Last night, I found myself in a basement night club called Club VIP in Bukavu, DR Congo, listening to the best DJ I’ve heard in years. The guy across the table showing some friends and me his new cell phone is bragging about the price: $650. As I lean over to make sure I heard him right (not only am I deaf, but trying to understand a foreign language with god-awful Shakira blasting in the background doesn’t help matters), he pulls out an antenna and picks up the local national television station, RTNC, on his cell phone. Two big-men politicians are talking about some development project or other for the benefit of all Congolese citizens or something like that.
This is a country the size of Western Europe with some 80 million inhabitants that counts a total of 500km of paved roads. Poor Toyota four doors bounce and creak over muddy roads with divots the size of conference tables, their mufflers smacking awkwardly against the occasional stones and broken asphalt, remnants of a colonial era I’m tired of hearing about. See, what’s so frustrating for Congolese is that Bukavu, the capital of South Kivu province, and the center of Eastern Congo, used to have pristinely paved roads, that is before war niqué (fucked up) their country. Many blame colonialism and the Belgians… yeah, ok, but that was 50 years ago. What’s been going on in the past 50 years? You enter Bukavu after sunset, and what do you notice? Nothing. No lights, save for individual candles and bonfires lit amongst wooden shacks and huts.
It’s easy, too, once your Belgian argument is deflated, to blame the big, powerful big-men politicians like the ones I was watching on a 4cm screen. And I’d be your Bergis Meredith ringside in that lipton iced tea commercial. But what’s really brisk, baby, is looking down on your mud covered shoes and caked khakis just from the unpaved walk from the car to the front door and then finding yourself peering into a $650 television screen. Something’s wrong here; there’s more to it.
Ok, it’s not like $650 is going to pave the street, and I’m not saying that it’s this guy’s or Congolese people’s fault the country’s niqué… an argument some have actually made. But do they bear any responsibility?
In asking myself such a question, I found myself also asking another question. What started as: what drives a guy to buy a cell phone for the price of some folks’ annual salary? ended up as a very different question.
See, I don’t know that guy, and I won’t pretend to, but more often than not, I see that trend among people who, were I running their finances, would be keeping that $650 for a far more needed purpose. Thus the revised question: What drives a guy whose car and his stomach are on E, whose rent is barely covered, and who has no real livelihood to buy a cell phone worth his monthly or even 6-month salary?
In fact, I just finished a great book about Congo that has a theory (wow, did that sound like Levar Burton or what…). In making her point, the author (Michella Wrong) invokes an Orwellian observation about the inordinate flagrancies of the poor in spending their money (some would say frittering it away) on extravagancies, rather than necessities, as the only way they are able to deal with their stations. I found this interesting.
See, my shoes were caked with mud last night from the walk into the club, but today, as there was no overnight change in the development of Bukavu’s infrastructure, i.e. as the roads were still shit, I didn’t bother to do more than a cursory maintenance job. I mean, after all, what the hell’s the point if they’re just going to get dirty again? So this morning, as I sat in a meeting with several of my Congolese colleagues, I noticed that they all had spit-shined shoes. Sure they had mud in areas, but it was clearly mud collected from the morning commute. My beat up mud bog shoes stood in stark contrast to their pristine penny loafers. As I walked to lunch afterward, the contrast followed me all the way to the restaurant.
This got me thinking that my logic was pretty flawed this morning. I mean, naturally, things fall apart. Is there then no reason to build them up in the first place? I’m certainly willing to submit that my logic is flawed, but again, there’s more to it.
Bear with me for a second. So a friend of mine was driving me home in his beat up Toyota after the club last night, and I asked him the same question: why does he try to keep his car running on these wasted roads when he doesn’t have a regular income and isn’t saving anything, in short, when there are more needed things he could be providing for? ‘Got to keep up appearances’, he replied.
And that’s where I’m getting to. I applaud walking to work every day through mud puddles and dusty alleys with spit-shined shoes – in fact it shows a level of self-respect I might try emulating. And if blowing your salary on material possessions helps you, for even just one day, to escape the abject poverty in which you find yourself drowning, more power to you. But why does that same prideful desire to improve appearances or that desperate searching for an escape from one’s station not translate, collectively of course, to paved roads or city-wide electricity? The big men are eating away at the organism of the “Democratic” Republic of Congo, but why are so many of the 80 million people unwilling or unable (I won’t pretend to assume one or the other) to pull their hands away from the shoe polish rag or the tv-cell phone charger, grab a shovel, and start filling in the holes?
I say ‘some of’ because you see individual communities on the sides of some of the worst roads in Bukavu filling in the ditches in their own neighborhoods, and while too often they set up road blocks to demand money from the passing vehicles, usually it’s optional, or at least minimal. Not to betray my true colors, but I think Baden Powell would be proud to see these spontaneous community service projects. And if Bukavu ever returns to that lakeside tourist destination the Belgians loved so much, it will be on the backs of these real-life Eagle Scouts.
But to hear the cynical remarks or see the faces of the people stopped in their 4x4s is the core of what’s wrong. As they move aside their expensive cell phones, dig in their designer pants to grab those 100-200 francs (about 20-40 cents), I can’t help but notice their grips tighten on the bills for just a split second longer than necessary as they hand the bill through the window to the shovel carrying, shirt-stained do-gooder knee deep in muck. After all, being associated with the filth of that check point… how would it look?
I’ll tell you how it would look: in a couple of decades, it would look like a lot more paved roads and a lot fewer check points. It might even look like a lot more community service projects and a lot more tourists.
Look, maybe the guy with the tv cell phone is a minister’s son – entirely possible. But what if he’s not? What if he’s an ordinary guy keeping up appearances? Sure, he may work for an NGO doing great work for his country, or organize community volunteer Eagle-Scoutish clean-ups every weekend. Personally, I’m clinging to the optimism that allows me to think like that. But all of those shiny shoes can’t belong to ministers’ sons, and, quite honestly, not everyone has the time to re-polish their shoes every day when they’re juggling a full-time NGO job and a regular community clean-up campaign.
Perhaps that’s cynical, but from my subjective viewpoint, there’s just a little bit more collective importance put on appearances than on paved roads and a bit more personal importance put on shining your loafers than on community service. Call it colonialism; call it government corruption; call it a brief respite from abject poverty. Then call the guy filling in the pot-holes in front of his children’s school on Saturday afternoon, and ask him how much he received in donations this year from passers-by. I bet it’d be less than $650.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Reflection 5… Sooner or later it all comes together…
I’m sitting on my porch, with the chill midnight air sifting through the screen; a light is on; my roommates are sleeping; and I’ve just finished re-reading the 6th Harry Potter Installment. I’m back from Kigali and in Burundi for a few hours, before heading to Nairobi tomorrow morning to, among other work-related things like fundraising, schmoozing and ass kissing, pick up a copy of the seventh and final installment.
It seems fitting as I start my last year in Burundi and my mind wanders why. So here goes number five:
On the way to Kigali from Bujumbura, as the bus crept up, then coasted down steep hillside roads, curling around turns, past villages and coffee fields and farmers, I plowed on in my lecture (reading), pausing every other page to gaze at the hills passing by. My mind began to wander to the lives of the people walking along the road or the thoughts of the young girl sleeping, thumb in mouth, clinging to her mother’s shoulder across the aisle, a plastic squirt gun dangling, then dropping from her limp hand onto the floor below. I thought about Rwanda and Burundi and the misery that these hills have witnessed over the past fifty some years, miseries that, despite any amount of reading, I will most likely never understand… And I hope that that plastic water pistol the little girl’s brother has just sprayed in my face is the only gun he ever holds… that she and he NEVER have to witness the miseries that haunt their neighbors’, perhaps even their parents’, dreams.
