my My Wandering

‘Bonjour, comment ça va?’, read the message I received from the man at a maison d’accueil in Bujumbura I had called and booked a couple of nights at.

‘Bonjour, merci pour le message. Ça va, et vous?’

‘Îl fait très beau ici aujourd’hui, on a un après midi bien agréable. On est ici, à la maison d’accueil maintenant. Vous allez voir et j’espère aimer notre petite place ici; c’est tout fait par nous-mêmes.’

The conversation carried on. There was no factual reason behind the man’s message, as I had booked a room a few days before, they had confirmed it and that was about it. This conversation was instead pour le plaisir, it was beyond all factual, profitable or useful matters. It was instead purely human, the way the always rushing contemporary smart this and that owning (or rather owned) man had long lost while keeping his eyes only on efficiency while pathetically yet, true, glamorously missing life. As we went on, an image came to my mind, the image of the two Burundi girls and their mother, a local priest’s wife, I met during the lengthy the Dar es Salaam – Kigoma train ride a couple of years before. Their almost perfectly round faces lacking the ugly glitz of sorts nowadays labeled as fanciness – faces that could have well served as inspiration for Constantin Brâncuși’s reviving sculpture while reverting to the essence of things -, their naturally outspoken behaviour, their asking every now and then while pinching my hand: ‘but why are you so white?’, greatly emphasizing the last world in a child’s pure, unconcealed wonder.

And, true, it was this image that had acted as a trigger calling me back to the region, especially as I was coming from a part of the world where people seemed to have learnt little – if anything – from their own history, where Israelis had done Palestinians after 1948 pretty much the same that the Romans under Hadrian had done them, where Russians killed Ukrainians (it is pathetic to pretend that a country impersonally invaded another country or that a leader / leading class is the only one guilty for such crimes while millions back them up through their guilty silence and murderous obedience) while the ‘civilized’ world took sides according to the ‘what’s in for me’ factor alone and where common sense was labeled as politically incorrect or thrashed by individuals used to be fed by the social media with ‘anything goes’ news and facts. In such a mire, one can only find relief while following the basics devoid of any ad-ons: light, beauty, peace. Especially in a region where people learnt from their quite recent in this case history, like the 1994 Rwandan genocide that saw about one million people killed in a three month period. The stark difference however was that Israel denied the Nakba (or denied they had been behind it while blaming the Arab radio stations), the Russians denied the Holodomor ever took place and the Turks did the same with Young Turks’ Armenian genocide just as some Nazis argued the Holocaust had not existed as a matter of fact, while Rwandans looked themselves in the mirror and acknowledged guilt, fear and horror so as to be able to carry on honestly living.

Helmets and yellow vests came in waves down the streets and avenues in Kigali, a change from those in Dar es Salaam or N’djamena, as both helmets and vests seemed compulsory here; the ‘no plastic bag’ policy here was strictly enforced and also from this point of view Kigali contrasted with the other two. While going back and forth trying to sort out the necessary chores (getting cash and gas cartridge and others), them chores typically multiplied while my pace strangely slowed down so as to get in the local flow. People walked steadily, yet slowly, there was no rush along the sidewalks or roads (save, as I was to see, for the Nyabugogo bus stand), no rush for pedestrians to cross the street, no rush for vendors to sell stuff and customers to get their products. Instead, there was an omnipresent smile on people’s faces, a kindness that radiated around them, needing no words, courtesy or gestures. It was hard to put in the same basket these images and the staggering reports or stories about the same city the stray dogs of needed be killed some 30 years before because they had got used to eat human flesh given the great number of dead bodies spread around. Beyond the main avenues with their carefully tended flower plots and palm trees, beyond the high rises and recent office buildings or hotels, beyond the imported product-stocked supermarkets, contrasts abounded and it sufficed to take a side street North (and not South) of the KN1 Road and the atmosphere changed rapidly, with people pushing poor bicycles loaded with heavy sacks of their produce meant for the market, with children in rags, patched small houses and streams of people trying to make a meagre living while doing small jobs.

And it all culminated in Nyabugogo, a not very large bus stand that seemed much greater due to the buzz around it. Dozens of minibuses and midibuses filled the lot in an apparent chaos, with only one entrance and one exit to sort of create a flow. People streamed in and out, motos flocked at the main exits, while a great number of stalls and a tenfold if not hundred fold number of itinerant sellers proposed everything, from the typical napkins, fruits, snacks and beverages to electronics, textiles, jewelry, underwear and footwear.  Beggars, some of which with various disabilities, preachers trying to find new adepts for their religion or sect and touts pushing newcomers to the buses they got a commission from completed the image of a place where a minute was a long time with many things happening and one talking to many people in its 60 seconds. However, even here, that omnipresent smile prevailed and laughter was typically absent once again.

