A Sporty Culture

Of the different countries where I have visited and worked, I have never seen sport or fitness so hallowed as I have seen here. It’s not just a matter of fun here, which I’ve seen elsewhere (for example, kids or adults playing soccer). Burundians, however, also do it for good health and well-being. All day, every day, men and women run down the roads and do push-ups in the medians and on the sidewalks. I’ve even seen people doing push-ups in the dark of night, at 11 p.m. The army often jogs, chanting and blowing whistles, around my neighborhood and down the main roads (causing a lot of traffic, I might add).

Added to this is the fact that the government ministries have mandatory days of “sport,” another phenomenon I have not seen elsewhere. On Tuesday or Friday afternoons, entire ministries put on their tracksuits (they are very popular here—the markets are swarmed with them) and go for a jog, or play soccer, or do something active. President Nkurunziza has been known to play with his presidential staff. (I asked my driver if they always let him win. He just looked at me sidelong and shrugged.) The ministries even have a soccer tournament in which they play against each other.

I can’t speak to television or radio advertisements (because I don’t have a TV or radio), but I can say from the billboards around town that there is definitely an emphasis on sport. In the disarmament billboards, for example, a man is missing a leg. In the background, people are playing soccer. Poor thing. Because of your gun/grenade/other weapon, he can’t play sports anymore. The theme is omnipresent.

It’s so normal for people to run for fun/fitness here that most people don’t bat an eye at the muzungus who go for a jog. Anywhere else, and you get stared down (one, because you’re a muzungu; two, for wearing shorts; and three, because people don’t understand why you would want to run anywhere unless you are really, really late…and even that isn’t worth running for).

I witnessed the icing on the cake about a week ago when, out on Rwagasore Road in town, I passed a number of people selling things—mostly cassava roots and potatoes. A little further down, I noticed a man on the sidewalk, nothing in front of him but a weight scale. A man walked up, paid the vendor a few francs, and stepped on. He looked at his weight, sighed, thanked the vendor, and walked off. Guess he’s going for a run later.

A Few Snapshots from Buja

The cheapest way to transport a living room set.

The main roundabout in Bujumbura, with 8 a.m. traffic.

There's always traffic on the 28 Novembre Road...This time, it was a mass group of bicyclists riding around the city wearing shirts against torture on the International Day of Support for Victims of Torture. Shirts generously provided by the UN.

Barbecues and Beer Pong. Happy Fourth.

It was an eventful July Fourth in Bujumbura. In the morning, I left my house to buy a pineapple and some vegetables, my contribution to my boss’s patriotic barbecue. The grill was a traditional one, which is to say that it uses charcoal, and the grill grates are basically flush against the coals. That makes for a delicious brochette, but when it came to grilling vegetables, they were entirely blackened, and there was nothing I could do about it. I ate them anyway. The grilled pineapple turned out especially well, the sweet juices caramelizing beautifully!

The entire barbecue was as American as could be managed in central Africa. We had burgers with local cheese, there was a salad, macaroni and cheese, a potato salad, chocolate chip cookies, and one woman brought tofu in homemade barbecue sauce (which was delicious, and a justifiably American creation). One Senegalese guy complained to me, “But I thought American barbecues had lots of meat, and you only have burgers!” It was true—everything was vegetarian apart from the burgers. At first reviled by the thought of barbecue tofu, he tried it and agreed that it was delicious. (“Heh, if you didn’t know it, you would think this was meat!” he exclaimed.)

The fun lasted until well into the evening, when the group eventually migrated down the street to the U.S. Marine House (since the Embassy is old, the Marines live off the compound). Their house is palatial, with an enormous pool, wrap around outdoor balcony, and a generous living space. When we arrived, a couple of people were playing some kind of karaoke video game and others were playing (or watching) a game of beer pong (known to some as Beirut), the great American college tradition.

After a while of watching the Americans toss the ball back and forth into opposing teams’ cups (and watching them become increasingly inebriated), the non-Americans present wanted to learn how to play. On one side was a Frenchman and a Belgian; on the other, a Kenyan and an English-speaking Burundian. Few who knew the game were able to speak both French and English, and thus I was thrust into the role of teacher. (This probably comes as no surprise to my friends in grad school, who…er…know my affinity for this game. But I swear it wasn’t my idea.) The Kenyan and Burundian won the game handily.

