The White Man Performs, or 'Mzungu' in the Market

Last week I did my first performance art piece in Burundi.  I didn't intend to.  When you're a white man in Africa, these things just happen.

I went to the central market to pick up a few things, including a large woven basket to use for yard work - you know, carry leaves and grass clippings and such.

How to lug purchases around is always a problem in the market.  Aisles are narrow and cramped, there's shoulders and elbows everywhere, and if you put your stuff in a backpack it's likely to get filched right out of the pockets.

But this time, my brain had a solution for me.  "Perfect," it whispered in my ear, "we'll buy the basket first, then carry our other stuff around inside it."

Good work there, brain!

Except, the basket ended up being a little too large to maneuver comfortably through congested aisles.  And, as I kept putting stuff in it - a pineapple here, a pumpkin there - it was getting a bit heavy.

As I banged into more and more people with my increasingly unwieldy basket, I kept getting more and more attention from the young guys who hang around trying to make a few francs carrying stuff for market customers.

It's not a bad idea to trust this job to a professional, really.  Even the locals who can afford it do so.  But I was stubborn; I kept turning them down.

Finally, though, I had to do something, before I inadvertently knocked someone, or their pile of produce, to the ground.  

Then, my brain had the day's second great idea.  The only real space available, it realized, was up in the air above us.

"Psst," it whispered in my ear, "hoist the basket atop my skull.  Haven't you noticed that's where everyone else carries their stuff?"  It sounded pleased with itself.

"Well, duh," I hissed back, embarrassed I hadn't thought of this myself.  "That's a no-brainer."

In Bujumbura, you see, people don't really use backpacks or other fancy carrying bags.  I haven't seen any two-wheeled dollies around here, and very few wheeled carts of any sort.  No, folks simply put their stuff on their head.

Got a pineapple you don't want to carry?  Put it on your head.  Rain's a'comin' this afternoon, but you don't feel like holding your umbrella until then?  Put it on your head.  Someone gave you fifty cents to get ten bags of grain from a taxi to their market stall?  Pile them, one by one, atop your noggin (photo left), then hiss at the crowds to get them out of your way and hope your cargo doesn't flour the sidewalk white.

So, when I and my brain both realized my basket-carrying situation had become untenable, I did what any Burundian would do, and hoisted the basket into the overhead airspace.

And, just like that, I had everyone's attention.  Instant audience.

Heads snapped around at the strange sight of a white man carrying things like a Burundian.  Vendors smiled.  Their customers laughed.  Each tugged at their neighbor - "Look, look, the funny mzungu!"

I walked into an open area where dried fish is laid out on tables for sale, and, suddenly, I was attracting a standing ovation.  Hooray for the mzungu with the basket on his head!  Huzzah!  Ole!  Encore!  Encore!  Everyone stopped what they were doing and clapped.

Well, ok, mostly everyone was already standing.  But hey, it's been a long time since I've done a performance of any kind.  The applause, any applause, felt nice.

So I continued my little show, balancing the basket out into the center city streets to finish my shopping.  I went to the posh downtown boucherie (butchery) for my Dutch gouda and to the expensive we-import-it-and-we-know-you'll-pay-for-it Dmitri Supermarket for my South African powdered sugar.  I felt a little giddy - whether from the attention or the pressure on my cerebrum, I couldn't tell.

With my shopping done, my brain advised catching a taxi home.  "Loading your noodle through the market is one thing" - it seemed a little stressed - "but hoofing that basket for two kilometers uphill..."

"No, that's what machines are for," I agreed.  I was tired.  My brain sounded relieved.

Walking up to a taxi, I took the basket off my head.  The driver laughed at me.  "You're trying to be like an African," he told me as he drove me home.

"Well, not really," I said.  "I just like to perform."

Runnin' With the Bikes

It's taking me a long time to get the news in Burundi.  There's interesting things going on, but all the notices are in French, and besides, I don't know where to look for them.  Mostly, I've been hearing about cool stuff after the fact.

The last couple weeks have been better, however.  Now, I'm hearing about events as they are happening, at least.

But only because I have a well-situated house, and a house guard who is much more clued in than I.

Last week, for instance, I caught a soccer match at the central stadium.  How could I miss it?  I could see it happening from my porch, the red and white-shirted players tiny running blips on the green soccer pitch down below.

This week, it was the Burundian president being honored upon return from a trip to Italy.  This time, I could hear it happening.

For fifteen minutes the rise and fall of sirens, the sound of music and a crowd, had been wafting up the hill on the lake breeze.  I was engrossed in writing, and couldn't be bothered.

The guard, however, knew something was happening I might want to see.  When I walked onto the porch, he caught my eye.

"The president is coming.  It's a big time.  Many people are there," he said.

I went out to the road in my house-shorts to look.  I could see a crowd of people at the major intersection just down the hill.  Lots of action, just like the guard promised, the people welcoming their president back home.

"I need some pants," I said to myself.  I ran back, changed, and hopped on my bike to go join the throng.

I didn't get far.

The presidential motorcade was already promenading past.  From a pickup, men in dark blue gestured emphatically that I should get off the road.  The men had guns.  I obeyed.

I stood with my neighbors and watched the president slide by behind tinted windows.  Then I continued down the hill.

There was still a press of bodies and vehicles blocking the intersection, backing up traffic on two of Bujumbura's largest central avenues.  There was a festive air, and a brass band in forest green uniforms trimmed with gold braid.

But what really caught my eye were all the two-wheeled taxis.  Several hundred motorcycle and bicycle taxi-men had congregated.  They clogged the road en masse, their bikes decorated with sprigs of celebratory greenery.

I admire these taxi-velo (bicycle taxi) guys a lot.  They fashion a rear rack out of gaily-painted rebar, slap a cushion on it to make a seat, and call their single-speed rig a cab.  They get paid peanuts, maybe 25 American cents, to pedal a passengers a few blocks.  One would think they have little reason to give the state any loyalty.

But, the president is an avid bicyclist.  When visiting rural towns, he often, folks say, stops his motorcade to pedal the last kilometer.  So, when there is a presidential occasion, the taxi-velo guys break off some greenery and show up in force.

By the time I got to the scene, police had begun their struggle to unblock the road and get traffic moving again.  I hung out, though, wanting some action photos of the bike taxi guys.

Thankfully, they started heading off in clumps on an impromptu parade past the university.  I joined a clump, and got some shots of my first occasion runnin' with the bikes through Bujumbura.

Gliding down the hill with my impromptu posse...

...we stop for no man, woman, or car, clogging intersections as we roll.

There's mugging for the camera...

...stunts for the crowd...

...and a final line-up of bikes before they all go back to pumping pedals for pennies.