A packed minibus ride across verdant scenery with many plantations of plantain, pineapple, corn, potatoes and beans delivered me to Musanze with its busy centre. Even after dropping my big backpack at the serene place I was staying at, dozens of people tried to get me into buying a bus ticket from them or with their help, into arranging transport to the Parc des Volcans headquarter or contracting other services. And it was only when, upon entering the great farmers’ market just off the bus station and subsequently filling one of those typical no plastic bags with fruits and vegetables, that they let me be, with only children around and the local farmers or merchants smiling and chuckling at the muzungu. Then, the market was not only a place to escape the hide-and-seek in the adjacent bus station, or a place to get mere supplies for the following days, but an extraordinary place to see the other image of the region, beyond the famous mountain gorillas or volcanoes with their crater lakes. In stark contrast, the unpaved alleys with their poor houses and patches of corn fields and small houses in Kabeza a few kilometers North of the town centre came together with Biblical scenes of children and people walking as if coming from the darkness and back into it, while revealing themselves only for a second or two, enough for some to shyly ask: ‘How are you?’ Or ‘All fine? Peace!’. With such images, a quiet dog to pat and some steamy, typically oily and also typically mouth-watering, spicy potato samosas one called it a day in a strange blend of expectation and fullness.

The morning was cool and sunny, while the road was already full of people at 6 something AM, when a moto ride got me to the Parc des Volcans headquarters in Kinigi, where a state of the art setup met a similar management, one more proof – if needed – that mountain gorilla tours provided a major source of income for the country, but also that Rwandans were genuinely hospitable, unlike those faking it, Romanians included. And soon enough, groups of mid-aged or elderly well-to-do tourists starting arriving in shining offroad cars and talking about the fine lodges they were staying at. I started trekking together with a couple of Americans living and working in Musanze, joined by the de rigueur party of soldiers and a guide. After crossing pastures where cattle and goats went grazing, as well as fields of crops, we entered the bamboo forest which kept on providing a close and dense company for an hour or so. Upon emerging on a forested ridge, the American man gave up and I carried on joined by Joseph, one of the soldiers, that kept on calling our destination for the day ‘the objective’. Without being a fan of the army anywhere, I liked that, as Joseph seemed not to care about park regulations saying that if one goes down all do, and he had no intermediate or stage objectives, but rather only one, which had to be reached, period, so that I enjoyed being able to go in my speed, as he was quite fast as well. And then, past following a relatively narrow, but easy forested ridge, we reached the ‘objective’, with Sabinyo I looming some 200 meters above us with its steep slopes, respectively with the highest of the Sabinyo fangs (or rather old man’s teeth) separated from it by a sheer V-shape gap, and the other two fangs farther Eastwards in Uganda. On the way down a heavy rain unleashed, turning the trail into a slide at best or a stream at worst (or vice versa). Back in Musanze, while looking to restock on chapatis and baignés for the following day, first I had to wait until it got dark (as, for some reason, open fires or grills were not allowed at daytime) and then to look for someone else cooking them, as the two young men I had enjoyed talking the previous night were not there: 

‘They are not opening today, they are Adventist and it is Friday’.

On the other hand, even before getting them goodies somewhere else, one could not but greatly enjoy the rather warm night air, the stream of people coming and going down the road lit by poor shop and stronger motorcycle lights, as well as the moon reflected by the myriad of pools down the now muddy, dead quiet lanes off the paved road.

A reason for one’s guts and the moto driver to complain, the Karisimbi trailhead was quite far from Kinigi, along a bumpy dirt road at the bottom of a terraced slope cultivated with Irish potatoes, beans, corn, garlic and peas. There were five of us this time: apart from me, there were Richard, a fit young doctor from Kigali that – as the afternoon was to show – had underrated the altitude issues even though he had climbed Karisimbi before, then a party of two badly equipped young men sporting a good physical condition, respectively Peter, a doctor from Manchester that had specialized in epidemiological vaccine development and had come for a conference in Kigali. Upon getting in the forest joined by a 6 strong group of soldiers one of which carried a huge Korean War period radio transmitter and another just an equally old machine gun with a massive charged, we did not run, as expected, in the typical dense bamboo forest. The forest here was fairy take-like, with great trees and their canopy providing a cool climate, overgrown with moss and lichen, respectively a rich ground vegetation layer. 