Just as I’ve plunged into the book once more, my nose almost pinned to its crease to avoid the smell of milky vomit (the girl has just spit up a half gallon of Rwandan milk all over my backpack and right puma sneaker – luckily the squirt gun took care of most of it…), the bus stops, and we find ourselves in a roadside village for a pit stop. Children are staring, blind men are begging, sellers are selling, and hawks are circling overhead. 10 minutes and a packet of wet-ones later, we’re back on the road, cruising around corners on the downslopes before screeching to a halt behind gasoline trucks chugging up the upslopes. And on one particularly long blank stare out the window, I had a bit of déjà vu (to go with the déjà mangé – already eaten – on my shoe). Without sounding too retarded, for some reason or another I remembered the first time I’d read the sixth Harry Potter book. I was, of all places, on a bus heading from Pittsburgh to Washington, DC, taking time out of my busy life to reminisce about the past and my place in relation to it. And logically (or illogically), I found myself comparing here to there.
In fact, picking up the seventh book in a supermarket in Nairobi, and sitting down at the Hotel 680 downtown to devour it over the weekend, I was struck by how important continuity is, particularly when your capital city hopping and border crossing faster than you can say, “Tuesday, it must be Brussels.” So I took the time (after all, how can you ever have the time if you don’t?) to read Harry Potter and his magic wand (or whatever the hell the last book is called) cover to cover, with a few hours of sleep and a failed safari excursion in between – did you know you can’t go on a safari without a car? Yes, idiot, that’s so there’s something between you and that lioness on the other side of the road. But I digress.
So let’s talk about here and there, just because I clearly haven’t gotten there out of my system. Yes, let’s. I seem to have all of life’s great distractions here in Bujumbura – Freedom fries (except they call them frites for short), beer, internet, gmail, e-cards, Smallville, Scrubs, books, digital cameras and other useless gadgets, equipment, crazy people, kind people, even some friends, and people that think I’m insane. But they don’t have my family, 83 North on a cool Friday evening, Yuengling, the Georgetown waterfront, Ben’s Chili Bowl, Ben’s casserole (pasta salad, but it didn’t rhyme), FC Blimey, Pops’ steaks on the barby, and other fine things.
What the hell am I trying to say? I’m trying to say that sooner or later it all comes together. And while waiving some magic wand isn’t going to make a case of Yuengling appear out of thin air, digging a bit deeper, reflecting a bit harder may make connections appear where you least expect them. Or where I least expect them. Heck, it may even help me to realize why I’m here.
I’ve joined a soccer team, and while it’s no waterfront league in Anacostia, (blimey) it’s a great way to get in shape and get to know the people I work with (but never really get to talk to) in a less African // American setting. And Africans are rigoddamndiculously in shape. So this Saturday, I’ll again put on the exponential SPF, strap on my reebok cleats, and punish my body for two grueling 30 minute halves of Burundian-rules football. If you score a goal with your foot – no points; if you score a goal with your head, 2 points; if you hit the post, 1 point; if you hit the cross bar, 5 points. And IF you hit the cross bar with a header, you still get 5 points, but you get to hear everyone on both teams do that Burundian high pitched, yet subtle aaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy sound, which pretty much is the equivalent of ssssnnnnnnaaaapppppp, or deeeeaaaaaamn. You get the idea.
And I must say that, for a Mzungu, I’ve done ok: two matches under my belt and already a pair of headers and three post goals – that’s 7 points. And speaking of lucky 7, Tuesday was the 7th, I just finished the seventh Harry Potter book (yep, I’m now back in Burundi), and it’s 7 minutes past 7 o’clock… ok, no it’s seven after six, and you’re distracting me… and those aren’t the similarities I’m talking about, anyway.
I’m talking about sitting down for a beer in a bar with your new teammates for the first time, cracking jokes about playing hung over and being out of shape; having dinner with your roommate when you’re both stressed as hell about the job and life and other usual things; or leaving the office at 7pm for the seventh straight night. Here’s different than there, but it’s really not all that different. And when crossing a border, it’s good to pay tribute to what you’re crossing from, what you’re crossing to, and why… if for no other reason than to keep the road open between them. After all, you just might need to find your way back, or somebody may decide they want to follow you. And sooner or later, those two places come together, whether physically (seriously, peeps, you are ALL welcome in Bujumbura!!!! N E Time) or just in your own, wandering mind.
And sometimes the catalyst can be as neutral as Harry Potter or just that wandering mind.
Like, for example, when you let that mind wander and you happen to have an internet connection… sometimes that Australian former peacekeeper-singer-songwriter you met one day at your office in Washington, DC and struck up an acquaintance / shared a few Guiness’s with has a website. By chance, that song you have in your head that made such an impression is on the site in mp3. So you download it onto i-tunes (yep, there’s i-tunes in Africa… imported) and are listening to it in your office in Bujumbura. And suddenly you’re back in your 4th floor Dupont Circle conference room listening to this Australian guy named Iain Campbell share his songs, documentary and experiences as an unarmed peacekeeper in Bougainville and getting that feeling once more in the pit of your stomach. And just because (maybe just for the purposes of giving this blog entry even an ounce of coherence; or maybe just because you’ve taken the time to explore that feeling), that song about a rebel’s wife brings you back to that dangling squirt gun, makes you think about those Rwandan and Burundian hillsides and their miseries and maybe, just maybe, why you’ve crossed over for one more year.
But then the song’s over, I’m back in my second floor Bujumbura office, and I realize that that’s probably just a coincidence. All the same, it was a great opportunity to think about the why’s and the what’s and the where’s... and think about how, sooner or later, even some of these blog entries come together (in one way or another).
Or if that doesn’t pass your bull shit test, it’s at least an opportunity to download a few of those long lost songs… let’s say a cross-bar header and two post goals worth… aaaaaaaaay!
*Here, for your listening pleasure (and to prove that I at least didn’t make up the last full paragraph of this rant and to plug one of the coolest guys I’ve ever met) is the website where you can download some good songs: http://www.iaincampbellsmith.com/ (I recommend ‘When She Cries’, but the rest are fun as hell). And check him out in DC!
**Oh, and speaking of border crossings (and just for fun and because Jesse Turnbull requested pictures), here’s an un-PC HIV message from your local international health NGO to all those East African truckers (see photo): whatever border you happen to be crossing with Harry Potter, just make sure he covers his magic wand. (Photo taken at the border between Burundi and Rwanda).
It seems fitting as I start my last year in Burundi and my mind wanders why. So here goes number five:
On the way to Kigali from Bujumbura, as the bus crept up, then coasted down steep hillside roads, curling around turns, past villages and coffee fields and farmers, I plowed on in my lecture (reading), pausing every other page to gaze at the hills passing by. My mind began to wander to the lives of the people walking along the road or the thoughts of the young girl sleeping, thumb in mouth, clinging to her mother’s shoulder across the aisle, a plastic squirt gun dangling, then dropping from her limp hand onto the floor below. I thought about Rwanda and Burundi and the misery that these hills have witnessed over the past fifty some years, miseries that, despite any amount of reading, I will most likely never understand… And I hope that that plastic water pistol the little girl’s brother has just sprayed in my face is the only gun he ever holds… that she and he NEVER have to witness the miseries that haunt their neighbors’, perhaps even their parents’, dreams.