By 11:30, I was exhausted and already had a hangover from the day’s drinking, but I was at the whim of others who had cars, as my own taxi driver had long since gone to bed. Somehow, someone received word that a club was reopening downtown that night, and there was a mass exodus in that direction. I was swept up in that wave, and ended up at Havana, a club that seemed promising until you actually entered it.

We parked the car on the median, and the car was promptly surrounded by six men. They asked for money to “protect” the car, which we basically ignored. I chose to leave my bag in the car (because petty theft would likely be a big problem at the club), and when we tried to lock the car, we found it wouldn’t because a door was ajar. As it turned out, one of the men on the other side of the car quietly opened a door so that he could easily break in after we left. I was very upset and couldn’t help but think about the safety of my handbag. My friend assured me, however, that crime here is generally limited to pickpocketing and petty theft, and not vehicular break-ins. I was still nervous.

The club, at whose entry lingered a number of prostitutes, charged a 5,000 Franc cover (a little less than $5). While it was called Havana, there was nothing Cuban about it; in the middle of the club was a pavilion with different-sized disco balls and colored lights. The walls are high, and the roof is elevated even higher, giving it a little fresh air, but not the sense of openness. It felt more like a converted warehouse. There was some seating around the edges, and a single bar in the back that was, predictably, overcrowded. That night, I saw Chinese men that were completely out of their element, a couple of older white women, a crowd of young aid-worker expats, and, overwhelmingly, countless 60 to 70 year old men (some of whom looked like preachers, bifocals perched on the edge of their pointed noses) groping young, lithe, scantily-clad Burundian women. I know it’s a reality, but I just can’t bear to see it. It absolutely disgusts me.

Finally, at about 2:30 am, I made my way home, even though the club was still jumping. We gave the six men “guarding the car” 1,000 Francs (which apparently was more than enough) and found while driving away that they had tried the “open door” technique again, but hadn’t been successful at grabbing anything. Given the bad experience, I don’t plan to return to Havana anytime soon!

Ah, Freedom.

Yesterday marked the 47th anniversary of Burundi’s independence from the greedy clutches of Belgium. In advance of the celebration, major roads were blocked every morning so that the military could practice its march, making traffic so horrendous that pulling one’s own fingernails out would be more pleasant by comparison.

I had hoped to attend the events at the stadium, but since my taxi driver didn’t work that day and I had no other mode of transport, I ended up spending the day in my apartment. Most of the expats I had talked to were steering clear, some going out to Bora Bora for the day. Unfortunately, as I don’t have a television or radio, I couldn’t even follow the ceremony remotely.

All was not lost. I spent the day listening to audiobooks I downloaded for free and cleaning my apartment. By noon, my street was loud and bustling, as men congregated at the little bar across my street for brochettes and beer. While it usually only becomes crowded around 6 pm, the holiday meant that drunkenness could begin earlier. By the late afternoon, the aroma of goat brochettes wafted into my apartment, and a dinner of avocado didn’t seem very interesting. I had to have a brochette.

Spraying myself head–to-toe with bug spray, I put a little bit of money in my pocket and decided to brave the crowd of drunken men. I popped downstairs to see if any of the Burundian or Rwandese girls wanted to join me for a drink, and a couple of them did.

The outdoor bar, I discovered, is called “Where the Pretty Girls Are” in Kirundi, which is somewhat ironic because before we arrived, there was only one girl in the entire bar, and she worked there. The patrons were markedly male, from the boy that sat outside the front gate with a plastic tray of hard-boiled eggs, to the middle-aged businessmen who leered at the single waitress. I went straight to the back, to the small hut where the brochettes were grilled, to place my order.

As it turned out, they have three kinds of brochettes (!): Goat, beef, and sausage. I had never heard of a sausage brochette, so I naturally ordered one of those, along with a goat brochette. About ten minutes later, the brochettes emerged, with a side of grilled plantains (I can't eat another banana, so I passed them along to my friends) and some pili-pili. Unfortunately, for some reason, the pili pili sauce I have tried here just isn’t hot enough for me…it has a bit too much vinegar and doesn’t have the same flavor as the kind I am used to in Rwanda. I joked with the girls from downstairs that I was going to go to my apartment and bring down the pili-pili sauce I made the other day, which is much better (and spicier!).

