Pastor Usher: Just because God is silent doesn’t mean He is weak.

I went to church for the first time in Burundi today, celebrating Easter.  It was a grey, overcast sky, and it began to drizzle as we waited on the dusty rocky road for our ride.  We hopped over puddles and trudged through mud from the car to the building, hearing the joyful music pouring out.  “Joyeuses Paques!” came the well wishes from lovely African women in brightly-colored regal outfits, along with emphatic AMENs! 

The pastor delivered an earnest and beautiful message about the truth and the foundation of the resurrection.  His message had so much joy and such color in its delivery, it made me long for such joy in my own heart.    

I worshiped this morning in a country that has seen its people torn apart in civil war, a war of ethnic conflict, not even of beliefs or territory or retaliation.  A country that saw over a decade of conflict, division, animosity – conflict borne of deep sadness, fear, and misery.   And an aftermath filled with mourning, confusion, and injury – both physical and deeply emotional.

Yet as I look around our communal table three times a day every day in Kigutu, heads are bowed in a moment of silent prayer before a first bite is taken.  Hands are quietly raised to make the sign of the cross from head to heart.  A quiet but strong faith filled with gratitude is almost tangible.

This quiet faith seems to be everywhere.  My colleagues are dressed smartly Sunday mornings for breakfast – they are on their way to church.  I can distinguish but two words from the beautiful and mellifluous melodies sung by the woman who cleans our residence – Jesu and Imana (God).  On my first ride from Bujumbura up the mountain to our sanctuary at Kigutu, the driver is playing music whose lyrics are in Kirundi.  Though I can’t understand the words, the sound and feeling are very familiar to me.  I say to Claire “this

President Obama's face peeking out on that totebag, btw.

sounds like Jesus music.”  “It almost certainly is” comes her response, with a knowing nod.  In downtown Bujumbura, signs are more demonstrative.   A Canal-Street-style booth of a shop sells sunglasses, handbags, luggage, and pumps out loud music with the distinct word “Hallelujah” threaded throughout.  A taxi has flashy letters emblazoned on its rear windshield proudly declaring “I WAS SAVED BY GOD THAT DAY.”      

I contrast the lives of those here in Burundi, who have lived through deep grief, yet remain ever faithful, against my own (easy) life, my own (unchallenged) beliefs, and consider my own doubts.  How presumptuous of me.  I hear my sister’s cheeky, sassy voice:  “How dare you, sir!”  How dare me indeed.

On this Easter, as Pastor Usher emphatically recounted the beautiful story of the resurrection, I am reminded that this is all that matters. That my petty frustrations, my selfish disappointments, my petulant stubbornness, are all ridiculous when seen through the lens of the resurrection and against the backdrop of Burundi.  The pastor’s sermon was filled with reminders of details that once excited me…  That God chose women to discover Jesus’ body missing from the tomb – had the story been fabricated, women would not have been named, as their testimony was deemed worthless at that time.   That Scripture, hundreds of years prior, foretold the details of the crucifixion event down to the stripes and piercings (Isaiah 53:5), embodied today in the Passover matzoh. That the Lamb of God, as first introduced by Jesus’ cousin John, well before his crucifixion, was a reference to the sacrificial lamb of the Passover, without which the sons of God’s chosen would not have been saved.

As I think about my experience of God’s silence in my own life, and my cross-armed bratty reaction, I now find myself contrasting that with the raging silence that was no doubt experienced by my colleagues and their families and their families’ families, year after year.  They had to have wondered "Where are you, God?  Why don't we hear your voice?"  Yet their faith persists.  They recognize and kneel to the strength of God, even in His ostensible silence.  

On this Easter, while deeply saddened by all I know of what my new friends have been through, I am grateful for this contrast, this reminder, this humbling – this smack in the head – that comes from the steadfast faith of those around me.  Those who would have every right to consider God’s silence weakness, but who instead silently, daily renounce this, knowing that the resurrection, in its demonstration of the strength and matchless power of God, is all that matters.  

While at dinner here in Bujumbura, I facetime with my family just in time to catch them for the traditional Greek cracking of the eggs - so fun to be able to watch from afar.  The tradition goes oldest vs youngest, and the two participants hold their eggs out, ready to crack them against each other - only one will break, and the winning egg goes on to the next round.  The declarations begin with Christos anesti!  Christ is Risen!  The emphatic response is Alithos anesti! and so begins the cracking.  

Yes, I declare silently - He is risen indeed.  

Lloyd Dobler: I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that.

From the classic 80's Say Anything, Lloyd Dobler was revered by shy school boys everywhere.  He braves an impossible phonecall and gets the un-get-able Diane Court and in doing so, becomes hero to his nerdy classmates.  His fight for love, standing outside Diane's window, donned in his ubiquitous trenchcoat, boom box overhead pumping out Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes, is now a fixture of our pop culture.

When meeting Diane's father for the first time, he asks Lloyd about his aspirations for the future.  Lloyd spouts this now-iconic mini-monologue.