Just as I’ve plunged into the book once more, my nose almost pinned to its crease to avoid the smell of milky vomit (the girl has just spit up a half gallon of Rwandan milk all over my backpack and right puma sneaker – luckily the squirt gun took care of most of it…), the bus stops, and we find ourselves in a roadside village for a pit stop. Children are staring, blind men are begging, sellers are selling, and hawks are circling overhead. 10 minutes and a packet of wet-ones later, we’re back on the road, cruising around corners on the downslopes before screeching to a halt behind gasoline trucks chugging up the upslopes. And on one particularly long blank stare out the window, I had a bit of déjà vu (to go with the déjà mangé – already eaten – on my shoe). Without sounding too retarded, for some reason or another I remembered the first time I’d read the sixth Harry Potter book. I was, of all places, on a bus heading from Pittsburgh to Washington, DC, taking time out of my busy life to reminisce about the past and my place in relation to it. And logically (or illogically), I found myself comparing here to there.
In fact, picking up the seventh book in a supermarket in Nairobi, and sitting down at the Hotel 680 downtown to devour it over the weekend, I was struck by how important continuity is, particularly when your capital city hopping and border crossing faster than you can say, “Tuesday, it must be Brussels.” So I took the time (after all, how can you ever have the time if you don’t?) to read Harry Potter and his magic wand (or whatever the hell the last book is called) cover to cover, with a few hours of sleep and a failed safari excursion in between – did you know you can’t go on a safari without a car? Yes, idiot, that’s so there’s something between you and that lioness on the other side of the road. But I digress.
So let’s talk about here and there, just because I clearly haven’t gotten there out of my system. Yes, let’s. I seem to have all of life’s great distractions here in Bujumbura – Freedom fries (except they call them frites for short), beer, internet, gmail, e-cards, Smallville, Scrubs, books, digital cameras and other useless gadgets, equipment, crazy people, kind people, even some friends, and people that think I’m insane. But they don’t have my family, 83 North on a cool Friday evening, Yuengling, the Georgetown waterfront, Ben’s Chili Bowl, Ben’s casserole (pasta salad, but it didn’t rhyme), FC Blimey, Pops’ steaks on the barby, and other fine things.
What the hell am I trying to say? I’m trying to say that sooner or later it all comes together. And while waiving some magic wand isn’t going to make a case of Yuengling appear out of thin air, digging a bit deeper, reflecting a bit harder may make connections appear where you least expect them. Or where I least expect them. Heck, it may even help me to realize why I’m here.
I’ve joined a soccer team, and while it’s no waterfront league in Anacostia, (blimey) it’s a great way to get in shape and get to know the people I work with (but never really get to talk to) in a less African // American setting. And Africans are rigoddamndiculously in shape. So this Saturday, I’ll again put on the exponential SPF, strap on my reebok cleats, and punish my body for two grueling 30 minute halves of Burundian-rules football. If you score a goal with your foot – no points; if you score a goal with your head, 2 points; if you hit the post, 1 point; if you hit the cross bar, 5 points. And IF you hit the cross bar with a header, you still get 5 points, but you get to hear everyone on both teams do that Burundian high pitched, yet subtle aaaaaaaaaaaaayyyy sound, which pretty much is the equivalent of ssssnnnnnnaaaapppppp, or deeeeaaaaaamn. You get the idea.
And I must say that, for a Mzungu, I’ve done ok: two matches under my belt and already a pair of headers and three post goals – that’s 7 points. And speaking of lucky 7, Tuesday was the 7th, I just finished the seventh Harry Potter book (yep, I’m now back in Burundi), and it’s 7 minutes past 7 o’clock… ok, no it’s seven after six, and you’re distracting me… and those aren’t the similarities I’m talking about, anyway.
I’m talking about sitting down for a beer in a bar with your new teammates for the first time, cracking jokes about playing hung over and being out of shape; having dinner with your roommate when you’re both stressed as hell about the job and life and other usual things; or leaving the office at 7pm for the seventh straight night. Here’s different than there, but it’s really not all that different. And when crossing a border, it’s good to pay tribute to what you’re crossing from, what you’re crossing to, and why… if for no other reason than to keep the road open between them. After all, you just might need to find your way back, or somebody may decide they want to follow you. And sooner or later, those two places come together, whether physically (seriously, peeps, you are ALL welcome in Bujumbura!!!! N E Time) or just in your own, wandering mind.
And sometimes the catalyst can be as neutral as Harry Potter or just that wandering mind.
Like, for example, when you let that mind wander and you happen to have an internet connection… sometimes that Australian former peacekeeper-singer-songwriter you met one day at your office in Washington, DC and struck up an acquaintance / shared a few Guiness’s with has a website. By chance, that song you have in your head that made such an impression is on the site in mp3. So you download it onto i-tunes (yep, there’s i-tunes in Africa… imported) and are listening to it in your office in Bujumbura. And suddenly you’re back in your 4th floor Dupont Circle conference room listening to this Australian guy named Iain Campbell share his songs, documentary and experiences as an unarmed peacekeeper in Bougainville and getting that feeling once more in the pit of your stomach. And just because (maybe just for the purposes of giving this blog entry even an ounce of coherence; or maybe just because you’ve taken the time to explore that feeling), that song about a rebel’s wife brings you back to that dangling squirt gun, makes you think about those Rwandan and Burundian hillsides and their miseries and maybe, just maybe, why you’ve crossed over for one more year.
But then the song’s over, I’m back in my second floor Bujumbura office, and I realize that that’s probably just a coincidence. All the same, it was a great opportunity to think about the why’s and the what’s and the where’s... and think about how, sooner or later, even some of these blog entries come together (in one way or another).
Or if that doesn’t pass your bull shit test, it’s at least an opportunity to download a few of those long lost songs… let’s say a cross-bar header and two post goals worth… aaaaaaaaay!
*Here, for your listening pleasure (and to prove that I at least didn’t make up the last full paragraph of this rant and to plug one of the coolest guys I’ve ever met) is the website where you can download some good songs: http://www.iaincampbellsmith.com/ (I recommend ‘When She Cries’, but the rest are fun as hell). And check him out in DC!
**Oh, and speaking of border crossings (and just for fun and because Jesse Turnbull requested pictures), here’s an un-PC HIV message from your local international health NGO to all those East African truckers (see photo): whatever border you happen to be crossing with Harry Potter, just make sure he covers his magic wand. (Photo taken at the border between Burundi and Rwanda).
Monday, August 06, 2007
Reflection 4 – What a difference a year makes…
Ok, 3 reflections in 12 months, that’s f’ing pathetic, so here goes round four, just under the 12-month deadline. So I thought I’d strike a lighter tone and start off number 4 with a riddle:
What has four legs, green scales, is 140 years old, 8 meters long and eats people?
Gustav, the man-eating, last of his kind crocodile.
