Blitzing through Burundi

Rwanda probably has the nicest people I've met yet on the trip, and hardly a walk out the door doesn't result in people approaching me just out of kindness, but onward I must go. Most people from here back track through Uganda and Kenya to get to Tanzania. I'm on the bus south to Bujumbura.

Burundi is not many years coming out of its own Hutu/Tutsi civil war. All reports say the country is somewhat stable but to be careful. Burundi also enjoys the title of the most corrupt country of East Africa. And sure enough, at the border I meet my first corrupt border guard. It's nothing too unpleasant though--more a case of a stupid, barely literate moron. I'm out less than 50 cents. I should say every border official I've encountered so far has been extremely kind and welcoming.

So, Burundi. For the first hour I think: "Call up the heavy equipment operators. This place needs some serious bulldozing." A Rwandan tells me this is how Rwanda looked before the genocide. Any truck we pass usually has several bicyclists sitting on the cross bar, while hanging on the truck with one hand--like remoras--black fumes belching out over them. Women, on the other hand, look like they've stepped off the pages of National Geographic. And everywhere I see the flag of some political party: a bird with a machete in its claws.

We descend out of the mountains and see Lake Tanganyika in the distance. I doubt Bujumbura sees many tourists these days. I lodge for the night in what must originally have been intended as a honeymoon suite (embroidered sheets, bathtub on a platform) in an atmospheric town hotel. Restaurant service reminds me of a 28.8 modem: wait and wait and wait, and then maybe a fork appears and then a glass--only to get something you don't really want. Step out in the streets however, and whoa. Casualties of the war come honing in around my legs. Missing limbs, missing hands, missing feet--some on children. Intense stuff here.

Anyway, years ago the best way to travel between here and Kigoma in Tanzania was to take a boat. Those days are gone. Now it's good luck even finding information on how to travel south on public transportation. I think it's possible, but it means waiting out the weekend, and the trip is dicey at that So I hire a driver. A Canadian girl on my bus is traveling with a Rwandan, who has a Burundian friend, who has a friend, and so on. The evening turns into a council meeting, discussing my situation. The thread goes from Emily, to Yannick, to Kevin, to David, and voila (!) Modeste arrives in the morning to drive me to the Tanzanian border. The new problem is we can't leave until nearly 11am because the government has designated the last Saturday of every month as community service day. Rwanda has the same where everybody has to sweep or paint or do something. Most, I suspect, sleep in. It's forbidden to open your business, cruise around.

The drive along the shore of Lake Tanzania is gorgeous. The lake looks more like an ocean; water is clear. And mountains drop right to the shore. David and Modeste really like American country-western music, and they've brought their tapes. They even know the lyrics.

Lake Tanganyika whizzing by the car window.

After three hours we end up in some little town at an unmarked building. This is immigration where I get my exit stamp. I never, ever, would have found this. And then it's another hour up and down a rutted, dirt road--no signs, nothing. Yes, you need a Toyota Land Cruiser. Now, it's the Burundian frontier post. So I don't have to walk some kilometers through no-man's land, we bribe the guards to let us pass to the Tanzanian gate, where I'm dropped. The day isn't cheap because of horrendous gas prices, but the job is done.

Pumping gas. David with the water bottle, Modeste in the glasses behind him. Please, nobody light a cigarette.

The Tanzanian immigration post is fun and efficient. The officer welcomes me and makes sure the taxi driver who takes me to Kigoma is charging the correct price. After another hour plus of driving through dust so thick the driver has to occasionally stop or put on the headlights. We arrive in Kigoma. The sun has set.