While Lloyd Dobler was standing in opposition to the mundane, the expected, the generic (he wants to be a kickboxer, of course), this idealism of shunning opportunities seems a trite sentiment here.  The opportunity to buy, sell, produce, or repair things bought, sold, or produced is an opportunity for most in Burundi that would not be easily passed up.

Village Health Works is providing just this type of opportunity for local residents in its catchment area through community cooperatives.  It’s a multi-layered approach to creating community, building capacity, and augmenting a people to better an entire nation. 

On Friday, I traveled with the Director of Economic Development and the Accountant, who is also involved in the cooperatives program, to the neighboring town of Mugara.  We pile in the Land-Rover-turned-ambulance and head down the steep hill.  We arrive at the base of the roadway to Mugara to see the entire community out in the roadway (yes, the whole community), spreading dirt from piles, in an effort to improve the road.  We cannot drive up this road-in-progress.  Groaning and chatter in Kirundi ensue, and the conclusion is “Ok, we walk.”  Ok, I guess we walk.  Uphill.  In the dirt.  Cluster by cluster, the whole town stops their raking and hoeing to watch the mzungo walk up their hill.

banana bread tins; freshly baked bread in the background

Our destination is a bakery, where a few women have formed a baking co-op.  Dziwe, one of the VHW co-founders, urged me not to miss their banana bread.  Upon arrival, I recognize the loaves of bread on the table on the porch as those that my colleague Gerard sometimes has at breakfast. 

When we arrive, giant dried palm branches are in the workspace – these are the fuel to fire their oven, and they request that I refrain from taking photos until they tidy up. 

To kill time, Arnuad, Claire, and I walk up toward the market area, where small kiosks sell a random mix of things from palm kernels to fabric to avocados to laundry soap and lots of things in between.  People are sitting out on chairs, chatting, hoping we will buy something – there are no other customers on this weekday.  We pass a hair salon that is marked “saloon” as many are.  

salon doubling as a saloon

Around the corner under makeshift awnings is Mugara's answer to the Union Square green market – seven or eight women sitting behind tables of neatly organized goods for sale.  The Burundians are very tidy – everything is in lovely piles, and you buy the pile for a set price.  Tomatoes, Japanese eggplant, dried mukeke – the local fish from Lake Tanganyika (they look scary) – and tiny dried fish, ndagara, thick with giddy flies.

You see these tiny fish being dried in the sun in their tidy piles at many roadside markets between Kigutu and Bujumbura.  (I asked my colleage Gerard what these tiny fish are called, and his initial response was “so … (with a pause) fish?” in his kind African accent.) 

mukeke from Lake Tanganyika, dried for sale

After buying tomatoes (Burundian tomatoes are the best I've tasted) and avocados (five avocdos for 1000 Burundian francs (BIF) or about 63 cents) – the negotiations for the best five of the bunch were intense – we walk back down to the bakery, passing grazing goats along the way.

Mise en place.

palm kernel oil, made in a nearby processing plant

The bakery area has been tidied and the oven is fired up and smoking heartily.  



The bananas, eggs, flour, and sugar are sitting ready – mise en place.  The palm kernel oil is made at a roadside processing plant (hut?) up the road, and is packaged in repurposed water bottles; these are sold at markets all over.  

A woman comes running in from being up at the market – four loose eggs in one hand, some orange-flavored biscuits for her girlfriends in the other.

The tools around are rudimentary – an axe, a broom made from straw fibers tied at the base, a baby crawls in the dusty earth not eight inches from a machete.

As we are now to wait for the bread to be made, we move to the porch and indulge in the avocados we’ve just purchased, spreading their beautiful bright deliciousness onto some of the bakery’s bread, topping with a pinch of coarse salt – perfect.  The woman in charge looks like a tough cookie, and offers to bring us tea, which we accept – it tastes like drinking dessert.  

Claire and I enjoying our sweet tea

We enjoy this relaxed makeshift mezze in the shade of the porch as children creep over to stare in awe and giggle at the mzungo. 

Claire and Arnaud

Our ride arrives and we must go before our fabled banana bread is baked, but never fear - it will be delivered to Kigutu later in the day.  How these things happen, I do not know – at a 2 ½ mile uphill walk, it’s no quick errand, but sure enough, muffins will arrive in time for lunch and be delivered to me at the lunch table.  I ask if I can take photos of these admirable women, but they decline, as they are wearing work clothes and don’t want to be photographed in such a state.  I smile - I know how you feel.  The tough cookie in charge blesses me as I leave and I feel ashamed I cannot remember how to say God Bless You in Kirundi.

The following day, as we set out for a hike, one of these same women has a table set up outside of our compound - she has walked up the 2 ½ mile hill with a baby on her back, goods in her hand, and I have no idea where the table has come from - selling the banana bread and muffins.  The other American in our group buys a loaf for our journey – 1800 BIF, less than $1.25.  The bread is heavenly.