I’m back in Burundi, and after telling the Gustav, man-eating crocodile story everywhere from a bike trail in Rehoboth beach to the Mexican wolves pen at the DC zoo, all to incredulous stares and doubtful cross-examinations, I think it’s high time I got to the bottom of this African myth of Lock Nessian proportions.
So Gustav is a crocodile; he eats people. And every time he’s back at our end of the lake, the radio stations flash warnings about swimming in certain areas, particularly around dusk. Many of you have heard this story, and most of you don’t believe it, but here it is for those of you who haven’t. And for those craving more, there are a dozen more stories… just like this one. I haven’t seen JAWS, so if this is a blatant rip-off, do let me know.
Sometime in the last 1990s, in the middle of the Burundian crise (civil war), a Belgian diplomat was relaxing on the beach with his wife and daughter. All of a sudden, this mammoth crocodile comes bolting out of the water, chomps down on the daughter’s leg, and drags her screaming into Lake Tanganika. They found the body on the lake bank the next morning… Gustav, as he is known here in Burundi, doesn’t like raw meat (table for one at the Sushi bar). Shortly after the incident, the diplomat’s wife commits suicide, and the diplomat returns to Belgium, his life in ruins. So how was Burundi? Well, my daughter got killed by a (wo)man-eating crocodile and my wife committed suicide, but the weather was great.
Now, why am I telling you this?????? Honestly, I have absolutely no idea. But since I’m crap at blogging, I thought I might try story telling. So do YOU believe this story? I’ve verified it seventeen different ways, but without any names (besides Gustav), dates or facts, it’s a bit like Lake Tanganika at dusk, that is to say, a bit murky.
So on a Saturday evening at dusk, much like the one in the story, I’m starting to question some things, things that are, for lack of a better segue… murky. And since I’ve promised several folks that I’d update the blog, perhaps even weekly? (shock, I know), here’s what’s going on:
After a glorious six week trip to the US, touching base with old friends, celebrating my dad’s retirement, my sister's graduation, taking my mom out to dinner, speaking at the UN!, catching up with my awesome sibs, and some good old fashioned DC fun, I’m back in Burundi. And as tomorrow is Kigali, Tuesday’s Bujumbura, Wednesday’s Nairobi, and I feel like I’m about to be whisked along on another whirlwind tour of the Great Lakes, I’d like to pause and reflect. Because that, after all, is what these internet sharing times are all about.
The week in review: landed on my feet last Friday, after two days of flights, almost lost baggage, and a welcome back get together at the local rasta bar. If I love Burundi bumpterstickers could be personified, they’d be a bunch of Burundians, Congolese, French, Belgians and Americans dancing their asses off to Bujumbura’s best singers karaoking on a stage in a palm-tree-filled rasta bar at the edge of town… I finally found where the sidewalk ends.
So I’m feeling a bit in between as it were, and sitting in front of the same laptop in total darkness in Kigali (yep, just changed countries on you!), the second week back is looking to be about as crazy as the first…
Tomorrow starts a three-day evaluation and planning meeting for our regional live youth radio talk show here in Kigali, so my colleague and I are here for the first morning before meeting with some donors in the afternoon. Then it’s back to Burundi on Tuesday, then off to Nairobi for some more donor meetings on Wednesday. It’s been a year since I’ve been back in Kigali, and a lot has happened since that first trip… personally and professionally.
And yet, I feel quite the same. I suppose a bit more mature, maybe even a little smarter, but still the same Graham. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Same, same… but somehow different.
Maybe by next year’s trip I’ll have this Gustav business sorted out.
What has four legs, green scales, is 140 years old, 8 meters long and eats people?
Gustav, the man-eating, last of his kind crocodile.
I’m back in Burundi, and after telling the Gustav, man-eating crocodile story everywhere from a bike trail in Rehoboth beach to the Mexican wolves pen at the DC zoo, all to incredulous stares and doubtful cross-examinations, I think it’s high time I got to the bottom of this African myth of Lock Nessian proportions.
So Gustav is a crocodile; he eats people. And every time he’s back at our end of the lake, the radio stations flash warnings about swimming in certain areas, particularly around dusk. Many of you have heard this story, and most of you don’t believe it, but here it is for those of you who haven’t. And for those craving more, there are a dozen more stories… just like this one. I haven’t seen JAWS, so if this is a blatant rip-off, do let me know.
Sometime in the last 1990s, in the middle of the Burundian crise (civil war), a Belgian diplomat was relaxing on the beach with his wife and daughter. All of a sudden, this mammoth crocodile comes bolting out of the water, chomps down on the daughter’s leg, and drags her screaming into Lake Tanganika. They found the body on the lake bank the next morning… Gustav, as he is known here in Burundi, doesn’t like raw meat (table for one at the Sushi bar). Shortly after the incident, the diplomat’s wife commits suicide, and the diplomat returns to Belgium, his life in ruins. So how was Burundi? Well, my daughter got killed by a (wo)man-eating crocodile and my wife committed suicide, but the weather was great.
Now, why am I telling you this?????? Honestly, I have absolutely no idea. But since I’m crap at blogging, I thought I might try story telling. So do YOU believe this story? I’ve verified it seventeen different ways, but without any names (besides Gustav), dates or facts, it’s a bit like Lake Tanganika at dusk, that is to say, a bit murky.
So on a Saturday evening at dusk, much like the one in the story, I’m starting to question some things, things that are, for lack of a better segue… murky. And since I’ve promised several folks that I’d update the blog, perhaps even weekly? (shock, I know), here’s what’s going on:
After a glorious six week trip to the US, touching base with old friends, celebrating my dad’s retirement, my sister's graduation, taking my mom out to dinner, speaking at the UN!, catching up with my awesome sibs, and some good old fashioned DC fun, I’m back in Burundi. And as tomorrow is Kigali, Tuesday’s Bujumbura, Wednesday’s Nairobi, and I feel like I’m about to be whisked along on another whirlwind tour of the Great Lakes, I’d like to pause and reflect. Because that, after all, is what these internet sharing times are all about.
The week in review: landed on my feet last Friday, after two days of flights, almost lost baggage, and a welcome back get together at the local rasta bar. If I love Burundi bumpterstickers could be personified, they’d be a bunch of Burundians, Congolese, French, Belgians and Americans dancing their asses off to Bujumbura’s best singers karaoking on a stage in a palm-tree-filled rasta bar at the edge of town… I finally found where the sidewalk ends.
So I’m feeling a bit in between as it were, and sitting in front of the same laptop in total darkness in Kigali (yep, just changed countries on you!), the second week back is looking to be about as crazy as the first…
Tomorrow starts a three-day evaluation and planning meeting for our regional live youth radio talk show here in Kigali, so my colleague and I are here for the first morning before meeting with some donors in the afternoon. Then it’s back to Burundi on Tuesday, then off to Nairobi for some more donor meetings on Wednesday. It’s been a year since I’ve been back in Kigali, and a lot has happened since that first trip… personally and professionally.
And yet, I feel quite the same. I suppose a bit more mature, maybe even a little smarter, but still the same Graham. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Same, same… but somehow different.
Maybe by next year’s trip I’ll have this Gustav business sorted out.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
I just figured out how to load photos!!!
Resort hotel on the lake, not my backyard. It costs 8 bucks to swim in that pool.
So does Graham live in a hut?
My roommates.
Here are three of the journalists at the local 'rasta' bar after the show.
