Nyanza Lac
Circa Burundi, 2008.
At the Tanzanian border we went first to the customs post to get the car across. I got out, left the kids in the car, “be good now”, said to the policeman we want to take this to Burundi. He asked after the Document, I said only got a photocopy, he looked up, in the eyes, as policemen do when making a decision. You had better see the boss, in there. I went back to the car, looks good I told Frank. Frank strolls, to the office of the boss. The boss was a Chagga too, no papers, we are just going to visit people in the villages between the borders.
At the Tanzanian passport control they said. “You can go there but you will soon come back. Those people like war a lot”
At the Burundi border control Jean-Claude and Baptiste were waiting. Jean Claude looked prosperous with his youthful skin and big proud tummy. He had the hooded eye lids and in that country the Judas mark of an international education. He spoke French, decent English and until he remembered that he should enough Kiswahili to understand us very well. Baptiste had done more sentry duty, less belly and quick moving eyes. They were pleased to see us. “We expected you last night. We had to spend the night in a guest house at the border”. Jean Claude told us he worked for the Ministry of Tourism and they were our hosts. Shelly asked me, as she does when she knows the answer: do you think they work for the Ministry of Tourism.
The border official was not at all sure about us. We had a nice collection of passports, British, Finnish, and two good Tanzanian. Shelly had one from Canada. “Canadian” I asked her “Where did you get that from” “Canada” she said, her twinkle eye. Jean Claude forced them a bit, used his belly. Frank said “They will trouble us on the way back”.
Jean Claude and Baptiste were to escort us. They had a Rav 4. They shot off. We slowed hard on the high way crowded with pedestrians not vehicles. Frank said “These people don’t move off the road for cars. They are used to war, they are not frightened of cars”.
A lazy wave, a flimsy barrier, but we stopped. The Official, said in French “Where are the papers for the car” Franks answered in Kiswahili “We do not have any papers” Shelly said, in English, ”We are the guests of the Ministry of Tourism”
The policeman asked, quite reasonably, how we managed to cross the border without any papers. “They let us” said Shelly. But Frank said “We can leave you a photocopy” I smoked cigarettes.
The policeman took an African solution. He waked away, we watched his perambulation, crossed the street , to the market, down the road, all the while he rubbed his tummy and then his bald head, and then his chin. “Just like you Mzee” said Shelly. Arriving back at his post he beckoned Frank. “Leave the photocopy, and you just go” Before we could do that Jean Claude came zooming back. The policeman was inclined to be irritated at this youthful arrogance, but that could wait for another day, better that higher authority had arrived. He gave Frank back the photocopy, best we be gone and have never been seen.
At the small town of Ngozi Jean Claude stopped again. He put a map on the bonnet on which he had traced a route with a blue ink pen. “We are late, we will not take the boat from Bujunbura, we will go directly to Nyanza Lac” Stabbing a finger at the map, “Take the route that I have marked.”
Frank said “We are to cross this whole country in an afternoon.”
Jean Claude and Baptiste shot off in their Rav 4, raising up the dust, sliding on the corners and ploughing through the pedestrians today all dressed for Sunday, as bright as the tomatoes, peas and yellow peppers they grew in their irrigated valleys. This country is war ravaged, the throngs of walkers looked to have done badly out of the killing, Jean Claude and Baptiste looked too prosperous. I took the view that they would sooner be escorted than be the escort.
Frank drove more carefully. “These people are used to war, they are not frightened of cars”. We found Jean Claude waiting for us at Gitega, once the capital of Burundi. He was impatient and fending off many a poor person seeking alms. “We must hurry.” He stabbed the map pointing out the towns still to pass: Rutana, Makamba, Muyange, then Nyanza Lac. “It is all lame from now on”. Jean Claude was pleased that there was a paved road,faster, Baptiste I saw did not do talking despite his good English, he did a lot of looking. He had told me that he studied for his degree in the Central African Republic.
Nyanza Lac, a beach side restaurant and bar, trestle tables, the white pre formed beach loungers I associated with French African places. I remembered then Guinea Conakry, and then the man from Iraq, who implausibly ran a fish processing plant in Nouadhibou, Mauritania. That was a long time ago, and this was not the time for memory or nostalgia.
The party had been going since noon, and now the shadows were lengthening the
lake looked dangerous and brown rippled in the hot wind. The hosting had been kept going awaiting our arrival. Shelly and I sat at the tables, smiled and charmed at the introductions, said thanks for the food and for me the very big beer. Shelly looked around, then at me, then around, I tried to look steady. Frank fussed with the car, the Finn with the camera and Hassan checked out the great beauty and sophistication of the women. My team were being very diligent, playing their professional part, though they were stilted. The place was unfamiliar, French, and they were not sure for what they should be watching.
“Monsieur Harrison”. I saw Shelly behind him, she turned to talk to Carmen but as she did she briefly shut both eyes, an extended blink.