The mindblowing prices (to our American economy) notwithstanding, these women have taken a small oven in their community and turned it into a business that increases their income and their abilities to provide for their families, helping to move them into a better position, all while building community.  Communities that are cohesive work together for the greater good and see much more progressive change as neighbors help neighbors.  Many of these women are survivors of gender-based violence, and opportunities like these give them the chance to move from oppressed to prosperous.  VHW supports these co-ops they have seeded by offering business training, creating legal entities of the cooperatives, and providing guidance and resources.  As co-ops demonstrate harmony among members and success, they are then on the radar for additional resources, including grant funding and training as those opportunities arise. 

I will write more about these co-ops in the coming days as I am so impressed with how VHW has created this program from communities in which many are illiterate and have had no skills training.  They are so foundational to the work that VHW is doing in building capacity and facilitating healing and restoration to those who have endured so much darkness, and to returning refugees being repatriated.  

There is an expression in Kirundi - buke buke (say "bookay bookay"), which means "slowly slowly."  As I learn more about VHW and see what it's accomplishing, and meet the inspiring and beautiful people who are executing this work, I do feel filled with hope ... change will come.  
There is long (uphill, dusty, muddy) road, but change will come.  
Buke buke.

Laurel Scarlata: It’s good enough.

My dear friend Laurel imparts wisdom to me every time we are together.  Some years back, she had the revelation that sometimes good enough is indeed enough.  Is it necessary to drive ourselves crazy with inconsequential details?  Laurel decided no.  It has stuck with me, and today was a lesson in good enough.

 

The laundry situation here is ostensibly fine.  Each room in the residence has a laundry day – leave your laundry out on your day, it will be washed and returned to you.  However this apparently does not always go quite so smoothly.  Because it’s all hand washed and hung to dry, it can easily get caught in the rain (it’s rainy season – it rains every day), requiring another round of drying, and this can go through multiple iterations.  After a few rounds of this, it starts to smell musty.  Sometimes laundry comes back weeks later, some items not at all.   There are water spigots around the property, so people take matters into their own hands.  I decided today would be my day. 

As an aside, the housekeeper in the Buja house is a laundry superhero – my white shirt came back whiter than it was when new, and my jeans perfectly pressed.  I decide to save my big-ticket items for him.  Lucky him.

But in the meantime … underwear, camis, socks, shorts, a sweatshirt, my towel, and a pareo/wrappy thing I’ve been using as a robe/beach coverup/scarf/shawl/skirt (quite handy in fact); it was high time it was washed.

My roommate has a laundry basin – this is a good start.  But it’s really cold today and I’ve just had an icy shower, so there is no way my raynauds-stricken hands will endure being plunged into cold water.  So I do what any good mzungo would do – I ask the kitchen to boil me some water.  One hour they tell me.  Awesome. 

the boiling of the water

An hour later, my boiling hot water bucket in one hand, my clothes basin on my hip, I set out for the nearest spigot.  I didn’t bring any laundry detergent, so I use the Burundian laundry power – it comes in packets.  I assume a packet per load.  Thinking I’m being conservative, I use half.  

Immediately as the water hits my clothes, I notice a purple hue has begun to color my white towel.  It’s then that I realize this hand-dyed wrap thing has never been washed before.  Holy hell.  I put it on top of the spigot, and it continues to drip purple down the side of the pipe.  I ignore this.

I go to work getting the spots and mud out of my clothes and socks, adding a little extra powder for the tough stains.  With the basin on the ground, it’s backbreaking work.  The water is gray.  I pour it out and add more cold and hot water, mix it around again.  The water is still gray.  And also really soapy.  In between, I notice there are still mud stains on my socks, so I scrub a little more, dump, and re-fill.  Third time, same thing.  How dirty was my stuff??   I continue this routine until the hot water is gone, and still it continues; the suds persist.  I am remedial.  Why is this so hard?  As the basin is filling for the 8^th or 9^th time (I’ve lost count), I stretch my back and look out at the beautiful African lake, shining under the late afternoon sunlight.  It mocks me.  Mzungo.

I am sure everyone on site is watching me out a window, shaking his head at the inept mzungo, wondering about our water supply (I comfort myself by reminding myself it’s rainy season).   My back and my pride can’t do this one more time – I reluctantly yield, and decide it’s going to have to be good enough.  As I start to ring out each item and put it into the now-empty hot water bucket, I feel the soap residue.  Still!  These clothes are far from being rinsed clear.  I am now rinsing each individual item under the cold water spigot.  And ringing it.  And repeating.  I look around for Ashton Kutcher.  But alas I’m not being punk’d; I’ve done this to myself.  My shorts still feel slippery, but I’m done.  It’s just good enough.  My hoodie sweatshirt is so heavy, it will be dry exactly never.  I will look forward to wearing it then.

The washing of the wrap goes much the same way – load after load, the water goes from purple to blue to turquoise, but never fully rinses clear.  When I can take this no more, I decide it’s good enough.

Much of my life here has had to be “good enough.”  My dress is wrinkled, that scarf is pretty dirty, I can’t find a knife, my shoes don’t go with my outfit,  I haven’t shaved my legs, my toes look gross, my hair is a frizzball …. it just has to be good enough.  And to my western amazement, it is.

