The Miracle of the Disappearing Wine

It was a miracle.  One minute a half-bottle of fine Spanish 'Rioja' wine nestled nicely in the back pocket of my backpack.  The next minute it was gone.

Or maybe not a miracle, but a trick of some market magician keen to earn a few Burundian francs.  He would leap suddenly in front of me, grin, and pull the missing bottle from an empty hat.

I had just stopped at the Beronia grocery shop, where, along with two packets of good, green Spanish olives, I impulse-bought the wine.  Zipping my purchases into the back pocket of my pack, I slung it on my back and marched into the teeming streets of downtown Bujumbura.  Next stop: buy some bed sheets at the marche central.

The central market is the epicenter of Bujumbura.  Under a high pavilion roof, merchants stake out a cramped space, build a rough wooden 'stall,' and set up shop.  Wander there and you can find most of the basics of life to buy, but few of the frills.

It's a fun place for a foreigner to roam, but you've got to have your wits about you.  "Watch out for pickpockets," friends had warned.  As I pushed through mid-day crowds toward the bedding area, I kept mental tabs on my wallet.

But I forgot about my bag.

Suddenly, something felt strange behind me.  I yanked the backpack off my back.  Yes, of course, the zippered pocket had been opened, the fine 'Rioja' taken.  No miracle, no magician.

I berated myself: why would I dangle steal-able items tantalizingly in an outside pocket, zippered or not?  I grew up in the 'hood, I'm supposed to have more street smarts than that.  Dumb muzungu.  Daft whiteboy.

Which is basically what two men at some hardware stalls said to me when I stopped, found my bag open, and looked up to see them eyeing me concernedly.  I pantomimed the wine bottle being lifted from my bag.

"Well, it's the market, you gotta be careful," they seemed to say in French, though they may have said, "The moon is going to be full tonight; can I sell you some nails?" for all the French I know.

I continued on with my errands.  What else could I do?

After bargaining successfully for bed sheets, I also bought a half-bottle of Drosty, a popular South African wine, as a consolation from the shock of theft.  Determined not to have all my street-smarts desert me that day, I looked closely to be sure that the seal on the bottle hadn't been tampered with.  "Not all the products in the marche are 'real,'" my friends had also warned me.

That night, at dinner, I pulled out the bottle of Drosty.  "In the interests of full disclosure," I said to my drinking companion, "I bought this bottle of wine in the central market."  She looked dubious.  "But the top looks properly sealed," I volunteered.

I cracked opened the screw cap.  I sniffed the bouquet.  "It smells like real wine," I said.

I poured two glasses, then took a sip.  "It tastes like real wine," I said.

A minor miracle.

And, for the second time that day, a bottle of wine disappeared.