The man,a Tutsi,had real grow big genes. He stood taller than me, wider and broader at the shoulder wearing the standard dress of a perfect Parisian suit. “So you made it. We had been getting nervous. I hear you drove across the whole country. That is dangerous” “It was ok, we brought some extra petrol”. He gave me the new numbers, just four digits, in French without preamble or hesitation. I told Shelly, good job it was only four otherwise I could not remember them.
The party closed around us, once the big man had stepped back Jean Claude appeared, “We must hurry, it is late, it will be dark, it is dangerous we must go in a convoy to Bujumbura, along the coast road.” “We are ready,” Frank said.
I do not know what town we stopped at, the map has none after Mugara, though my memory is of shanty and mud huts, roof sheeting, towns made in haste as they must be when war shifts populations. Between these places nervous soldiers in a variety of uniforms walked, their fingers on the trigger their lips around a bottle. The convoy went on, our escort soldiers in the back of the double cabin provided by the Ministry of Tourism harangued a way through the crowds.
We hung as close as we could to Jean Claude’s Rav 4 which we could just do with Frank driving rally. The convoy stopped, the crowd had become too dense to cut through, the soldiers climbed from their perch and began to cleave a way on foot. Jean Claude came to the window, he suddenly looked very sure and professional.
“We need to get petrol. I run out of money. Have you some dollars we can change”
Shelly gave the hundred dollar bill. The note was seen, Jean Claude, Shelly, Frank, went off to change the money followed by a horde of eager money changers all proffering enormous wads of money like paper. The crowd followed them. I counted thirty, held hard on the lap top case, got out, walked, lumbering like an old sick bear, to the petrol pump. A woman next to the attendant spoke the number code, just once, I set the case down by the pump, walked away, no looking, I could see Shelly coming back, her mouth tight. She told me “By the time we got to the pump the case was gone. I never saw it there or anyone pick it up.” If Shelly did not see anything when she was looking with expectation and a professional eye then that was good.
They filled the tanks, we set off, the convoy had long gone. Soon Jean Claude had gone too, so we drove on alone. “I think it worked Mzee” said Shelly “Since they are not protecting us any more”
I laughed at that. I felt relaxed again and once we were not in any convoy the crowd ignored us. We drove on in the dark, to Bujumbura, my first visit in sixteen years, arriving tired and easy the Hotel Club du Lac Tanganyika, where our rooms were waiting, one each. Frank and I showered fast, then sat by the pool smoking cigarettes and talking Kiswahili.
At the Tanzanian border we went first to the customs post to get the car across. I got out, left the kids in the car, “be good now”, said to the policeman we want to take this to Burundi. He asked after the Document, I said only got a photocopy, he looked up, in the eyes, as policemen do when making a decision. You had better see the boss, in there. I went back to the car, looks good I told Frank. Frank strolls, to the office of the boss. The boss was a Chagga too, no papers, we are just going to visit people in the villages between the borders.
At the Tanzanian passport control they said. “You can go there but you will soon come back. Those people like war a lot”
At the Burundi border control Jean-Claude and Baptiste were waiting. Jean Claude looked prosperous with his youthful skin and big proud tummy. He had the hooded eye lids and in that country the Judas mark of an international education. He spoke French, decent English and until he remembered that he should enough Kiswahili to understand us very well. Baptiste had done more sentry duty, less belly and quick moving eyes. They were pleased to see us. “We expected you last night. We had to spend the night in a guest house at the border”. Jean Claude told us he worked for the Ministry of Tourism and they were our hosts. Shelly asked me, as she does when she knows the answer: do you think they work for the Ministry of Tourism.
The border official was not at all sure about us. We had a nice collection of passports, British, Finnish, and two good Tanzanian. Shelly had one from Canada. “Canadian” I asked her “Where did you get that from” “Canada” she said, her twinkle eye. Jean Claude forced them a bit, used his belly. Frank said “They will trouble us on the way back”.
Jean Claude and Baptiste were to escort us. They had a Rav 4. They shot off. We slowed hard on the high way crowded with pedestrians not vehicles. Frank said “These people don’t move off the road for cars. They are used to war, they are not frightened of cars”.
A lazy wave, a flimsy barrier, but we stopped. The Official, said in French “Where are the papers for the car” Franks answered in Kiswahili “We do not have any papers” Shelly said, in English, ”We are the guests of the Ministry of Tourism”
The policeman asked, quite reasonably, how we managed to cross the border without any papers. “They let us” said Shelly. But Frank said “We can leave you a photocopy” I smoked cigarettes.
The policeman took an African solution. He waked away, we watched his perambulation, crossed the street , to the market, down the road, all the while he rubbed his tummy and then his bald head, and then his chin. “Just like you Mzee” said Shelly. Arriving back at his post he beckoned Frank. “Leave the photocopy, and you just go” Before we could do that Jean Claude came zooming back. The policeman was inclined to be irritated at this youthful arrogance, but that could wait for another day, better that higher authority had arrived. He gave Frank back the photocopy, best we be gone and have never been seen.