Today, as I’m washing, I’m thinking about the lives of the women I see walking along the paths and roads here.  Steep uphills to get the markets, and steep downhills, on often-slippery pathways (so much rain!), to get home, baskets on heads filled high.  They are also washing their clothes by hand in basins, but their spigot, if they can even get to one, is not a 50 feet from their door, surrounded by grass, beauty, and good drainage.  Their days are spent tending to household chores like back-breaking hand washing, walking steep miles in both directions to and from market, tending to children - all in muddy surroundings, with limited resources.  My hangups are so first-world, it astounds me by comparison … and shames me.  It’s amazing how humbling something as simple as hand-washing a small load of laundry can be, and how it compels an instant perspective shift.  Thank you ladies of Burundi, for teaching me about perspective, and thank you Laurel, for your wisdom, and the reminder that sometimes (most of the time?), it’s just good enough.

Iddi Mulengwa: This is Africa, mate.

If you have been following, you may have noted that I have not used names in my previous posts.  I have used terms like “my colleague,” “my companion,” and have referred to people by their roles in our organization or others, or by their country of origin.  I am doing this out of respect, lest someone should not want his or her name included in my stories.  However, when I quote someone, I want to use his name, so Iddi Mulengwa is being featured today by name, little does he know.

In my previous post, I wrote about a Congolese-born Brit – this is Iddi.  He’s an attractive dark African of small stature, with a bright and slightly mischievous smile, and twinkling eyes.   He was born in Goma – a border town crossing into Rwanda, a hotspot of conflict today.  He grew up and was educated in England; his accent reminds me of Jazzie B from Soul II Soul.  He speaks upwards of 12 languages – even though Kirundi is not one of them, everywhere we go, he can speak to the parking attendant, the military guards, people on the street to ask directions – it doesn’t matter where they’re from … in this part of the world, he can speak to them all.  I feel super cool hanging out with him. 

He has this laid-back demeanor, and always manages to artfully dodge a question that he doesn’t fancy answering (What do you do?  Where do you live?  Whose car is this?).  He watches my American temperament begin to percolate with the frustrations of a developing country, and with a growing smile reminds me:  “This is Africa, mate.”

It is indeed.  I noted in a previous post that Deo has said that any vehicle anywhere in world, that doesn’t run, ends up in Burundi.  There is other evidence that Burundi and countries like it are the dumping ground of the world’s castoffs.  The cars here are right-hand drive, but so are the roads.  Why?  Because right-hand drive cars are cheaper; safety appears not to be a concern.  The mobile phone system is so convoluted that most people carry multiple phones, and each of these phones has multiple sim cards – one for each carrier.  Iddi has six phone numbers.   My new mobile phone charger has a UK plug; the convention here is that of Europe, so this conundrum requires an adapter, which doesn’t come with the phone.  I think this is funny and point it out to my Burundian colleagues – they see nothing odd about this.  They have seen appliances with mismatched plugs their whole lives – AC adapters have always been a fact of life for things bought in their own country.

I take a ride downtown yesterday with our procurement officer; our first stop is the bank.  The signs on the window say No Smoking and No Guns.  Hmmm.   Inside, he fills out a deposit slip for a wad of cash he has (the money he saved the organization with his deft negotiating skills), and gets in line – he is the fifth person.  The wait is interminable.  My colleague seems unfazed.  After an eternity, he reaches the window.  It takes so long at the window that I literally fall asleep.  I fell asleep in a chair at a bank in downtown Bujumbura.  That’s how long it took.  It’s. a. deposit.  I again have to ask, what the hell.

At long last, my colleague comes over to where I’m sitting but he sits too.  “He will call me when he’s finished” he reports.  I am aghast.  The window agent was apparently in training, but the training program seems to lack some efficiency.  My colleague, with his sweet demeanor, is unconcerned – he just smiles.

We continue on to the next stop – to get me a new phone.  My first phone was reportedly new, but wouldn’t hold a charge.  This apparently is not uncommon.  So I have to question how “new” these phones are.  

The store is huge – there is space in the middle where what I assume to be technicians are seated, and a bar around them is crowded with people holding out their phones, explaining their plights in bewilderment, all at once – chaos.  Have they not taken numbers?  Is there not a sign-in list like at the Apple store?  A queue?  There are two makeshift tables by the door with employees behind them.  There are phones are sitting on a broken office chair behind them, with the prices scrawled on the corresponding open box.  Two phones look the same but have a 15,000BIF price variance, so I ask about the difference.  “Ils sont presque les memes choses.”  “They are almost the same.”  Excellent, that fully answers my question.  After several more rounds of this, I get the answer.  I select my phone.  But no, these are just samples – we have to go to a salesperson.   We pass the bar of chaos and are escorted by a guard through a two-way mirrored door into a back office area, to a salesperson.  My colleague indicates which phone I’m interested in.  The look on the guy’s face is like “Huhn.  A phone?   Hmmm.  This never occurred to me.  Let me see what I can do.”  I am perplexed.  We go back out to the front area and wait.  This guy comes in from the outside (how’d he get out?) and hands the phone to the helpful woman from earlier.  We are called over and I’m asked for my passport – my colleague says this is standard practice and that he’s had to go back and get his in the past.  

