Biking Bujumbura: Mucking About, Getting Out

Last Wednesday I was thinking about something I learned from a singing Swiss man in Pakistan (my previous 'strange place'). We were holed up in the 'warm hut' at Fairy Meadows, that stupendous retreat at the foot of Nanga Parbat, Earth's 8th highest peak.

Outside, snow and clouds lingered, so he sat and sang - as all Swiss mountain men must on bad-weather days. He'd been living in Pakistan all of three weeks and was already in the high Karakoram for a weekend. He taught me this: on moving to a new country go direct to adventure - don't muck about!

I'd been mucking about. I grabbed my bike and went.

Bujumbura lives on a narrow strip between lake and mountains. Its highest habitations dig into hillsides; its lowest kiss water. I picked a paved road that, running south of town, cut diagonally toward the hills. Soon the road turned up, and up, and up.

But I didn't mind - I like to climb. With a lakeside panorama opening below and mountain highlands above, I had plenty to keep me entertained.

And then, of course, there were the kids. They waited at every roadside village; soon the slap-slap of small feet running became a familiar sound beside me.

And everywhere cries of "Muzungu!" the local word for 'whiteboy.'

But what entertained, or rather astonished, me the most were the other bicyclists. These were young men who earn their living biking sacks of charcoal from the forested heights to city markets.

They careened down the hill at twenty miles an hour and more, two heavy and oversized burlap bags piled crosswise on the rack over their back wheel. Often, one plastic-flip-flopped foot dragged on the pavement, an extra brake.

Already, they're my heroes.

For awhile, one of them joined me as I climbed. He pushed his one-speeder uncomplainingly up as I pedaled my fancy cycle, outfitted with 21 luxurious gears. On the steep sections, he could walk his bike faster than me; other times he jogged to keep up.

Both of us were sweating in the mid-day heat and sun. I was getting tired and ready to turn around. I pulled one of my water bottles out to share with him. He drank gratefully.

I had to think again of Pakistan, and a day hike I took in the Kashmir mountains. Out too long on a path more difficult than expected, I descended from on high toward Muzaffarabad city, exhausted and with little water. A woman tending goats saw my nearly-empty bottle and called out, "Panni, panni!" wanting water. I knew I barely had enough for myself. I kept walking.

This time, though, I learned what I should have learned then - sharing is refreshment enough. Watching my fellow-biker drink, suddenly my feet - and I know this is sappy, but it's true - my tired feet were light again.