Here are the radio journalists doing a live talk show on youth's reactions to conflict. It is simulcast in three countries (Rwanda, Burundi, and DR Congo), as well as on the internet (www.isanganiro.org) every Saturday at 7am EST (GMT+2).
This is a nice family I've met here who have been very kind to me. Their related to a colleague of mine who works in another country. This was taken at our housewarming PARTY!
This is me with the closest thing to wild animals I've found here.
Here are the radio journalists doing a live talk show on youth's reactions to conflict. It is simulcast in three countries (Rwanda, Burundi, and DR Congo), as well as on the internet (www.isanganiro.org) every Saturday at 7am EST (GMT+2).
Bend Down Low...
Let me tell you what I know.
I was recently doing some internet research, looking at what other people put in their blogs and how often they update them (incidentally, it’s more than once every three months), and I came across an interesting passage, and I think this is what ‘blogging’ is all about:
“I need writing. I need a space to share my thoughts and beliefs with others, and to converse with others. I need to spill my guts so I can make sense of them. I hate the walls people put up in their lives to keep people out, and I want to try to break down mine, and see if other people will let theirs down too.”
A lot of people have been asking me (don’t you love paragraphs that begin with that phrase?), why don’t you write more? They’re right, and when you’re on Katie Reardon’s Internet favorites, I think you have a certain responsibility to keep it interesting and updated. But I do a butt-load of writing: from reports, updates, proposals, budget narratives, and countless e-mails… I get a little tired of writing. But it’s true that we need writing, and I think it’s probably about time I updated this blog and, perhaps, talked about Burundi for a change. So here’s what I’ve written about Burundi recently:
September 2006:
“In early September, Alice Nzomukunda, Burundi’s second vice-president and a leading member of the ruling CNDD-FDD party, resigned, accusing the current government of both corruption and violations of human rights. Her comments come on the heels of several troubling events that have left many criticizing the current state of human rights in the country and led UN Secretary General Kofi Annan to express deep concern. In August, the Burundi intelligence service arrested a group of politicians and soldiers, including former President Domitien Ndayizeye of the FRODEBU party and his former deputy Alphonse Marie Kadege of UPRONA, and reportedly tortured them, on allegations of planning a coup d’état. The government has yet to present any proof of such a plot. That same month, reports emerged of the summary extrajudicial execution of several individuals in police custody. The events have further divided the government and media, leaving many to speculate on the future of freedom of expression in the country. Still, there is positive news to report. After a long period of negotiation, the government signed a cease-fire agreement with the PALIPEHUTU-FNL, Burundi’s last remaining active rebel group. However, it is important to note that many of the recent abuses committed have not involved the armed struggle with the FNL. While the signing of the cease-fire improves the country’s overall security situation, it is human rights that are in the greatest danger in Burundi.”
January 2007:
“The recent crackdowns on members of the political opposition and on the media have called into question the stability of democracy and peace in Burundi. In November, trials convened for the seven people accused of plotting to topple the government, including former President Dominitien Ndayizeye and former Vice President Alphonse Kadege, with the state seeking life sentences for the accused. The testimony of Alain Mugabarabona, a former head of the FNL (National Forces for Liberation) and one of the accused, forms the basis for the government’s case. However, Mugabarabona denies the charges, insisting that his confession and subsequent implication of the other accused were only made after being tortured. Also in November, amid growing tensions between the government and the press, two journalists from Radio Publique Africaine (RPA) and the Director of Radio Isanganiro (Mathias Manirakiza) were arrested and immediately jailed, accused of broadcasting news that jeopardized the public security. The Directors of RPA and Radio Bonesha fled the country amid the crackdowns. While relations have since improved following a series of meetings between President Pierre Nkurunziza and members of the press, as well as the acquittal and release of the jailed journalists in early January, the underlying conflict and threats to freedom of expression in Burundi remain.
Meanwhile, progress in implementing the peace agreement with the FNL, including launching a disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration (DDR) process for former combatants and repatriating the group’s leadership, has been slow. On the other hand, the government has taken an important step towards resolving the country’s daunting land crisis. The National Commission on Land and Other Goods (CNTB), has begun meeting with the land owners, returnees and refugees in Tanzania to get a sense of each group's grievances and find a path toward mediation in preparation for the planned return of thousands of refugees in the coming year. Unlike previous land commissions that have addressed this problem with force, the CNTB has been committed to dialogue and mediation.”
If you’re interested in reading the program updates, check out the SFCG website http://www.sfcg.org/, the new ones will be up shortly.
The thing about Burundi that has kept me hung up for a few weeks, and which, if you must know (“We must, we must!”), is why the December installment is coming out at the end of February. And I think it gets to the core of what blogging is all about. More later.
OK, here’s the thing, I’ve been to prisons. My dad works with the prison system, so I’ve visited a few prisons in my day and even been inside one or three. I’ve never actually visited anyone in prison. And I’ve never actually been personally affected by the sort of things I write about in my carefully worded (can’t appear too biased) program update context sections (see http://www.sfcg.org/ !!!!!!). So take a quick re-glance at the January context, if you will (We will, we will!).
I know Mathias Manirakiza, his office is in the same building as mine, his radio station was launched by journalists who used to work for Search and has been supported by Search regularly since it was launched in 2002. So when I had a 20-page annual USAID report to finalize, I was in Mathias’ office, finalizing the section on ‘how has the American government’s support to Radio Isanganiro (via SFCG) yielded positive, peacebuilding results, blah blah blah.’ So you’ll understand the weirdness when this little report writer from DC is driving out of town, rumbling down a dirt road with erosion corridors destroying the rubber tires of a car never meant for off-roading, headed to the Musaga prison for an old-fashioned, visiting Dad at the office, prison visit.
Let me back up.
It’s late November. I’m in my colleague Stéphane’s office, discussing either something important, like the USAID final report, or how many liters of beer we’d consumed the night before (School night!) – probably the latter, and my current record is 5.04 if you’re interested. In walks Mathias, as we’re laughing about how drunk we got in the local bar, with one of those looks that makes you say, ‘Jesus, what’s up with you, you look like death warmed over’. But I don’t know how to say that in French, so I said ‘Evening, Mathias, how’s it going? What’s wrong?” And he hands Stéphane and me a convocation to appear at a judicial hearing the next morning. He’d gone to a similar hearing in September, after Radio Isanganiro, Radio Publique Africaine (RPA – African Public Radio) and Radio Bonesha simultaneously broadcast a message, accusing the government of manufacturing the coup plot for which the former Pres. and Veep and five others were accused of planning. What it boils down to is that the government was allegedly planning to launch a fake coup against itself and blame it on afore-mentioned accused, in order to destabilize the country, bolster the case against them, and, effectively, silence the opposition. Nice!
OK, that’s heavy stuff; or as my great-uncle would’ve said, ‘heady stuff’. I’m not going to take sides ‘cause imagine CNN, Fox News and NBC simultaneously accusing the Bush administration of plotting to overthrow itself in a fake coup plot to destabilize the US (ok, well not Fox News, but you get the idea). Now, imagine, if they only cited ‘credible sources’ and didn’t give any space for an Arie Fleischer counter argument. Shit, I’d throw Brokaw in prison, too, I mean WTF? So this is serious, and although two journalists had already been arrested, Mathias thought he was fine.