What?!?  Ok, whatever.  The guy fills out a sheet in a large green book and tears off a pink souche – a copy for me.  I notice on exit that there are boxes upon boxes of these green books haphazardly thrown behind the helpful staff – this is the garbage.

My colleague and I continue on to meet his fiancée, as they were scheduled to do some wedding preparation at one of the local shops.  The shop is closed. 

Sub-saharan Africa is riddled with these annoyances, which are just a way of life to those who live here.   They simply move on to the next without a thought.  We are downtown after dark and walk past a ‘locals’ bar; we had earlier been talking about the difference between mzungo places and local places and my colleague had assured me the local places have no wifi, so I wouldn’t like them.  They are just to “sit and drink and talk.”  This particular bar we are passing has loads of tables outside and people are drinking and smoking and there is lively conversation – the scene might look like something out of the meat packing district.  Except it’s pitch. dark.  Like, pitch dark!  There are no street lights in Bujumbura, so all the light at night comes from any shops or restaurants that happen to be open at that hour (and no one knows when that will be, as noted earlier).  A storm is brewing, so the moon is hidden.  This particular bar has no lights on outside or in.  And nary a candle in sight.  I think about the deep color of their skin, and wonder how they manage in the dark.  My colleague tells me there is a Kirundi expression:   vuga, humva amatwi.  Loosely translated, it means keep talking … I can hear you, I don’t need to see you.  Ha!  “But why no candles??!?” I persist.  Just a little tealight?  No?  He has no answer to this question. 

Living at our house in Buja, I am surrounded by this.  The power goes out every day.  Every.  Day.  For hours. There is no way to know when it will go.   If it shuts off late, it will be out all night.  There is one candle in the house.  The housekeeper lit it last night, poured a little wax onto the bottom of an overturned plastic bowl from 1972, and secured the candle upright.  Half of it burned last night, so now we have half a candle.

The door to our room squeaks like someone is being tortured, and we’re all coming and going at late and early hours when others are trying to sleep.  I’ve asked if maybe it can be oiled?  It won’t be.  Why are there are no hooks in a bathroom shared by four people?  There just aren’t.  There is one dull steak knife.  If you can find it, you can cut your tomato or mango.  I have showered for four days with a hand towel.  Everyone thinks there are towels, but no one knows where they might be.  These are things I simply don’t understand. 

I suppose I don’t need to understand them.  This is the way it is and probably always has been here.  Life is slower, things either happen or they don’t.   When we make plans, they are apparently suggestions – times don’t mean anything.  If someone says he’ll be there, maybe he will, maybe he won’t.   I feel I want to fix this, explain how our way is better, make converts of people to our wise western schedule-keeping, but I don’t.  I can’t.  I am the outsider, the visitor, the guest.  And in fact, I’m not entirely sure our way is better.  Their way seems to work just fine for them.

I do wonder, however, if this nonchalance has trickled down from the country’s leadership, and how contributory this attitude is to the state of their economy and infrastructure.  I have in fact seen evidence of this in working with the embassies both here and in the States, and our organization has experienced maddening bureaucracy getting shipments released from customs.  This is a country of no urgency, for better or for worse.  I don’t think I’m in a position to speculate about the efficiency of the government of a country I barely know, but the parallels seem easy to draw.

That said, in the day-to-day, I could learn something from my new friends.  What if I chilled out a bit and just let things roll?  Whoa, what?  In fact, I’ve had to.  I’m the newbie, following the crowd here, going with the flow.  Yes, I have indeed had to just roll with whatever comes – after all, this is Africa, mate.

Christian Eschrich: So there I was … smack dab in the middle of the Congo.

If you know Christian, you are familiar with this.  He busts this one out a lot, for no apparent reason, other than to amaze and bewilder his fans.  There is no rest of the story; it ends with "That's all I got," which always makes me smirk and shake my head.  I found myself hearing this one-liner in my head a lot this weekend.

Ok, so I’m not in the middle of the Congo, but I can see it across the lake every day, and I am smack dab in the middle of something, though these last three days, I’m not entirely sure what ...  

I have written about the muddy shoeless children hauling buckets of unclean water, pregnant women carrying babies and loads on their heads on busy roadways, the seemingly impossible things that are carried on bikes and heads for lack of any other option, the extreme poverty and lack of medical care.  And then I came down from the mountain top to the capital, Bujumbura, to spend the weekend.  My American colleagues say they are meeting friends for a drink Friday night, and would I like to come along.  Who are these friends?  How did they make non-VHW friends in Burundi, I wonder? 

For those who have lived in developing countries, this is no surprise.  But as the weekend continues, I realize my expectation for my time here did not consider the ex-pat community.  As the NGO “scene” is quite small in Burundi, relative to say, similar-sized Rwanda, all the ex-pats come to know each other very quickly.  We take a taxi ($2) from our residence to a hotel called Ubuntu, that has a beautiful interior open air restaurant with a tiki bar, tiled dining area, winding pool, candlelit tables on the surrounding grass, pergolas, and football (soccer) on the bar tvs.  Our table is filled with South Africans, Belgians, Dutch, a Lebanese, and a Congolese-born Brit.   These, however, are not NGO workers.  Most have been here a while, one South African had arrived just four hours before – I've been here four days and I welcome him.  We eat and drink, and our ‘facture’ comes to $176,000.00 Burundian francs – Monopoly money.  