The going was rather easy, as, while humid, the ground was not generally drenched except for several bog areas where one’s Scottish and Ugandan memories, as well as terrain knowledge were instantly revived. The forest then opened up, making room for a pleasant meadow followed by clearings and thickets dotted with fresh buffalo dung. Some half an hour later we reached the 3700 m.a.s.l. camp and proceeded straight on to the summit some 800 m. higher. Peter turned white and vomited, but a pill of Diamox made him feel better, so that he could join us on the way up. The slope was rather constant and even more so upon leaving behind the last trees and bushes, when we could see the 1986 transmitter on the summit looming above us. A significantly more preferable view opened up to the North-West at times: the wonderfully steep, formidable Mount Mikeno in Congo. Reaching the top with the respective transmitter, as well as the typical construction and equipment debris there, I made a quick tour and then descended to get Peter that typically inclined to go straight uphill, hence remaining short of breath and energy. We then made it again to the top soon followed by the two young men from Kigali, while Richard, having vomited several times, initially gave up, just to give it an exhausting push then, one that could have cost him dearly. The sense of joy was immense not necessarily through the achievement itself (which was anyway small), but through the companionship feeling, especially seeing these men pushing themselves and going through pain or sickness just to get up there. The descent to the camp was expectedly slow, as Richard started running down, just to then collapse, while Peter controlled his effort and actions way better, but felt weak; trying to distract him a little from the stress every other step down seemed to produce, I satisfied my curiosity in terms of viruses, bacteria and poisonous bite toxins. It was night by the time we all made it into camp, and several of the mud-filled trail sectors had turned into real slides given the rain that had meanwhile started.

I did not find the morning particularly cold, maybe more humid, but the others did, so that there was no time for contemplation at the clouds shifting colour from grey to light blue, then pink and then orange just before the sun threw faint, then ever stronger rays to us and the drenched grass, shrubs and bushes. After half a night’s rain, what had appeared as relatively easy going and relatively again solid ground now was a nearly continuous stream of mud dotted from time to time with patches of grass concealing knee-deep water.

‘I am hungry’, said a child in rags walking constantly behind me after Peter’s generously giving me a ride so that I needed not find a moto and after my dropping my luggage, boots and mud colour (literally) trousers at the guesthouse, going out to get some supplies for the following days.

‘Banana’, she carried on, probably spotting the bunch of bananas in the makeshift bag I had got in the marketplace.

I instantly recalled the many children greeting us when going up the previous day, as well as school children playing around and with me during my other walks up and down this very road.

Then, sure, there had been others asking for money, plainly, squarely, just because I was a muzungu and the ‘stylo’ in Yemen saw a more pragmatic approach here. But this child’s image reflected what she was saying in a stark, crude, translucid manner. And this her image and faint voice turned all potential lamentation and arguments – ‘I don’t have it’, ‘I cannot help them all’, ‘I am not here to do that’, as well as, of course in the Western world, the ‘I am in a hurry’ -, straight down the sewage.

‘Le problème au Congo, c’est le gouvernement. Les fonctionnaires sont très corrompus et imputent la pauvreté et le désastre du pays aux étrangers, de sorte que les gens pensent que nous sommes les méchants et veulent nous voir partir’, said the mid-aged French woman I was trekking to the Bisoke with as we were leaving behind the picturesque farming lands before reaching the treeline at the national park boundary. Born in Les Contamines-Montjoie in the Alps, she worked in Goma for UNESCO. A couple of hours later, after a becoming acquaintances with the local nettles, humid hard packed ground and pools of mire, we emerged from the forest and, past a short stretch up a grassy slope dotted with lobelias, found ourselves on the verge of the kilometer wide crater hosting its iconic lake embellished by the coming and going mist that seemed to stuck to the Congolese side. The mist gave way to a strong sun as we headed down and a heavy rain started shortly after we commenced on the way back to Musanze from Bisate. Back at the guesthouse complete with its myriad of birds singing that already felt like home, a thought emerged and it started building up, with two visa applications, a national park permit and a rather awkward transport situation to sort out, but I proceeded with a step by step approach, that of the constant, yet relaxed pace of people walking down the road in Musanze or Kigali.

While awkwardly backtracking going from Musanze to Kinigi for the registration, just to revert to Musanze so as to proceed to Cyanika from where a bumpy dirt (or rather literally ‘dust’) road led to the Muhabura trailhead, one could not ignore the street in all its vibrance, tumult and colour. SUVs and expensive offroad cars shared the same road with Congo or Uganda registered trucks, with a buzzing cluster of motorcycles and an apparently endless flow of people, from the many children dressed up in school uniform (a faut pas in brothel-like libertarian Europe) to women carrying sacks on their heads and men carrying rudimentary tools while heading to the fields nearby. A special place in this lively river was taken by cyclists. Aging, patched bicycles had been modified to allow a passenger to sit on a cushion in the back, or to carry huge loads on the same, including enormous sacks of crops, pieces of furniture or even the odd new bicycle. While the road was relatively flat, the cyclist would pedal, but things changed dramatically when the road went up, as the cyclist would push the bicycle, sometimes helped by his entire family, while when the road went down he would often speed up, just to slow down by vigorously rubbing his feet usually wearing rubber slippers against the pavement.

‘The military service is not mandatory here’, said John, my guide up the Muhabura.

