Burundi: part 1

Evening's come. Like a cat burglar. Like a crow, from out of nowhere squawking, but prettier. A maroon Technicolor bird. Long rainbow robes derived from millions of years of competitive mating. Clock-radio speakers on the bar fridge spring a metal plunky vibe, happy coral reef of chime and Africa beckons and sways on the soft breeze, whispering a tall unspoken pride.

I'm trying to settle on a wobbly stool. Fever's commandeered the best of me, and I know it's not the stool. It's me who's wobbling. A man with no sea legs in a shit storm. Almost through a box of Marlboro's now. The day's second. Damn informant's late again. Probably ambushed at a pothole slowdown or fake accident. The fucking fourth this week. And who's the woman sizing me up like some three hundred dollar a night hooker or else a government honey trap? Blood diamonds and investigative journalism's claimed over a hundred eager, curious lives this year. I have an inkling my next few moves will decide whether I add to the statistic or not.

Well, in earnest, -scrapes throat- my visit to Burundi's been nothing like the above so far. All I got to show for ominous features is sunburn on the left arm and brow (Not the left brow obviously. Just the one of a kind, very centrally located brow.)

I'm guest and colleague of Augustin and Tatien, guardian's of Channel Research's Central African office. My mission, to boldly go where no man (apart from the local inhabitants, thousands upon thousands of slave-traders, colonizers, missionaries, tourists, and genocidalists) has gone before, to audaciously install Skype on a couple of computers, streamline operational what-have-you's and administrative mumbo-jumbo's, and perhaps catch a funky disease or two. Adventure beckons.

To the casual observer Bujumbura exudes a sleepy, bordering on bored type of yawn. To all other kinds of observers, including the remainders of a UN contingent sent a couple of years ago to oversee the end of God-awful internecine machete-ing, ditto. For reasons that should interest global trade watchdogs each and every car on the road is a Toyota. Perhaps the civil war was all about what car you drove and fighting ended as the last Volvo concession went up in flames of vehicular righteousness, doused hence by the choppy waters of Lake Tanganyka. An example worth copying.

It was Augustin's birthday today and we drove up into the hills surrounding the capital to celebrate. By means of Toyota of course (the driving. Less so the celebrating).

To be continued…