While I was enjoying my brochettes, a couple of fights broke out in the street. Men were pulling off their shirts and throwing punches, rocks, and anything else they could find. Apparently one guy had poured a beer on another guy’s head, and all hell broke loose. I would say this was a product of their having been drunk all day, but it’s actually a pretty regular occurrence on my street. I finished up, settled my check ($1 per brochette, and 70 cents for my Amstel Bock) and headed back to the apartment, happy that I had finally satisfied my craving.

In case anyone is interested in making pili-pili sauce, here’s the recipe:

Pili-Pili Sauce (Rwandan style)
2-3 tomatoes
2 pili-pili peppers*
½ onion
3 tablespoons oil (more or less, depending on how thick you want the sauce to be)

Directions:
Mince the onion and add it to a pan, frying lightly. Dice the tomatoes and add them to the pot when the onions are transparent. Mince the pili-pili (being sure not to touch the seeds!) and add to the pot. Let simmer until it becomes a thick sauce. Add salt to taste. Store in the refrigerator for a month or more!

*Pili-pili refers a small pepper that resembles a Scotch Bonnet pepper. I’ve tasted the Scotch Bonnet, and it’s not the same, though! Pili pili tastes vaguely tropical, as if it had a touch of mango. The actual name of the pepper is Akabanga (pili pili is just a general term for “chili” in Swahili). Bon Appétit!

My Guilty Pleasure

This is a hardship post. Really. Um...

One of the best things about Bujumbura is that it is situated on the edge of Lake Tanganyika, a lake so large that it produces waves (not particularly large ones, but waves nonetheless), has tides, and has produced sand.

…which means there’s a beach. And it’s a nice one, too.

The line that Burundi often touts is that it has “some of the best inland beaches in Africa.” Having lived in Gisenyi, Rwanda, which is known for its beautiful beach on Lake Kivu, I admit that I had my doubts. Once I saw it, though, I realized that Burundi was right to boast.

While there is a beach in town near the massive port that welcomes ships from Tanzania and Congo, most expatriates and Burundians head north on the weekends. To get there, go around the Nissan roundabout where Burundians like to take wedding photos (that’s a mystery to me), pass the large cube with photos of past Burundian leaders, most of whom have been assassinated, roll slowly over the enormous (and numerous) potholes that have pockmarked the road, drive past the enormous United Nations compound on the left and its bunkered warehouses on the right, and turn left into the Bora Bora Beach Club.

The Bora Bora Beach Club (called Bora Bora, really, but I rather like the “Beach Club” part) is the top destination for expats and wealthy Burundians. Since it opened a couple of months ago, it has taken the business of its neighbor further down the road, the Club Du Lac Tanganyika, which is known as the best hotel in Bujumbura (though it’s not technically in town).

Owned by a Francophone expat and designed to resemble something someone might find in French Polynesia, the restaurant/bar/lounge is simple and breezy. There’s a sizable pool and an elevated deck around which guests can read, sun, and use the free wireless internet. It is just steps from the lake, whose water is warm. Locals play water volleyball or just splash about. It’s a very relaxing scene, and a welcomed reprieve from the hustle-and-bustle of Bujumbura traffic.

At night, it becomes a throbbing bar and lounge; the pool is lit and techno or pop is blared from the speakers, and well-dressed people sip their colorful cocktails. At times like that, you wonder if you’re in Burundi at all. While life may not be overwhelmingly comfortable during the week, at least I have this one guilty pleasure.

Mourning Michael Jackson (with Karaoke)

By far, the chief topic of conversation over the past couple of days has been the loss of “Son Majeste, le roi du Pop.” The radio had a Michael Jackson-a-thon, where they played his songs, interspersed with phone calls from listeners in mourning. They talked and sobbed about how much Michael meant to them over the course of their lives.

That night, the Bora Bora Beach Club, the favored destination of expats and wealthy Burundians, had a Michael Jackson party. I didn’t go to that, but I did go the next night, when the first secretaries of various embassies held a fundraiser for a couple of orphanages. The catch was that it was all centered around karaoke: pay to sing, pay for someone else to sing, or pay to make someone stop singing. (The latter was a wonderfully merciful idea.)