’So then, young people join the army like a well paid job…’

’Some yes, but others join it, you know, out of patriotism.’

I realized how stupid my remark had been. But then, I came from not only a country, but a whole continent, some might argue a whole civilization where the term patriotism had long been mistaken for crap egocentrism, where some 140 million Russians supported (directly or indirectly, because silent obedience is just as guilty) Vladimir Putin’s retort starting and ending with Matushka Rossiya, where Emmanuel Macron walked on tiptoes trying to ménager la chèvre et le chou while however not affecting the long standing Russian – French comradeship, where Viktor Orbán and Karl Nehammer played the same typical Rodina-mat-centered nationalist circus, where many people in Romania were getting ready to vote for the AUR and UDMR muppets including the make-believe intellectual, ‘superior’ figures in their ranks wrapped up in their respective flags or displaying their respective flag colours, respectively their cheap, fastfood-like propaganda and ideology. Therefore, while this was by no means an excuse, my having excluded patriotism from the story only showed the degree of alienation in the part of the world that had once claimed to ‘civilize’ swathes of Africa.

The Muhabura was one rather steep, typical volcano, only that its surface being rather rocky, there was hardly no mud up its trail. The going was quick, as the trail up the mountain rarely saw any switchbacks, instead going straight up the rather steep slope. After quickly passing through the fully grown forest and a transition belt of bushes and hypericum trees, we emerged on the grassy part dotted with lobelias from where we gradually engaged on a ridge running to the top. A considerably smaller, but more scenic lake sat in the crater, while the mist around granted the place a mysterious atmosphere. Back on the trail, we descended quickly, I found the moto driver exactly in the place I had left him some 6 hours before. However, about half the way to Musanze, it started pouring heavily. We stopped by some shops, looking at the torrent that had developed along the road. People ran to find shelter, some cars stopped as the heavy rain did not allow the drivers to see 5 meters ahead. Only children, that at least for the beginning enjoyed playing and running in the downpour, respectively those cyclists with their huge loads that were hardly to control, only these two categories showed no interest in finding shelter. When the rain abated, we resumed the ride, just to be forced to find yet another shelter some kilometers farther as it got even stronger than the first time. In this second shelter, in front of some closed shops, when the pouring looked more like a powerful waterfall than a mere rainfall, a drenched cyclist carrying three enormous sacks – one on each side of the bicycle and another one on top of them – joined us while hardly being able to control the bicycle due to its weight. He did not utter a single word, instead his eyes expressed a serene, peaceful character despite the extremely hard work. When, almost an hour later, the rain relented for a while, the man tried to push his bicycle back to the tarmac road but couldn’t due to its weight, I gave him a hand and push, my moto driver simply patted me on the shoulder muttering: ‘thank you’. We then resumed our drive, but so did the rain, so that I got somewhat drenched at the guesthouse I was staying at, which prompted the maintenance lady to happily shout upon seeing the wet clothes I had just put on a drying line under the eaves: ‘you made it!’ in an outburst of pure, unconcealed  joy.

Approaching Gahinga the following day, we crossed more farming lands, some terraced on the steepening slope, with about a dozen women in their typically colorful outfits carrying heavy sacks of potatoes on their heads to be used as seeds for the coming crops. While going up with their heavy loads, they however found the time and energy to happily greet the muzungu and then laugh at him for wearing a hat. After a rather long but wonderful incursion in the bamboo forest above the farming land, we emerged on the swampy saddle between the Muhabura and the Gahinga, with a section of dense forest packed with thorny blackberry bushes awaiting be crossed. Then, once up the volcanic cone itself, the going was quite hard, as the rarely used, narrow trail went up steep rocky terrain with a small stream flowing down and making them stones, rocks, earth and branches be extremely slippery. Yet it all paid off when reaching the quite wide crater surrounded by dense bushes and centered by a grassy area dotted with shrub and lobelias that were enshrouded in mist. The clouds were piling up and it was getting quite dark due to that, so that we hurried to do the steep part of the trail crossing those dense thorny bushes before the rain came. And, after a few short-lived showers, it did come when we got out of the forest and started going down across the farming terraces. I did not expect my moto driver to come before the rain stopped (I actually presumed he would not even start before the rain stopped, so that I was getting ready for a long wait), but he did come right through it, drenched to the bones. Cold, wet and full of mud, I reached the guesthouse immunized after going up this short (Gahinga was the shortest of the five volcanoes in the park in Rwanda), but wonderfully untamed mountain.

