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."