After drinks and dinner, the night continues at the tall, attractive linen-clad Dutchman’s house.  It’s gated and he has 24-hour guards, two cars (one kick-ass open air military jeep-style vehicle), two motorbikes (one a legit 1000cc motorcycle), and two bathrooms.  That said, his kitchen is something out of a time warp and is a bachelor’s mess.  His shelves are filled with books like Romeo Dallaire’s account of the Rwandan genocide Shake Hands with the Devil, and titles like Sons of Africa.  He is a warm and gracious host; he pours us Jack & Pepsis in repurposed mismatched honey jars and we toast to worldly things.   A Belgian plays Flemmish rap and the Dutch, Belgians and South Africans throw a mix of Dutch, Flemmish and Afrikaans at each other.  They are smoking like chimneys, and the Lebanese cozies up to the hookah.  The Congolese-Brit speaks more than a dozen languages.  I have no idea where I am.  Next thing I know, we’re at a club that may have been the backyard of someone's house.  There is a Burundian cover band rocking out and the most random mix of Africans and badly-dressed westerners dancing, as the bartenders ineptly scramble to fill about one drink order every four minutes, and serve ice into the glasses from salad bowls with a spoon.  The Lebanese comments that he feels like we arrived via time machine.  We dance until 3 a.m.

The next morning, one of my roommates and I go to the public pool that we can see from our balcony.  It’s 3,000 Burundian francs, ($2) per person and we can swim and lie in the sun on the lovely grass.  We are the only mzungo there, and the stares eventually wear off, though they move out of our way as we do laps in their direction.  I fry my stomach and chest in the African sun.  Older men are taking advantage of the outdoor showers by soaping up, and without any hesitation, plunging the soap down their shorts to deal with the important bits.

Yesterday was a ‘fun run’ in the jardin publique, a fundraiser for VHW, initiated by the young sons of an Irish UN officer married to an American.  It’s NGO ex-pat mania at the park, and I meet a whole slew of new people, mostly American women, who hug me and say things akin to “let’s do lunch.”  They work for the UN, USAID, Lifenet.  They all discuss the jello shots served at the Marine’s St. Patrick’s Day party the previous night at the embassy, what time everybody left, etc.  

The day was hot, but the run really was fun, as parents and children ran and walked together for a great cause. One of the African running groups came through and did a few laps as well, chanting their melodious African songs, to the cheers of the mzungo.

My colleagues in the park (the four on the right), along with two other NGO workers (left).

Afterwards, a few of us go to get a bite at Café Gourmand, apparently the one super-euro spot in town; it’s air conditioned (yesterday was bloody hot) and has excellent pain chocolat, so excellent in fact, that they were sold out before our arrival.  I walk in to immediately spot the South Africans from Friday, just finishing lunch.  They have already seen one of my roommates earlier in the day and plan to meet up with her later at the beach after they go sailing.  A few minutes after they leave, the Lebanese walks in – greetings all around again; he joins us.  Before we depart, the fun-run UN family walks in.  I’m starting to get the picture.

I ride with my Lebanese friend along a dusty, destroyed, potholed road, lined with tin shacks selling roofing thatch, wooden poles, and random supplies, to meet the Congolese-Brit at a beach club called Bora Bora.  We walk up the steps, and through the doors I enter an alternate universe.  The club is so beautiful that I expect there to be a charge (like at the rudimentary public pool), but it’s free.  It’s one of the nicest clubs I’ve ever seen.  Gorgeous blue and white cushioned beach furniture with whitewashed wooden floors, an ethereal open air bar, palm trees blowing in the breeze, two beautiful pools with pool-side service (no problem with glasses of beer in the pool – yes, glasses), canopies over lazy cushioned banquettes, volleyball nets on the beach, and more lounge chairs with umbrellas in the sand.  

I am astounded that there is space everywhere – it’s free, it’s beautiful out, and nothing is crowded; this is not New York.  It’s a mix of Africans and mzungo; I don’t understand why more Africans are not here, as there is literally no cost or pressure to order anything.  Many people, mostly Africans, are swimming in the warm waters of Lake Taganyika, the Burundi coastline majestic along to my left, the Congo looming across the river to my right.  It’s sunny and breezy and gorgeous.  As we walk out to the pool, who do we see but the same mini UN from Friday night.  Everyone is so nice and fun and welcoming; it feels like it’s been a beach house weekend with old friends.  Where. the hell. am I.