He who starts early can go a long way. Or so I thought, while waking up before 4 AM, having a moto take me to the Cyanika border with Uganda, wait for the Rwandans to open up, then for the Ugandans to wash the floor, wipe the windows and eventually open up as well, then being hit by a ‘Muzungu! You going to Kisoro? Hop on!’, therefore hopping on the boda boda (different country, different name for the motorcycle, as well as different rules: no helmets here and two passengers on one motorcycle allowed) and soon reaching Kisoro, a shabby town with some dilapidated British style longhouses, crumbling buildings and a bleak atmosphere strangely enlivened by the omnipresent, colourful rubbish everywhere. On across hilly countryside with poor villages and those iconic small volcanoes that had been terraced and cultivated, what struck one was neither the poverty, nor the scenery, but rather the obvious lack of public care: the rubbish was omnipresent here, the street sweepers in Rwanda were non existent here, people smiled less and even the muzungu did not manage to generate more than a choir of shouts from children here and there, in the absence of the familiar laughter. I just hoped that this region was the exception that confirmed the image I recalled of my previous visit some 10 years back. Reaching Mgahinga National Park at the end of a quite bad dirt road, I found less than a dozen tourists there, compared to the few dozens at more or less the same time in Kinigi in Rwanda. However in Rwanda there was a paved road ending at the national park office, while here the gate compound – with its relaxed layout and great image of past times – looked like a hidden gem.  

The young guide taking me to the Sabinyo oozed of bygone time courtesy and friendliness, as if trying to balance the image one got on the road leading there. The trail first went across meadows and a scenic bamboo forest, then crossed a boggy area and eventually started going up consistently, to the point where the slope steepness required the use of rudimentary ladders fixed along it. Not much later, we reached Peak 1, emerging on the ridge I had seen from the Rwandan side. More serious ladders (i.e. steeper and longer) needed be followed between Peak 1 and Peak 2, as well as especially between Peak 2 and Peak 3. The views around were dramatic, with steep, nearly vertical slopes on both sides, as well as with a wild image of the whole mountain. Peak 3 was the end of the trek, yet there was one more inaccessible peak farther on, probably some 20-30 m. higher. The high point reached by the trail in Rwanda was clearly visible some 200 m. below me, while the ridges and deep valleys running down into the sparsely populated part of Congo below were impressive. As it started raining and the wet stairs required more attention, we started going down, reaching the gate in an already familiar downpour. Another boda boda took me to Cyanika and a bus then delivered me to Musanze just in time to fetch the last 3 samosas from the already familiar Adventist boys one of which was busy, as always, frying chapatis, while the other one, as always, refused to give me cold baignés, saying that even if you buy them to eat later, baignés, samosas and chapatis should only be bought when fresh and warm. Just like life, one might argue: what we do with it is our responsibility and problem, but it can only be used as long as it is there, fresh and warm.

Leaving the mountains behind and crossing some fine countryside, I reached Lake Kivu and the exotic atmosphere in Rubavu, with palm trees along some of its avenues or by the shore, its colonial era villas that appeared as if transplanted here from the countryside off Liège, as well as with its more recent and totally misplaced Cubist properties joined by grand villas with glitz balconies and column-flanked entrances; however nothing seemed to match the grotesque decorations and murals at the Dian Fossey Hotel, with its jumble of plaster characters jutting out off balconies and portals like in a cheap theatre warehouse; it was funny though that the place bore the name of a person that had been very vocal against mass tourism especially when it came to primates. Jumping from the big bus to the as usual packed Toyota Coaster that was available on along the Eastern shore of Lake Kivu, I carried on to Buhinga going up and down the dozens of hills on the way. Corn, beans, coffee, tea, banana and pineapple plantations granted the scenery diversity, while the frequent stops with people getting off provided a good insight in the life of these people; if from Musanze to Rubavu the ride took 2 hours, from Rubavu to Buhinga it would take over 6 hours. When at the Buhinga crossroads, I got off as menacing clouds rolled over the Nyungwe Park. After a shower, the weather turned good, with a rainbow over the misty woods at the foot of Nyungwe highlands. Colobus monkeys, the aforementioned mist and groups of 4-5 soldiers plying the road kept me and the moto driver company until we reached Uwinka. Yet, upon learning the new price, I decided not to go for it, so that I hitched a ride with a Rusizi family back to Gisakura where I found a small hostel off the lively village where many of the inhabitants worked for the national park. The small farmers’ market in the dark, those small poorly lit shops and the crickets outside made it for a welcome break from the tumultuous Rwandan roads I had just done.

After a short walk in a patch of forest off Gisakura Tea Estate, I hopped on a moto and then a bus to Rusizi. Just like the previous day, genocide memorial signposts were placed by the road every now and then, a reminder that Rwanda neither forgot, nor pretended to look elsewhere as far as its past was concerned, as many other nations did. Dotted with fancy hotels and residential properties, Rusizi stretched from the lake shore and high up the hills around, seeing to be one with Bukavu in neighboring Congo. The bus to Bugarama first did some one dozen rounds of the city centre as the driver was trying to fill it up and then, when it eventually started, passengers and the driver often argued loudly about the service or its frequency. Earlier that day, on the Buhinga – Rusizi bus, a police officer had the drive pull over and wanted to fine him for trying to overtake a truck in a forbidden area. The driver stopped the bus on a quite steep stretch of the road, got off and started arguing with the police officer, which replied in the same manner, with the quarrel carrying on for nearly a quarter an hour. Back to the road out of Rusizi, it soon turned bad and the worse it was, the faster some Congo registered cars tried to go: there were many minivans or sedans registered in Congo plying the route. Once in Bugarama, I hopped on a moto, answered the fastfood restaurant question ‘to the Burundi or Congo crossing?’ and headed to the border post.