So he went, he talked, he answered, and they told him to leave… like what the bartender said to the two neutrons when they asked for the bill… no charge. But as he’s leaving, a group of policemen are waiting for him, and they arrest him. And here I am a week and a half later, driving down a dirt ‘road’ in the sunlight of a Burundi December midday. Stéphane parks the car, we get out, sign in at a card table manned by two policemen in blue uniforms and matching berets, lounging under the shade of a large XX tree (if I knew more about African foliage than palm trees and saw grass, I’d be able to complete that sentence). There is a crowd of about 20 family members waiting amid the palm plants and rainy season heat, staring at the two bearded Muzungus coming to visit the new most famous journalist in Burundi.
So after the cop refused my VA driver’s license as proof of identity, he copied my passport number and we headed up the dirt path to the prison. I gave my cell phone at the front desk, and we enter the place.
This isn’t one of those heartfelt reflections by candlelight, nor is it a cathartic, thank god I got to Angola essay, so I’ve been trying to make sense of it and trying to organize my thoughts into some sort of coherent, hopefully entertaining writing piece. In any event, hopefully it will succeed in breaking down whatever barrier has prevented me from writing this for two months. Bear with me; I think this is going somewhere.
Where was I. Oh, right, so the prison looks like one of those old barns you come across, maybe in Central Pennsylvania, maybe in Central Nebraska, the kind of place where hay and corn was probably stored 50 years ago and maybe, just maybe an animal or two lived there. You can still smell the damp earth and dried shit. The wood is cracking, the metal rusting, the stale air hot against your sunburn face (Ok, Greg, MY sunburn face).
Now picture that same barn complex with two chained metal doors, 10 feet high, leading to a central courtyard. There’s a square whole in the bars about 6 feet up to pass through packages and letters. And hanging on the gate, is a wall of bodies, three thick in one-piece green prison uniforms, arms resting between the bars, necks contorted to get a glimpse out of this prison scene at the waiting visitors. And picture hundreds of others talking and whispering, yelling, laughing and cat-calling, or just lounging behind them. A prison meant for 800 people holds well over 1500. Add a group of about 20 policemen in blue berets, combat boots, rolled up sleeves, and faded blue pants inspecting visitors’ gift baskets, guarding the gate, ushering you inside, and surveying the conjugal visitors.
Stephane and I head to one corner of the room, find one of the prisoners assigned to monitor and manage visiting hours. “We’re here to see Mathias”, and the man is off yelling to the someone in the crowd of faces on the other side of the gate. 10 minutes later, Mathias arrives in the green, prison issue costume and we head to the concrete hallway reserved for all the visiting parties and commence the small talk.
Stéphane asks about the food and if they’re treating him ok; I say something stupid like “Any news on a trial date?” And the conversation continues. We then talk about the upcoming election in December of the next Radio Isanganiro Director. Mathias has been talking a lot with Dominitien Ndayizeye (see update!) about a number of issues and Ndayizeye gives him a piece of political advice that only a former transitional African president could give: “You should run your campaign from prison, people love to vote for prisoners.” And we laugh, except I didn’t understand it, so I laugh 30 minutes later when we take our leave, retrieve our cell phones, and have the scene explained to me in idiot language and hand gestures. Anyway, luckily, it took long enough for Mathias to arrive that we catch the last ten minutes of the visiting period and are allowed to stay through the next visiting period. Sort of like a BOGO sale. Also, we’re not the only ones visiting him: the head of the UN, the Belgian Ambassador and several others were there that very morning.
As the next wave of visitors and visitees arrives, a pregnant woman walks up and smiles at us. She and Mathias share a hallmark moment glance, where neither says anything and they don’t have to, just long enough to make you start to feel a bit invasive, but not too long to make you look away and pretend to be interested in that chipped concrete spot on the opposite wall.
She appears to be like 15 months pregnant and is all smiles, refusing to let either her husband’s seemingly impossible situation or the third trimester prevent her from providing just the kind of cheerful, rock-like support that her husband so desperately needs. In order to further extend the visiting period, she decides to wait for the third visiting session, postponing the Prince’s return to the exiled world of political purgatory for another 15 minutes.
The conversation ends with a brief pow-wow about the current issues at the radio station, including a bureaucratic battle with the government’s regulatory commission for communications over the prospect of installing satellite internet. So, basically, nothing.
After walking out of the prison, we hop in the car, rumble up the path and head back to the office. There’s work to do, after all, a fact made all the more clear from the afternoon’s field trip.
On the drive back, and just when I thought I couldn’t feel anymore in the Twilight Zone that day, Stéphane starts telling me about the road we’re driving on (named 28th November for the country’s independence), his old neighbor Mugabarabona (see update), and a little story about the FNL shelling his neighborhood in 2004 after Mugabarabona broke with them to try to sign a peace accord with the government. The road we’re driving on was as close as they got to the neighborhood. Mugabarabona’s compound was protected by a UN South African contingent. Stéphane put his son in the center of the house, in a room surrounded on all sides and above by stone walls. The kid slept through the whole thing. The next morning, 28th November was covered in the dead bodies of the 10-14 year old FNL soldiers who had attacked the city, on orders from Mugabarabona’s replacement, ready to inflict African vengeance on his precedessor, and any innocent neighbors who happen to live in the vicinity… oh and their innocent young children.
So that was enough to make me sit back in the small Toyota four-door and stare out the window at the Burundian faces who no doubt would have their own horror stories to tell about that day, though certainly not with the benefit of a UN contingent of South Africans armed to the teeth and furiously protecting them.
Except that he went on. The authorities left the bodies there for three or four more days, enough time for the kindly residents of Bujumbura to pay their respects, spitting, stamping, kicking, and sneering at the dead carcases, taunting them for their failed ethnic massacre, probably on a sunny, breezy day, not unlike today, with the calm waves lapping against the lakeshore about a mile to the West, and 80 employees tapping away on laptops a mile to the north at the Search for Common Ground office. And maybe somebody in a four-door Toyota racing along 28 November amid UN and NGO land cruisers on their way to buy groceries and imported scotch at the local expat (expatriate) market paused to reflect that day on the state of the world.
…
As chance would have it, I’m back in Angola, finishing up this third reflection. So why am I telling you all this? I’m not really sure; maybe I shouldn’t, maybe it’s not interesting, maybe it is. But there’s something strange about meeting people that have lived through these stories, have met the people in the BBC, Reuters or IRIN news articles. And it’s even stranger coming away empty-handed when I try to find meaning or reason in these stories or think about how I might have changed having heard them.
Mathias was freed on January 3, along with the other two RPA journalists, with the Director of Bonesha being acquitted in absentia. Before heading back to Angola for three weeks, I found myself in Stéphane’s office for a bit of déjà vu (French keyboard still got it), discussing the unbreakable 5.04 liter record once again, with Mathias walking in. He’s since been re-elected as Director of the station (people love to vote for prisoners) and last week had a drop-in visit from President Nkurunziza (people love to vote for people who visit prisoners), himself. In other news, his baby girl was born the week after he got out, and she apparently weighs more than he does (the punch line of a bad prison food joke I had to laugh at).
And to be honest, I haven’t given this story a second thought since that day in the car. How is it possible not to be completely floored by these things? Let’s be honest, stamping on dead child soldiers is FUBAR, whether you brick wall it out or not.
Maybe that’s another one of those African ways of things for which you throw your hands up, tilt your head back and be glad that you come from a different place.