I post a photo of this gorgeous club and my friends’ comments drip with sarcasm:  “humanitarian work?!”, “good job saving the world”, “did you find hope there?”  As much as I enjoyed this club and this day, I have to agree with them.  This was an aspect of my time here I did not anticipate.  These guys (all guys, btw, no women in this non-NGO mix) work for the port, in telecommunications, in (gasp) mining.  When asked what I’m doing here, my response, beginning with “I’m working with an organization,” elicits subtle eye-rolls and lightly sarcastic but good-natured responses of “of course you are…”

When sharing yesterday with the Dutchman my role here at Village Health Works, his response is something along the lines of, this can be a great stepping stone for you; consultants like that can make upwards of $10,000US a month at organizations here.  I am silent.  I cautiously mention “helping people,” knowing the likely response will be rife with cynicism.  These 20- and 30-somethings tell me they once had altruistic and noble goals too, but the corruption is so pervasive that the idea of making any real change is hopeless.  That even if people make their way out of the bottom, usually with assistance, the cycle is perpetuated, as the instinct for survival is so deep-seated, and the means for getting ahead in such a country has been so ingrained, that honesty will result in stagnation; so people continue to take advantage of each other in effort to get ahead.  There is no middle class here; there are only the two extremes.  Until something at a core governmental level changes, efforts to “help” those most in need are futile, they tell me.

So now, they’re all young and wealthy, or on their way, living lives of ridiculously low-cost luxury, among the poorest of the poor.  Do they even see what’s going on around them anymore?   They talk about what a great life it is here.  Some want to buy property and stay.  They spend their weekends taking motorbikes up the coast, sailing, sunning and drinking at the beach clubs, and their weeks in overly air-conditioned offices, funded by the government and foreign money.  Their time in Buja is spent in mzungo places like Ubuntu and Bora Bora, and they ignore what they no longer see as they speed their motorbikes and Land Rovers on by.  I know what they say is an unfortunate truth here as in many countries.  But I can’t accept that no change can come.  Slowly, slowly things are changing, aren’t they??  But indeed, the dent feels minuscule when compared to the need.  

Does that then mean we just ignore the need and call it hopeless?   I of course think that’s a cop-out.  As our clinic on the mountaintop treats patients who are the poorest of the poor, creates the means for the ill to have much-needed surgeries, nurses the malnourished back to health, teaches about nutrition and gives training in agriculture, and provides otherwise impossible education, I have to hold on to hope.  A hope that all this work being done by all these wonderful people is not for nothing.  A hope that has sprung from misery and despair, as people band together to better their country and give means to their community.  A hope that as people find health, they will indeed find hope.  The cynicism is everywhere – it’s palpable.  But much like these ex-pats, whizzing past the road-side impoverished on their way to eat lovely grilled brochettes and sip on cold Primus behind gated walls, I choose to ignore it, and hold on to hope.

Stephen Stills: If you smile at me, I will understand, ‘cause that is something everybody everywhere does in the same language.

As a result of the Belgian colonization, the national language in Burundi is French. This is ostensibly good for me, as I have studied a bit of French and can at least communicate with greetings, questions, and light conversation. However, those who did not attend school did not learn French. They speak the local language, Kirundi, many speak Swahili, and those who have been in Tanzania speak a bit of English, but not many. As a result, I am unable to communicate with the patients, and much of the maintenance staff, except for very general greetings, and a smile. The young guy on the kitchen staff has a proud grin on his face when I come to the kitchen, clearly searching for something, and he is able to ask "cup?" and happily understands when I ask for coffee. 

The woman who cleans in the residence surprises me the other day by asking me what my name is, and introducing herself in English. The beautiful songs she sings while cleaning transcends any need for language.

I discover very quickly that not only is my ability to communicate in French very limited, but the Burundian accent and the speed at which they speak make it very difficult for me to understand. Even when I tell them I may be able to understand if they speak more slowly, their speech seems to remain unchanged. They just smile.

Rwanda has just instituted a change that makes their official language English, no longer French, and Burundi may not be far behind. Outside of the capital, Bujumbura, people prefer to learn to English, in an effort to have one up on the citizens of the cosmopolitan city.

But, a smile is of course universal. I walked down to the Pharmacy office at the end of the clinic’s residential walkway, lined with patients and their families, who were staring wide-eyed at the mzungo (white person). I smile and wave, and their suspicious faces turn to grins.  On a walk down to the soccer field, I meet a Burundian colleague coming up. He turns and walks with me, and to my delight, walks me past the soccer field, through a muddy, overgrown path, dotted with small brick one-or-two room homes. 

The children come out of the woodwork to see me walking and talking with someone from the community. Those who stop to greet my colleague, always with some form of a handshake as is customary, reach out to greet me as well. Today, this was done not with a hand held out, but rather with a fist that points down to the ground, and the other hand resting on their upper arm of the fisted hand. This is a sign of deference and respect, that they don’t reach to touch me, and that the second hand is visible. There are many variations of this handshake greeting – none seems to be wrong. Everyone we meet along the way is very happy to greet us. I remember living in Sweden, when walking along a quiet road, and I encountered another person, I would wait for eye contact to offer a greeting, yet it seemed never to happen. What a contrast that these people who have almost nothing materially, have so much to give with their spirits. 