‘C’est bon. Mais j’ai faim. Qu’est-ce qu’on peut faire?’, asked the lady taking meh temperature on the Burundi side. It was not an encouraging greeting, but I politely replied that I cannot help and I carried on. The immigration officer went through my passport one, twice, then took his time to look at my older visas. He then asked me in a low voice, so low that I needed ask him twice to repeat, where my visa was.

‘Vous avez l’approbation du visa dans le document que je vous ai donné.’

He went in a backroom and, after a long while – long enough for a long queue to form -, his superior motioned at me to follow him outside. Once in the middle of the deserted road, he explained that I had applied for a 30 day visa, but that they can only give me a 3 day visa there if I pay the USD 40 visa charge, and that I can make it 30 day long if I go to the immigration office in Bujumbura. Until I paid the respective fee and was given a receipt and then the stamped passport, I still thought that the officer was trying to extract a bribe from me, which proved false: they simply did not have the 30 day visa stickers there, so that was all they could give me, it was that simple.

Out of the official building, I soon found myself sandwiched in a rickshaw heading to Rukana. There I met Alain, which worked in Bukavu into precious stone polishing and processing, but traveled to Bujumbura every now and then to see his family. 

‘Dans la région de Bukavu, la situation est désormais calme, il n’y a plus de problèmes. Mais je ne peux pas dire la même chose pour Goma. Des élections doivent avoir lieu prochainement, mais je crois que les mêmes dirigeants restent. Ils n’ont absolument rien fait pour nous.’

‘Bah bon, Kinshasa, c’est bien loin d’ici…’

The overall atmosphere reminded me of the rural Central African Republic, with its poor wooden kiosks serving as shops, its people all around selling their produce, but also with some very friendly and smiling people despite the extremely hard life or utterly difficult transport conditions they faced. The bus soon started and the driver tuned in to local music, quite similar to the Congolese one, featuring a slow pace. People were quietly smiling, problems were sorted with kindness and not with swords taken out, a rather family or fraternal atmosphere developing in the small vehicle taking more than twice its theoretic passenger capacity. In line with the wonderful drive, Bujumbura was a gem. But not in the centre where motorcycles could not go (an existential inconvenience in my case, as the moto was my preferred means of city transport), rather in Kamenge District my Maison d’accueil was found in the middle of. The grid-like streets were either unpaved or paved with old cobblestones, they brimmed with music, brochette smoke, people merely sitting or having beer. Shops were open, children were playing around and the music from a few wedding parties in the area (it was Saturday evening) could be heard far away. A sense of joy, of happiness no matter what, of survival prevailed and the fact that mod-cons had not yet made it there was simply enchanting.

Crisis of sorts, shortages and psychological issues are best dealt with in the morning, not only as one is energetic and can face them better, but also because they give one a cold shower, refreshing kick into the day. The fuel shortage in Burundi, with its long supply chain (fuel was coming from the Middle East or West Africa), meant great lines or crowds at gas stations lacking their main product, as well as a great storage of city buses and regional transport. This created great crowds of people in Bujumbura bus stops, buses packed on the verge of exploding, as well as great lines of people walking across the city for quite long distances. In my case, while I found a truck-cum-taxi to take me to the Musaga bus stand, things seemed to have come to a stop there, as there seemed to be no vehicle heading out to Mwaro or those that passed were packed and did not even stop. Looking into alternative transport, I was quoted 30,000 Francs by a moto driver and even more for a place on a lorry. With a bit of patience, I found a seat on a taxi heading there with a great load of soap and 6 other passengers. The road was quite bad, with stretches where the pavement was gone, but the scenery greatly compensated it, as we were soon up in the cool, verdant highlands. There were no terraces here like in Uganda or Rwanda, yet the view was highly scenic and relaxing. Once in Mwaro, a 6 km. moto ride got me to Rurtyazo, a laid back village set around a  relatively narrow red dirt road.

