Burundi: part 2
The rains, or vertical rivers as I've taken to calling them, have paused a few times today. Like a child during breastfeeding. Suddenly this hammer of silence whacks you on the skull, and you almost wish the rain wouldn't stop as only then do you realize just how wet your clothes are; very. The gorillas don't bat an eyelid as we mosey past toward the Burundian border, unimpressed, bored even at the umpteenth band of hapless guerilla fighters with cause nor clue. My M240G, although slung on the shoulder as casual as circumstance and a diet of maniok and the occasional bush meat allows, is beginning to weigh. Not exactly a fucking Abrams tank, but not the type of plaything that fits into a lady's purse either, if you know what I mean. The ammo belt chafes away at my chest. War sucks. But hey, a man's gotta put food on the table. Or failing that, a jar of industrial glue will do just fine to while away a day or two and mute the incessant whimpering of a dozen or so hungry infants.
The Holy Roman Empire famously wasn't an Empire, particularly Roman, or by any fucking Spandex of the imagination very Holy. Similarly I admit I've never actually set foot in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Neither have I ever operated, owned, or field-stripped a tripod-mounted assault rifle. So what? We did drive up to the Burundi-DRC border though. That's about as hard-core as things got. It's a little shitty bridge with a toll-booth alongside where the white man with the scratched Swatch watch is told not to take pictures because you don't want sneaky westerners stealing the secret of masonry.
The afternoon of Augustin's birthday we drive up to Bugarama, a dusty perch on the formerly rebel-infested hills overlooking Bujumbura. Landlocked Burundi depends on neighboring Tanzania's ports for importing goods, and heavy trucks, old heaving behemoths, navigate the slopes. Huge rusty containers. Fucking ancient diesel power, five clicks an hour, hanging by a thread on overheating breaks. You best get the hell out when the tendon snaps. Or else hope they got some kind of Sandra Bullock behind the wheel.
I'm hanging out the window, clocking improvised cornfields on the shoulder, shacks and banana vendors, army patrols, man-on-bike coursing to the debt, face set hard on the plunge.
Wind sweeps the summit and I'm actually cold but order a fresh Amstel anyway. Did I mention I'm hard-core like that? I also like to buy a lot of worthless bric-a-brac. A wobbly intuiting of exchange rates helps a lot too. Burundi hobbles along on one of those currencies that are used to measure distances between galaxies. To anyone with an internet-connection and enough ill-will to go check my claim; I'm exaggerating. Obviously. You want the truth? You're truth-handling abilities couldn't handle the truth. In earnest, the truth-so-help-me-God is also just a tad bit boring, so feel free and go read a World Bank report if you're into that sort of thing.
Now, where were we? The swarming army of hawkers descending on ye olde tourist. All seven of them. I purchased a jar of preserve, a very small cow fashioned to resemble a percussion set, a reed lamp-holder, and a wicker basket with mouse-head-shaped lid. I've always wanted one of those.
On to a different topic. If you can stomach this one. Feel free to skip.
My stool is fast losing coherence now. In fact it has long ceased to resemble anything available on the periodic table. End of subject. There, that wasn't so bad, was it? Just the facts, slightly embroidered, but not overly graphic. Plus, you're still reading, so I must be doing something right. Right? Anywayz.
Stay tuned for some incredible insights I've gained in the past week. Find out how the hell Grace Jones can stay so young. Our descent from dolphins rather than monkeys, and much more.
Croc got me locked tight in the jaw. His jaw, mind you. Not mine. And for those rather faintly acquainted with, well -stuff, I'm not talking about
Well, in fact the large reptile's safely enclosed in a sort of drained concrete swimming pool, leering at the weakly bipedals a nice fleshy specimen of which he'll one day tear asunder and feast on. If fleshy is what Mr. Lacoste -that's what his guardian actually calls him- is waiting on he sure picked the wrong country.
Snakes
Secondly, I'm actually not there anymore either. I'm on a plane. Sans the snakes.
The emptier the better. Radio wave curve.
Spray on plane.