Or perhaps that indifference is just another wall we put up to prevent the full impact of the experience from knocking us out of our day-to-day lives, or in my case, my African vacation, and to keep others from questioning it. And it’s only through writing these things down that you’re able to start to make some sense of them…
… and share them with others.
…
p.s. My brother is the man.
I was recently doing some internet research, looking at what other people put in their blogs and how often they update them (incidentally, it’s more than once every three months), and I came across an interesting passage, and I think this is what ‘blogging’ is all about:
“I need writing. I need a space to share my thoughts and beliefs with others, and to converse with others. I need to spill my guts so I can make sense of them. I hate the walls people put up in their lives to keep people out, and I want to try to break down mine, and see if other people will let theirs down too.”
A lot of people have been asking me (don’t you love paragraphs that begin with that phrase?), why don’t you write more? They’re right, and when you’re on Katie Reardon’s Internet favorites, I think you have a certain responsibility to keep it interesting and updated. But I do a butt-load of writing: from reports, updates, proposals, budget narratives, and countless e-mails… I get a little tired of writing. But it’s true that we need writing, and I think it’s probably about time I updated this blog and, perhaps, talked about Burundi for a change. So here’s what I’ve written about Burundi recently:
September 2006:
“In early September, Alice Nzomukunda, Burundi’s second vice-president and a leading member of the ruling CNDD-FDD party, resigned, accusing the current government of both corruption and violations of human rights. Her comments come on the heels of several troubling events that have left many criticizing the current state of human rights in the country and led UN Secretary General Kofi Annan to express deep concern. In August, the Burundi intelligence service arrested a group of politicians and soldiers, including former President Domitien Ndayizeye of the FRODEBU party and his former deputy Alphonse Marie Kadege of UPRONA, and reportedly tortured them, on allegations of planning a coup d’état. The government has yet to present any proof of such a plot. That same month, reports emerged of the summary extrajudicial execution of several individuals in police custody. The events have further divided the government and media, leaving many to speculate on the future of freedom of expression in the country. Still, there is positive news to report. After a long period of negotiation, the government signed a cease-fire agreement with the PALIPEHUTU-FNL, Burundi’s last remaining active rebel group. However, it is important to note that many of the recent abuses committed have not involved the armed struggle with the FNL. While the signing of the cease-fire improves the country’s overall security situation, it is human rights that are in the greatest danger in Burundi.”
January 2007:
“The recent crackdowns on members of the political opposition and on the media have called into question the stability of democracy and peace in Burundi. In November, trials convened for the seven people accused of plotting to topple the government, including former President Dominitien Ndayizeye and former Vice President Alphonse Kadege, with the state seeking life sentences for the accused. The testimony of Alain Mugabarabona, a former head of the FNL (National Forces for Liberation) and one of the accused, forms the basis for the government’s case. However, Mugabarabona denies the charges, insisting that his confession and subsequent implication of the other accused were only made after being tortured. Also in November, amid growing tensions between the government and the press, two journalists from Radio Publique Africaine (RPA) and the Director of Radio Isanganiro (Mathias Manirakiza) were arrested and immediately jailed, accused of broadcasting news that jeopardized the public security. The Directors of RPA and Radio Bonesha fled the country amid the crackdowns. While relations have since improved following a series of meetings between President Pierre Nkurunziza and members of the press, as well as the acquittal and release of the jailed journalists in early January, the underlying conflict and threats to freedom of expression in Burundi remain.
Meanwhile, progress in implementing the peace agreement with the FNL, including launching a disarmament, demobilisation and reintegration (DDR) process for former combatants and repatriating the group’s leadership, has been slow. On the other hand, the government has taken an important step towards resolving the country’s daunting land crisis. The National Commission on Land and Other Goods (CNTB), has begun meeting with the land owners, returnees and refugees in Tanzania to get a sense of each group's grievances and find a path toward mediation in preparation for the planned return of thousands of refugees in the coming year. Unlike previous land commissions that have addressed this problem with force, the CNTB has been committed to dialogue and mediation.”
If you’re interested in reading the program updates, check out the SFCG website http://www.sfcg.org/, the new ones will be up shortly.
The thing about Burundi that has kept me hung up for a few weeks, and which, if you must know (“We must, we must!”), is why the December installment is coming out at the end of February. And I think it gets to the core of what blogging is all about. More later.
OK, here’s the thing, I’ve been to prisons. My dad works with the prison system, so I’ve visited a few prisons in my day and even been inside one or three. I’ve never actually visited anyone in prison. And I’ve never actually been personally affected by the sort of things I write about in my carefully worded (can’t appear too biased) program update context sections (see http://www.sfcg.org/ !!!!!!). So take a quick re-glance at the January context, if you will (We will, we will!).
I know Mathias Manirakiza, his office is in the same building as mine, his radio station was launched by journalists who used to work for Search and has been supported by Search regularly since it was launched in 2002. So when I had a 20-page annual USAID report to finalize, I was in Mathias’ office, finalizing the section on ‘how has the American government’s support to Radio Isanganiro (via SFCG) yielded positive, peacebuilding results, blah blah blah.’ So you’ll understand the weirdness when this little report writer from DC is driving out of town, rumbling down a dirt road with erosion corridors destroying the rubber tires of a car never meant for off-roading, headed to the Musaga prison for an old-fashioned, visiting Dad at the office, prison visit.
Let me back up.
It’s late November. I’m in my colleague Stéphane’s office, discussing either something important, like the USAID final report, or how many liters of beer we’d consumed the night before (School night!) – probably the latter, and my current record is 5.04 if you’re interested. In walks Mathias, as we’re laughing about how drunk we got in the local bar, with one of those looks that makes you say, ‘Jesus, what’s up with you, you look like death warmed over’. But I don’t know how to say that in French, so I said ‘Evening, Mathias, how’s it going? What’s wrong?” And he hands Stéphane and me a convocation to appear at a judicial hearing the next morning. He’d gone to a similar hearing in September, after Radio Isanganiro, Radio Publique Africaine (RPA – African Public Radio) and Radio Bonesha simultaneously broadcast a message, accusing the government of manufacturing the coup plot for which the former Pres. and Veep and five others were accused of planning. What it boils down to is that the government was allegedly planning to launch a fake coup against itself and blame it on afore-mentioned accused, in order to destabilize the country, bolster the case against them, and, effectively, silence the opposition. Nice!
OK, that’s heavy stuff; or as my great-uncle would’ve said, ‘heady stuff’. I’m not going to take sides ‘cause imagine CNN, Fox News and NBC simultaneously accusing the Bush administration of plotting to overthrow itself in a fake coup plot to destabilize the US (ok, well not Fox News, but you get the idea). Now, imagine, if they only cited ‘credible sources’ and didn’t give any space for an Arie Fleischer counter argument. Shit, I’d throw Brokaw in prison, too, I mean WTF? So this is serious, and although two journalists had already been arrested, Mathias thought he was fine.
So he went, he talked, he answered, and they told him to leave… like what the bartender said to the two neutrons when they asked for the bill… no charge. But as he’s leaving, a group of policemen are waiting for him, and they arrest him. And here I am a week and a half later, driving down a dirt ‘road’ in the sunlight of a Burundi December midday. Stéphane parks the car, we get out, sign in at a card table manned by two policemen in blue uniforms and matching berets, lounging under the shade of a large XX tree (if I knew more about African foliage than palm trees and saw grass, I’d be able to complete that sentence). There is a crowd of about 20 family members waiting amid the palm plants and rainy season heat, staring at the two bearded Muzungus coming to visit the new most famous journalist in Burundi.