Of course, in the wake of Michael Jackson’s death, the evening was dominated by his songs—and it was priceless to see diplomats and NGO bigwigs sing such classics as “We Are the World” and “Bad”…or, at least, try to. (As for me, I was somehow coerced into joining a rendition of Prince’s “Purple Rain,” and thankfully, someone paid for us to stop.) I have to say—listening to Michael Jackson on the radio is a welcomed change from Celine Dion!

Please, No Porn or Celine Dion

My work is going really well here. The job is challenging, I’m using my brain, and I feel like what I’m doing is sustainable, which, in development, is very important.

I have two offices, one at which I spend most of my time, and one at which I spend maybe an hour at the end of every day. As a result, there’s not much to say about my second office, except that the bathroom is swarmed by kamikaze mosquitoes, and the sink is not connected to a pipe, so the water just falls through into a bucket, splashing water all over your legs. That is, when there’s water.

The real fun happens at my first office, where I’m blessed with great, responsive Burundian colleagues. They all stop by my office in the morning to say hello, and my supervisor checks on me three times a day to make sure I’m surviving. She’s a sweet woman who laughs easily, and is always very concerned about how I’m doing and if my office is too dusty. When I first arrived, she was anxious because she wanted to have an air conditioning unit installed in my office, but it hadn’t happened. Later, when she walked me around the office, introducing me to everyone, and brought me into what she called the “Experts Room.” “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re an expert! You should sit in here! If you want, of course. They have air conditioning!” I laughed at the thought of being considered an “expert,” and told her that I really, really didn’t need air conditioning. An open window was good enough for me. Last year, I was temporarily working out of a U.S. Embassy, and literally freaked out because I couldn’t open the windows to let in some fresh air.

The building has wireless internet, which works most of the time (this is pretty miraculous). Everyone has fairly nice computers with stickers on them proclaiming that they were a gift of this-or-that NGO, but I’m not totally convinced that computer skills are advanced, on the whole. One of my colleagues became flustered when I asked her if she could send me a document by email (to avoid viruses that could be transmitted through key drives). She told me that she didn’t know how, so I sat down with her and we went through it together. She was happy that she had a new skill, and I was happy that I didn’t get a virus.

Anyone walking by my office tends to pop their head in—it’s a very friendly place—and one fellow who had heard that I was American came to introduce himself. He was teaching English classes to some of my colleagues, as he had just been certified (I’m not really sure what this means, but his English is admittedly better than most Burundians I’ve met). I was happy to chat in English for a couple of minutes, but I was quite busy, with papers strewn about, and was trying to drop hints that I had some things that I needed to do. Subtlety was unfortunately lost on him, and he instead sat down and talked for 20 minutes. I supposed that he was just overjoyed to talk to a native speaker, but I tried to take longer glances at my computer screen.

Finally, he got up, and as he walked out, he said, “By the way, are you single, or married? I mean, are you a bachelor?” I couldn’t help laughing at being called a bachelor, so I corrected him. Then he insisted that I hadn’t answered his question. Sigh. I hate this question. Sometimes, it’s just to make pleasant conversation, but more often than not, people just want to know if you’re available—but just because I’m not married doesn’t mean I’m available! He still comes by every day, despite the fact that he works in the next building.

Later that day, sitting at my desk, I heard strange sounds from the window. It sounded like a radio—below my office window is the parking lot where all the drivers sit in the shade and listen to the radio until someone emerges asking for a ride. I ignored it for a while, because it was soft, but it became louder, until I could ignore it no longer. It was a woman moaning. I thought that while it sounded…ahem…strange, it might be a public service announcement about an illness, and she was actually moaning in pain. That is, until the men started laughing, stopping it, and playing it again, and I realized that it was, in fact, some kind of taped pornography.

I thought of closing my windows, but it was too hot.

Eventually, the moaning subsided, and the quiet of the office was replaced by what I’m fairly sure was a Celine Dion Greatest Hits CD, complete with that song from Titanic. What is it about people around here and Celine Dion? As I sit in the coffeeshop and type, the music is alternating between Celine Dion and Kenny G. (Sigh.)

After another round of Celine’s CD today, everyone filed out of the office at noon, planning to reconvene in the afternoon for sports. Yes, sports. Every week, the staff of the entire building plays soccer together, or goes for a walk, or does some sort of physical activity. Some people even come to work in their tracksuits!