At the small town of Ngozi Jean Claude stopped again. He put a map on the bonnet on which he had traced a route with a blue ink pen. “We are late, we will not take the boat from Bujunbura, we will go directly to Nyanza Lac” Stabbing a finger at the map, “Take the route that I have marked.”
Frank said “We are to cross this whole country in an afternoon.”
Jean Claude and Baptiste shot off in their Rav 4, raising up the dust, sliding on the corners and ploughing through the pedestrians today all dressed for Sunday, as bright as the tomatoes, peas and yellow peppers they grew in their irrigated valleys. This country is war ravaged, the throngs of walkers looked to have done badly out of the killing, Jean Claude and Baptiste looked too prosperous. I took the view that they would sooner be escorted than be the escort.
Frank drove more carefully. “These people are used to war, they are not frightened of cars”. We found Jean Claude waiting for us at Gitega, once the capital of Burundi. He was impatient and fending off many a poor person seeking alms. “We must hurry.” He stabbed the map pointing out the towns still to pass: Rutana, Makamba, Muyange, then Nyanza Lac. “It is all lame from now on”. Jean Claude was pleased that there was a paved road,faster, Baptiste I saw did not do talking despite his good English, he did a lot of looking. He had told me that he studied for his degree in the Central African Republic.
Nyanza Lac, a beach side restaurant and bar, trestle tables, the white pre formed beach loungers I associated with French African places. I remembered then Guinea Conakry, and then the man from Iraq, who implausibly ran a fish processing plant in Nouadhibou, Mauritania. That was a long time ago, and this was not the time for memory or nostalgia.
The party had been going since noon, and now the shadows were lengthening the
lake looked dangerous and brown rippled in the hot wind. The hosting had been kept going awaiting our arrival. Shelly and I sat at the tables, smiled and charmed at the introductions, said thanks for the food and for me the very big beer. Shelly looked around, then at me, then around, I tried to look steady. Frank fussed with the car, the Finn with the camera and Hassan checked out the great beauty and sophistication of the women. My team were being very diligent, playing their professional part, though they were stilted. The place was unfamiliar, French, and they were not sure for what they should be watching.
“Monsieur Harrison”. I saw Shelly behind him, she turned to talk to Carmen but as she did she briefly shut both eyes, an extended blink.
The man,a Tutsi,had real grow big genes. He stood taller than me, wider and broader at the shoulder wearing the standard dress of a perfect Parisian suit. “So you made it. We had been getting nervous. I hear you drove across the whole country. That is dangerous” “It was ok, we brought some extra petrol”. He gave me the new numbers, just four digits, in French without preamble or hesitation. I told Shelly, good job it was only four otherwise I could not remember them.
The party closed around us, once the big man had stepped back Jean Claude appeared, “We must hurry, it is late, it will be dark, it is dangerous we must go in a convoy to Bujumbura, along the coast road.” “We are ready,” Frank said.
I do not know what town we stopped at, the map has none after Mugara, though my memory is of shanty and mud huts, roof sheeting, towns made in haste as they must be when war shifts populations. Between these places nervous soldiers in a variety of uniforms walked, their fingers on the trigger their lips around a bottle. The convoy went on, our escort soldiers in the back of the double cabin provided by the Ministry of Tourism harangued a way through the crowds.
We hung as close as we could to Jean Claude’s Rav 4 which we could just do with Frank driving rally. The convoy stopped, the crowd had become too dense to cut through, the soldiers climbed from their perch and began to cleave a way on foot. Jean Claude came to the window, he suddenly looked very sure and professional.
“We need to get petrol. I run out of money. Have you some dollars we can change”
Shelly gave the hundred dollar bill. The note was seen, Jean Claude, Shelly, Frank, went off to change the money followed by a horde of eager money changers all proffering enormous wads of money like paper. The crowd followed them. I counted thirty, held hard on the lap top case, got out, walked, lumbering like an old sick bear, to the petrol pump. A woman next to the attendant spoke the number code, just once, I set the case down by the pump, walked away, no looking, I could see Shelly coming back, her mouth tight. She told me “By the time we got to the pump the case was gone. I never saw it there or anyone pick it up.” If Shelly did not see anything when she was looking with expectation and a professional eye then that was good.
They filled the tanks, we set off, the convoy had long gone. Soon Jean Claude had gone too, so we drove on alone. “I think it worked Mzee” said Shelly “Since they are not protecting us any more”
I laughed at that. I felt relaxed again and once we were not in any convoy the crowd ignored us. We drove on in the dark, to Bujumbura, my first visit in sixteen years, arriving tired and easy the Hotel Club du Lac Tanganyika, where our rooms were waiting, one each. Frank and I showered fast, then sat by the pool smoking cigarettes and talking Kiswahili.
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