Children as young as maybe 3 or 4 are hauling containers of water, spilling all over themselves as they try to steady their bare footing on the uneven terrain, and keep up with us. When I break out the camera and ask if I can take a photo, they immediately bust into posing mode, so proud and happy to be photographed. When I show them the image on the digital screen, they scream with delight and laugh, and then stare, wide-eyed. Their faces melt me. One is sweeter than the next. They have no idea that their faces will make it halfway around the world into your social media. 

As dusk begins to set in, the skin color of these children and their soiled clothing make some of them almost indiscernible against the muddy backdrop as they approach from ahead. We pass young shepherds goofing around, as they guide their small herd of cows and goats down what seems to my eyes to be a cliff. My companion tells me that one of the women who works at the clinic lives down this steep path, and walks home alone at night. Tonight it’s a beautiful crescent moon, but so dark, and I wonder how she will find her way and if she will stumble or fall. 

The view across the mountains as we headed back toward the clinic.

I have my iPhone in one back pocket, my camera in the other, shoes on my feet, and an inescapable uneasiness in my gut.  I wonder about the water the children are carrying, the parasites that might be leeching into their bare feet, how many family members live in their two-room homes, when and what they will next eat. 

My next meal is dinner, which follows very shortly after this lovely but poignant walk. This is my first opportunity to use my Kirundi. I announce to the table as I sit, "ndashonje!", which is the only thing I can say. It comes in handy if you’re me, as it means “I’m hungry” and I always am. The table of Burundians busts out laughing with delight. There are only four mzungo on site, the rest Burundians, so meal conversations are a motley mix of Kirundi, French, and English, but everyone is happy to try to help translate, suggest appropriate words, and be generous with clumsy translations. But for those who do not speak any western languages, like the housekeeper/chef/laundry man/taxi fetcher in the Bujumbura house, a simple sawa sawa* and a smile will have to do.

*sawa sawa in swahili roughly translates as "everything is ok."

U.S Immigration Officer: Burundi? Are you sure you're not from Burma?

The Village Health Works founder, Deo Niyizonkiza, tells this story of arriving at a US airport and getting through the long line at immigration, only to have the immigration officer ask him if he's sure he's not from Burma.  The man behind the desk had not heard of Burundi, nor could he find it on a country list.  Deo politely indicated that he was sure of the name of his home country, but the immigration officer remained unconvinced.  So don't feel bad - you're not alone.  Most people have not heard of this tiny east african nation.

The Kingdom of Burundi, in central east africa on the shores of the expansive Lake Taganyika, had been in existence since at least the 16th century.  After World War I, Ruanda-urundi, encompassing both modern-day Rwanda and Burundi, was colonized under Belgian rule.  Independence was not regained until well after World War II, in 1962.

Burundi has roughly the land area of Massachusetts, and its population of just under 8 million (less than NYC) is similar to that of Rwanda - Hutu, Tutsi, and Twa, and like Rwanda, Burundi suffered a crippling civil war in the early 1990's, just 20 years after a devastating genocide in the early 1970's that wiped out close to 300,000 of its people.  Unlike Rwanda, however, the ethnic conflict in Burundi that began in the early 1990's lasted much longer - over a decade, in fact.  The final rebel group to agree to peace did not do so until 2006.  The first post-transitional president, Pierre Nkurunziza, elected in 2005, is still in power today.

When I meet these lovely people, they have such gentle kind spirits, it's hard to imagine what they've endured.  Someone was sharing a story about a local driver who was shot and killed some years back along one of the roadways; one of my colleagues gently mentioned that he had been in the truck when it happened, as though he was saying that he had just finished an errand or something equally mundane.  I suppose years of the type of tragedy that Burundians have known desensitizes one to such horrors.  I look into the kind eyes of my colleagues here and can't help but wonder what atrocities they have known, and how it has changed each of them.  But one does not ask about such things.

The effects of war on the country were of course massive; Burundi is currently the world's fourth poorest country.  Hundreds of thousands of Burundian refugees fled to neighboring countries such as Tanzania and the DRC where many still live. These refugees are now starting to return to their home country, many to peace villages that have been created by the government in partnership with the UN - groups of two-room concrete homes with tin roofs.  

While shadows of the ethnic conflict remain, people are living together in peace, across ethnic backgrounds.  The greater concern for returning refugees is the lack of food.  The peace villages provide only enough space to live, not to harvest crops or keep livestock.  Medical care is also a concern as the state-run hospitals incarcerate anyone unable to pay for treatment so people often only go to the hospital once their ailment can no longer be endured, which often means something that may have been initially easily treatable has progressed into a major medical issue.

Village Health Works is a vision that began with the desire to provide superior health care to anyone in need, regardless of ability to pay, and has since expanded to include community programs, education, and food security.  I will write more about these exciting projects in the coming days.

So where in the world am I?  Kigutu is the name of our mountain-top village, though if you search Kigutu on google maps, you will be misled.  The VHW site is south of the capital, Bujumbura, just along the lake, while there is apparently another Kigutu east of the capital, halfway to Tanzania; I am not there.  Rather I am here, overlooking this beautiful body of water out my office window, listening to the rolling thunder, feeling the breeze blow as the rain begins to teem once again, feeling blessed.