Well beyond the singing and dancing showing the rich traditions of the region, a few facts impressed the visitor. First, there was the life background, with the hill (the colline) acting as a community boundary, hence the many Colline this and that names of contemporary villages in both Rwanda and Burundi. Neighbours needed not share a fence, a definite border, there could well be a mile or two between two neighbours’ enclosures and shared figures such as the local priest, the naturist healer or the old sages referred to such a hill-based community. Then, there was the long history of the region, where ethnic problems had been next to non-existent until Europeans came with their ‘divide et impera’ rule of thumb, clearly drawing a line between Hutus and Tutsis and then taking sides as their interest dictated. Finally, above all, there was the ancestral belief of the people there in a single deity and local priest’s acting as a mere middleman between man and God, not as an adviser or rule maker. Adjacent to this matter, the omnipresent round shape when it came to houses, barns, compounds, emerging from the belief that life was ongoing, with no particular end to anything, but with a transformation process one needed not grief, but rather accept with an open heart. However, what touched me most in Mwaro, beyond the curious sitar, the practice of transhumance or the extensive medicinal plant garden, was Mrs. Perpétue Miganda’s commitment to preserve and keep alive old traditions on her ancestors’ hill. On the other hand, the fact that Burundi had been isolated for a long time and the country was not thankfully a candidate for mass tourism in the absence of highlights like the Tanzanian or Kenyan national parks, such aspects had helped the preservation of this ancient culture, at least partly and not as a government run project, but rather as a woman’s commitment, humility and respect when it came down to her roots. As for the stranger, it was just that: an overwhelming joy filling all his body and mind.

Back to Bujumbura, I found the city centre quite close to N’djamena or Yaoundé, with the typical Modernist properties of the second and third decades in the 20th century, as well as with the large villas built by the colonists or by rich locals of more recent times, joined by newer – but way shorter or smaller than their Dar es Salaam or Nairobi counterparts – office buildings. I however, despite its bad reputation for outsiders, preferred Kamenge District where I was lodged, with its grid layout, its vibrant street life and stream of people walking in their slow but constant pace. A power failure turned the district relatively quiet, with rare lights appearing to reflect the stars above, while the brochette smoke seemed to embrace everything and everyone around. A very dear, similar night in Bangui more than 10 years before came to mind and stayed with me for a long while. It was then back in the Maison d’accueil, with its dining room with its long monastery-like table, with its small but welcoming rooms, with the hustle and bustle that seemed to vanish as one banged into those great metal gates and stepped in.

A rule of thumb says that one should only plan to do a single major task a day in Africa; and this approach should be taken further, while men should not try to run between tasks while ticking them on a list, and instead they should take these tasks, and life as a whole, one step at a time. As I needed get the right visa, I headed to the CGM, the Commissariat Général des Migrations. After a little back and forth between various offices there, it was established that I needed fill in a form, make some passport photocopies and pay a small fee for the extension. Yet, as the respective fee was too small (falling under a certain threshold), it could not be paid at the CGM, but rather at the OBR, the Office Burundais des Recettes some 200 meters away. At the OBR however, one waited in line to pay, did that and got a receipt that was not an actual, officially accepted receipt, so that he or she needed stay in a second, several times as long a line and, once the internet connection resumed (1), more importantly, when the data from the payment computers was transferred to the receipt issuing computers – it was not an instant process, so that one presumed there was someone actually pressing a button to do it every now and then – (2), and – not at all least – when the respective clerk actually checked (1) and (2) had been cleared.

It was then back to the CGM, documents were checked and a tour of half a dozen offices began: a stamp here, a signature there, an intermediary check, a final check, as well as countless breaks while writing down a visa, as some other people entered the office and talked to the respective officer, placed papers before him, greeted him or presented files to be checked. During all this process, of the various foreigners and locals alike at the CGM, one stood out: a blonde mid-aged lady with the typical superior race attitude trying to speed up procedures, her breasts under a tight bra and her commanding face forward. Upon her waving documents, her passport cover stood up and the Russian coat of arms was visible. Disregarding of genders, as they Marxists teach us, indolent whores the world has plenty. That aside however, by the time I was out it was already afternoon and the sunny morning was gone, with dark clouds approaching. 

Picking up my luggage and walking out of Kamenge, I hopped on a taxi to the muddy, bumpy yard and streets used by minibuses going to Gitega among other destinations. An army  of vigorous bus company employees assaulted the car, but less than half an hour later we started on a sardine time packed bus. The ride across the verdant hills was scenic and, after an hour’s break as there had been an accident ahead and almost three more hours of actual driving, we reached Gitega that appeared a small town consisting of a few roads with rare buildings merging in by a gas station that also acted as a bus stop. I checked in at my hotel that resembled one in Ashgabat with its white tile and marble-covered walls, its grand stairway and spotlights changing colours, as well as with its great, glitz covered terrace surrounded by barbed wire, a place looking to accommodate the important guests of a newly born capital city, that was yet quite affordable if one paid in Burundi Francs as opposed to USD or EUR, case where the price doubled. Formalities completed, clothes washed and unceremoniously hung on the balcony overlooking the fancy pool, I went out, changed some money at the good black market rate with a liquor store owner and kept on looking for some snack wondering how small a small capital be after its being coined a political capital because the actual president was from there. Clouds of smoke down an alley running down the hillside made me curious, to find out dozens of small shops, bakeries, car repair shops and small taverns with their respective grills. There they all were and it felt wonderful, as always, to join them.

