead their lives in peace, trying for something a little bit better.  Let it continue.

The four ridges of Kigali.


The Bullets

Leaving the country is a lot like dying.  At least, this is how people act when they learn that your destination will be a place where the dominant skin color isn’t white.  As soon as you say you’re going, friends and family, even soon-to-be former co-workers, begin to mourn.  And eventually you stop telling people about your destination because it only accelerates the grieving process.

It’s true: you might be going away for a long time, maybe for good.  Still, it’s not the length of time that makes you seem terminally ill to your friends.  It’s the destination.  Your friends have all seen the same Hollywood films, the same highly mediated news footage, listened to the same spots on NPR that depict the countries of Africa as chaotic pits of destruction.

Stereotypical assumptions that go back at least as far as the 18th century suddenly begin to emerge in your friends, who are otherwise intelligent and sensitive people.  Won’t you get a disease?  Don’t they have insects there bigger than small dogs?  Dirt floors?  Burning cars?  Dusty jeeps full of angry, heavily armed young men rolling through the streets?  One in every six people dying of some kind of retrovirus?  Beheadings?  The tattoo of distant ritual drums in the night?  No Wi-Fi?

Such questions run on ignorance like the worst hearsay-fourth-hand impressions founded largely on the unkind fictions that necessarily emerge when vast economic and geographic distances stand between cultures.  It’s as if your friends stop hearing themselves, stop seeing (if they ever did) that such concerns are veiled only by an inherent legacy of racism that seeks to remain invisible at all times beneath worries about health, safety, and cultural backwardness.

In your last week at work, Jim pulls you aside and says, “Don’t bullshit me.  You own a vest?”

“A vest?”

“You know.  Kevlar.  For the bullets.  Travelers can get them now.”

The bullets.  The bullets constantly flying through the air between the disease-ridden mosquitos and crazed death threats.

“Got a Koran?” he says.  “Seriously.  You haven’t thought of this?  Where’ve you been?  Put it in your carry-on.”

“It’s a predominately Catholic country, Jim.”

Jim looks at you with a wide-eyed concern, his lower lip quivering.  “I heard it’s hell on earth.”

“Really?  Where, exactly, did you hear this?”

“What happened to you?” Jim says.  “Normal people just do Xanax and a therapist.  They don’t run off to Africa.”

You decide that your friends have also read the same books about death and loss.  Everybody seems to understand that the denial phase is supposed to follow the bargaining phase for the terminally ill.  And when you say positive things about “that place,” you’re obviously in denial.

You receive emails with subject lines like, We’ll Remember You Fondly and Concerned But That’s Life, Right?  The mother of an ex from long ago sends you flowers with no card, just a wreath.  People start unburdening themselves, explaining, clearing the air, making their peace.  Several of them may have taken Xanax beforehand.

Nearly all of them mean well.  Nearly all of them are uninformed and strangely proud of it.  Yes, there are dangerous elements on that continent.  Yes, you must take anti-malarials and get vaccinated for Yellow Fever and Typhoid.  Yes, there is a history of abject poverty and political instability of some of the countries through which you will travel.  And yes, most of these elements can be found elsewhere in the world as well.  But never in such lethal concentrations, goes the objection.  When you reference the malaria problems in Alaska, the glories of south central Los Angeles, or the entire catastrophe of Detroit, most objections of this sort stop.

The mundane logistics of going take up all your time, all your emotional energy, and you catch yourself thinking that maybe Sarah from admin is being extra passive-aggressive today.  Then you realize: no, she’s just composing a potential eulogy, envisioning how she’ll redecorate your office as soon as you depart, as soon as you’re departed, dearly.

People wonder out loud if you’ve learned the language at your age, which is inconceivable since everyone knows only children can learn new languages and certainly not full-grown Americans who’ve lost their virginity, paid taxes, and had full-time jobs.  You tell them you will be able to get by at first with what you’ve learned from Rosetta Stone and that you’re not worried about it because you’re a quick study with languages.  No one believes you.  They shake their heads in dismay or nod condescendingly: you are either crazy, stupid, naïve, or a secret genius-which they have already decided is the least likely option.

Instead, they ask about the hospitals, whether, you know, germ theory is understood by the “native doctors.”  Those still capable of politeness take a more circumspect approach: This is so fascinating.  Now, is western medicine very present there? You tell them that people drop dead on the street for no apparent reason, that the local hospitals practice leeching and diagnose through spirit communication.  Everyone nods.  That’s what they thought.

As JFK drops away beneath the plane, you listen to the hiss of the cabin air, the hydraulics of the landing gear being retracted.  There are four connections and twenty-seven hours of flight time ahead of you.  When you land in Bujumbura, Burundi, you will have moved one day into the future.  You start a new page in your journal with this line: There is no way to truly know a thing unless you live it.  Then you close the journal.  The rest of the page will have to remain blank for the time being.

006

Rolling the Hard Six

Countdown to Africa continues.  The next battery of inoculations takes place tomorrow, after which I will tutor my nephews and collapse on the floor twitching and mumbling.  At the same time, I’m doing additional paperwork for Japan.  This crazy life I’m leading is at least keeping me awake.  The best case scenario will have me employed in both places as well.  Worse case?  Well, there are many fine parks and golf courses all over the world in which I could sleep.

The good news is that I might have a real second book manuscript ready to go soon–a collection of short stories that will precede the novel I hope to finish while abroad.  I should have enough down time to finish it.

I’m betting on a lot of things coming through for me in the next few months.  Let’s hope the dice stay toasty . . .

You know I once was a gambler, boy, but I lost my money soon.
Yes, I once was a gambler, boy, but I lost my money soon.
Yes, I lost all of my money some other, some other gambler can have my room.
– “Gambler’s Blues,” Otis Rush


Burundi

I’m already there in my mind, but right now the yellow fever vaccination is reminding me that I’m right here…Image