So after the cop refused my VA driver’s license as proof of identity, he copied my passport number and we headed up the dirt path to the prison. I gave my cell phone at the front desk, and we enter the place.
This isn’t one of those heartfelt reflections by candlelight, nor is it a cathartic, thank god I got to Angola essay, so I’ve been trying to make sense of it and trying to organize my thoughts into some sort of coherent, hopefully entertaining writing piece. In any event, hopefully it will succeed in breaking down whatever barrier has prevented me from writing this for two months. Bear with me; I think this is going somewhere.
Where was I. Oh, right, so the prison looks like one of those old barns you come across, maybe in Central Pennsylvania, maybe in Central Nebraska, the kind of place where hay and corn was probably stored 50 years ago and maybe, just maybe an animal or two lived there. You can still smell the damp earth and dried shit. The wood is cracking, the metal rusting, the stale air hot against your sunburn face (Ok, Greg, MY sunburn face).
Now picture that same barn complex with two chained metal doors, 10 feet high, leading to a central courtyard. There’s a square whole in the bars about 6 feet up to pass through packages and letters. And hanging on the gate, is a wall of bodies, three thick in one-piece green prison uniforms, arms resting between the bars, necks contorted to get a glimpse out of this prison scene at the waiting visitors. And picture hundreds of others talking and whispering, yelling, laughing and cat-calling, or just lounging behind them. A prison meant for 800 people holds well over 1500. Add a group of about 20 policemen in blue berets, combat boots, rolled up sleeves, and faded blue pants inspecting visitors’ gift baskets, guarding the gate, ushering you inside, and surveying the conjugal visitors.
Stephane and I head to one corner of the room, find one of the prisoners assigned to monitor and manage visiting hours. “We’re here to see Mathias”, and the man is off yelling to the someone in the crowd of faces on the other side of the gate. 10 minutes later, Mathias arrives in the green, prison issue costume and we head to the concrete hallway reserved for all the visiting parties and commence the small talk.
Stéphane asks about the food and if they’re treating him ok; I say something stupid like “Any news on a trial date?” And the conversation continues. We then talk about the upcoming election in December of the next Radio Isanganiro Director. Mathias has been talking a lot with Dominitien Ndayizeye (see update!) about a number of issues and Ndayizeye gives him a piece of political advice that only a former transitional African president could give: “You should run your campaign from prison, people love to vote for prisoners.” And we laugh, except I didn’t understand it, so I laugh 30 minutes later when we take our leave, retrieve our cell phones, and have the scene explained to me in idiot language and hand gestures. Anyway, luckily, it took long enough for Mathias to arrive that we catch the last ten minutes of the visiting period and are allowed to stay through the next visiting period. Sort of like a BOGO sale. Also, we’re not the only ones visiting him: the head of the UN, the Belgian Ambassador and several others were there that very morning.
As the next wave of visitors and visitees arrives, a pregnant woman walks up and smiles at us. She and Mathias share a hallmark moment glance, where neither says anything and they don’t have to, just long enough to make you start to feel a bit invasive, but not too long to make you look away and pretend to be interested in that chipped concrete spot on the opposite wall.
She appears to be like 15 months pregnant and is all smiles, refusing to let either her husband’s seemingly impossible situation or the third trimester prevent her from providing just the kind of cheerful, rock-like support that her husband so desperately needs. In order to further extend the visiting period, she decides to wait for the third visiting session, postponing the Prince’s return to the exiled world of political purgatory for another 15 minutes.
The conversation ends with a brief pow-wow about the current issues at the radio station, including a bureaucratic battle with the government’s regulatory commission for communications over the prospect of installing satellite internet. So, basically, nothing.
After walking out of the prison, we hop in the car, rumble up the path and head back to the office. There’s work to do, after all, a fact made all the more clear from the afternoon’s field trip.
On the drive back, and just when I thought I couldn’t feel anymore in the Twilight Zone that day, Stéphane starts telling me about the road we’re driving on (named 28th November for the country’s independence), his old neighbor Mugabarabona (see update), and a little story about the FNL shelling his neighborhood in 2004 after Mugabarabona broke with them to try to sign a peace accord with the government. The road we’re driving on was as close as they got to the neighborhood. Mugabarabona’s compound was protected by a UN South African contingent. Stéphane put his son in the center of the house, in a room surrounded on all sides and above by stone walls. The kid slept through the whole thing. The next morning, 28th November was covered in the dead bodies of the 10-14 year old FNL soldiers who had attacked the city, on orders from Mugabarabona’s replacement, ready to inflict African vengeance on his precedessor, and any innocent neighbors who happen to live in the vicinity… oh and their innocent young children.
So that was enough to make me sit back in the small Toyota four-door and stare out the window at the Burundian faces who no doubt would have their own horror stories to tell about that day, though certainly not with the benefit of a UN contingent of South Africans armed to the teeth and furiously protecting them.
Except that he went on. The authorities left the bodies there for three or four more days, enough time for the kindly residents of Bujumbura to pay their respects, spitting, stamping, kicking, and sneering at the dead carcases, taunting them for their failed ethnic massacre, probably on a sunny, breezy day, not unlike today, with the calm waves lapping against the lakeshore about a mile to the West, and 80 employees tapping away on laptops a mile to the north at the Search for Common Ground office. And maybe somebody in a four-door Toyota racing along 28 November amid UN and NGO land cruisers on their way to buy groceries and imported scotch at the local expat (expatriate) market paused to reflect that day on the state of the world.
…
As chance would have it, I’m back in Angola, finishing up this third reflection. So why am I telling you all this? I’m not really sure; maybe I shouldn’t, maybe it’s not interesting, maybe it is. But there’s something strange about meeting people that have lived through these stories, have met the people in the BBC, Reuters or IRIN news articles. And it’s even stranger coming away empty-handed when I try to find meaning or reason in these stories or think about how I might have changed having heard them.
Mathias was freed on January 3, along with the other two RPA journalists, with the Director of Bonesha being acquitted in absentia. Before heading back to Angola for three weeks, I found myself in Stéphane’s office for a bit of déjà vu (French keyboard still got it), discussing the unbreakable 5.04 liter record once again, with Mathias walking in. He’s since been re-elected as Director of the station (people love to vote for prisoners) and last week had a drop-in visit from President Nkurunziza (people love to vote for people who visit prisoners), himself. In other news, his baby girl was born the week after he got out, and she apparently weighs more than he does (the punch line of a bad prison food joke I had to laugh at).
And to be honest, I haven’t given this story a second thought since that day in the car. How is it possible not to be completely floored by these things? Let’s be honest, stamping on dead child soldiers is FUBAR, whether you brick wall it out or not.
Maybe that’s another one of those African ways of things for which you throw your hands up, tilt your head back and be glad that you come from a different place.
Or perhaps that indifference is just another wall we put up to prevent the full impact of the experience from knocking us out of our day-to-day lives, or in my case, my African vacation, and to keep others from questioning it. And it’s only through writing these things down that you’re able to start to make some sense of them…
… and share them with others.
…
p.s. My brother is the man.
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