At first there was a sort of faint echo, but the sound got ever stronger to the point that the two dozen drummers came into sight one by one. Carrying their various size drums on their heads and still able to play them with viguor, they created a moving snake-like figure. Then, putting their wooden drums on the ground, they started a frantic performance, one which made my shirt tremble and my heart rejoice. At a certain point, one of them left his drum aside and stepped up in front of the others, starting performing a bewildered, almost superhuman dance, while jumping high above the ground, lifting his feet above his head and going through a nearly unbelievable muscle contortion where all fibers in his body seemed to have a contribution defying the laws of physics and the limitations contemporary man pathetically tried to overcome by blindly relying on smart technology and mind numbing drugs. The drummers’ faces were all shouts and broad smiles in an act of pure joy, as I had obviously paid these people to perform, but well beyond that they were one with their act. Well aware of only being able to go to Gishora early in the morning, I had had little expectations that I might see these drummers. Yet, upon agreeing on a the price with a rather young man that would prove to be one of the drummers despite his age, he had picked a drum and hit it a few times like a call to the other drummers that soon showed up coming from various directions. Then, when the music and dance was over, they all stopped, standing nearly still, their faces glittering in the harsh sunlight and without uttering a word, as if there could be nothing in between, there was no middle way possible, it was either the joy of being alive or complete silence.

There were more than a dozen passengers on the car I took from Gitega to Ngozi, as the fuel shortage had all transport in Gitega (save for the one to Bujumbura) nearly brought to a standstill: two on the driver’s seat (with the driver’s changing gears or pulling the handbrake over the passenger he shared the seat with), five and a little baby on the backseat, respectively 5 or 6 in the trunk, among sacks of potatoes and other merchandise. No tiny space remained, nothing was wasted, while passengers were packed together skin-to-skin, as if becoming one with the shabby car, the red dust-filled pothole lined road, the elusive destination.

Villages, collines seemed to pass by us and not the other way around, while locals’ faces appeared like shots in an old fashioned photo album, memories of the present placed before one’s eyes when that present was already gone. A little boy’s playing with a paint barrel cover turned into a wheel. Small hands shyly waving as the muzungu was spotted. A disabled man with his only foot twisted, virtually plied under his body, so that he could only move while using his hands and lying his meagre weight on that foot sole. Countless people in rags, but smiling at each other. A cab driver pointing to his car, one in a half a kilometer long line of trucks and cars that started at a gas station waiting for supplies to come, as well as his childishly rejoicing at my giving him a halva bar, but nonetheless sharing it with his mates: ‘ma voiture n’a pas bougé de là il y a plus d’une semaine. Je n’ai rien gagné tout ce temps-là. Le plus dur de tout, c’est de rentrer chaque soir chez ma famille les mains vides, conscient qu’ils n’ont rien et que je n’apporte rien.’ Hands held out by old or sick men asking for something, anything to eat, hands held out by children bearing on their heads those typical plastic pots filled with the baignés, samosas, chapatis or delices they were selling for a dime. Those seemingly endless lines of people walking by the road. Walking for miles on end, coming and going in a place where even when there was fuel, they did not afford a ride, with women carrying their babies wrapped up on their backs and those beautiful ibiseke baskets on their heads, with men carrying anything, from a bundle of firewood or sewage pipes or great heaps of hay on their heads, with children coming from school and skinny young men pushing their bicycles uphill under their enormous loads made of sacks of potatoes or beans, huge bundles of grass, pieces of furniture, barrels of water. All and any of them in a committed, yet unhurried pace, all and any of them with their faces and arms glittering in the same sunlight like those Gishora drummers, all and any of them well aware that the very moment they stopped it was over, as no technology, no NGO and no politician, there or elsewhere in the well to do world, could or would really help.

In the busy car parking lot-cum-marketplace in Ngozi I hopped on – or was rather ushered into after a brief negotiation – another car to Kirundo. And another one followed to the Rwandan border. Switching from French to English and from the bad road in Burundi to the smooth one sporting traffic signposts and even painted accordingly in Rwanda, after a motorbike ride that came together with a refreshing shower, I found myself on a Kigali-bound bus, munching on a baigné and sipping from a Tangawizi drink bottle. Days later, I was going to be asked by friends and acquaintances what I had found of interest in Burundi (most of them were aware of my interest in mountaineering, so that Rwanda was covered so to speak). ‘A line of surviving, beautiful people walking down the road under that strong, harsh but life-giving sunlight’ was all that I could say, and I felt like it more than sufficed.