THE MULTIPLE LEGS OF  BURUNDI

The remove from Mwanza begins with exhaustion.  There are simply too many of these 4:45 AM wakeups, early to bus, and travel all day.  Lacking are guaranteed seats, departing at a reasonable time, and arriving at a set time journeys.  The next leg after the taxi to bus park toward Burundi begins with sunrise over Lake Victoria.  The trip was arranged the night prior by Hashim, but I had no idea the second leg involved riding on a ferry.

The path takes us north at first, away from Burundi, leading to an encounter with a dirt peninsula which allows the bus to avoid miles of marsh, irregular coastline, and backtracking.  I do not get a bathroom break for eight hours on this third leg.  I also have never taken this many naps in a single day in my life.  My knees eventually seize up from tight quarters and lack of movement.  A taxi ride or leg number four is necessary from the Tanzanian town nearest the border to the immigrations offices straddling the border.

Our crossing itself is routine, except for the unfamiliarity of the customs officials with English.  Apparently not too many whites cross at this particular exit out of Tanzania.  There is a $50 visa charge to enter Burundi, but the official who makes this document possible was having lunch.  I requested that he accommodate a couple visas first, and then could return to his meal.  A “final bus of the day to Bujumbura” departure deadline awaited on the other side of the border.

These folks want to help, but struggle to communicate.  They obsess for some reason about “occupation.”  Sometimes I say sales.  Other times travel writer.  If I think the border officer is intelligent enough to understand what positive or negative impact a writer can have on a country, I indicate the latter.  In some places like The Sudan or North Korea, however, this would not be a very intelligent choice.

They slow me down and apply penalty points to a tightly crafted schedule.  Then the money changers.  Oh, the misdirection they provide about rates.  As you may have seen from my references earlier to Zambia, these anointed folks routinely reverse the exchange, making the low currency high and the higher currency low, so they appear to be doing you a favor if you were at the US border with Mexico for example by exchanging $100 US for about 25 pesos.  I have a pre-prepared rate sheet to avoid this craftiness and exchange enough for taxi fare only to finally escape their clutches.

Then the taxi negotiations.  Leg number five for the day.  This is simply to get to the first town inside Burundi.  Where bus routes begin.  Nobody speaks English.  And it works out that the fellow with a working car is not a taxi driver, just a schoolteacher moonlighting for extra cash.  I indicate it is time to go.  “Now – Now.”  He holds out for packing more people into the car.  I threaten to leave.  He sullenly stops taking on additional fares, but remains parked just to let me know whose vehicle is actually making the trip.  It is dangerously close to 4 PM.  The ride into town is supposed to take ten minutes.

Instead it takes 20.  The bus park has nothing that appears to be large enough to be making the trip to Bujumbura.  But these bus barns are oddly shaped, like L’s or W’s at times, and the correct bus is found around two corners.  Luckily for me, it has not departed yet.  It is only half full.  My God, this could involve hours of waiting.  I drop my bags off, and head out in search of a Burundi local beer.

 

When I return, a crowd is laughing at me and urging me on.  Those on the bus are leaning out the window and beckoning me over.  I hear many unflattering comments related to “Mzungu.”  This bus line, as it works out, is a novelty in these parts of Africa.  It operates on a schedule.  Real departure times, and leave is taken at the correct time.  Leg number six leaves on time -- full or not.  Turns out the Volcano Bus Line has received very favorable press online for daring to break the ice and operate on a schedule.  I am frankly lucky they have not left without me – baggage and all.

I have no pre-conceived notions about Burundi, and very little foreknowledge of this tiny country.  I quickly learn the population speaks French.  Which I take initially as an oddity, until learning most of the way to Bujumbura that the Belgians were the colonial masters of this territory and imposed their language on its inhabitants.

One green river valley after another is encountered.  One ridgeline after another traversed.  The countryside is beautiful.   Its landscape is a cross between Hawaii and Thailand.    People aboard the 25 passenger van are laughing, smiling, and showing great curiosity relative to the stranger.  Especially the kids.  During one pee break, the boys stand around me in a semi-circle, fascinated by whether the style and equipment were the same.  It is obvious once again many along the trail have never seen a white man before.

I elect on arrival in Bujumbura to immediately depart for the Sage Beach Resort, part of a group of coastal hostels, lodges and hotels about five kilometers northwest of the capitol.  A three wheeled “tuk tuk” motorcycle taxi is chosen as the seventh and final transport of the day.  The driver can not locate the resort.  Apparently it had changed names.

Once located after the land version of trial and error depth soundings are made, the location turned out to be very soothing.  A Polynesian ambience permeated the grounds.  Each room had its own bath – a rarity – multiple electrical outlets, an en-suite sit area, sufficient light, a queen sized bed, mosquito netting, and even a working refrigerator.  The beach itself was highly groomed, and pounding waves from Lake Tanganyika (Africa’s second largest) lent an easy transition into much needed sleep.  The promised internet connection did not materialize, however.

I left in the morning earlier than anticipated.  When the power was intermittent the previous night and then sputtered all morning and the staff took it as a laughing matter, it was time to seek out other quarters.  A taxi into town landed me at the Hotel de L’Amitie’ – a clean and efficient French hostel in the middle of town with fans, good baths, good lighting, multiple outlets, and a private writing area outside the room with separate plugs and lighting.  It also had internet – the gold standard for a writer. The staff was very slow, and spoke very little English, but was quite earnest in their desire to serve and please.

After a good walkabout in which – once again – nobody would take Malawi money (I finally gave away my small bills to street beggars) lunch was taken at the Restaurant Les Champignons.  Efficient and courteous Manager Marie Claire Umugiraneza featured beautifully prepared chef salad, fruit cocktail, vegetables in rice, and beer.  Once again, the manners were exquisite, yet the service glacial.  They do not seem to understand it is okay to bring part of the order up front once it is ready, and instead insist on holding the most easily prepared dish hostage to that which is slowest to prepare.  By this time, the dish that is ready the fastest has cooled considerably.

Like Mwanza, Bujumbura is a gritty town, with not much to draw the curious in for a closer look.  The roads are potholed and dusty, covered with litter, and the street denizens are polite if not enthusiastic.  I did notice that there are more Bureas de Change here, than Starbucks coffee shops on any given Seattle corner.  They do a land office business in this town.  The locals also have a rather ingratiating habit of admiring your gear, and then demanding it for themselves: “I like your bracelet.  Give it to me!”

My ride out of town, once again on the depart-on-schedule Volcano bus line, crosses the Rwanda border after three hours.  At first, with a brief dirt section as my only hint of things to come, I felt I was in for a huge disappointment.  But soon the roads turn to perfect tarmac.  Public service crews are adding hand-labor grooming to the sides of the highway.  The route into Kagali is lined with menthol scented Eucalyptus trees. Hills in the background, are even more beautiful than in Lesotho and Burundi.  Cars, vans and buses are actually being washed.  Most telling, there is no trash on the roads.  Anywhere. I feel I am in for a very special and unexpected surprise.