Muzungu visits the villages

I have not -cut- been able to blog - cut- as much as -cut- I would like.
This is thanks -cut- to the electricity cutting on and off -cut. But here I am. Sitting in eastern Burundi contemplating what a day I had and wondering how to even start.

Today, I was a visitor, a photographer, a journalist, a celebrity, a stranger, a crazy white Mzungu and an FH spokesperson. In the hills of Ruyigi, we visited several of Food for the Hungry's most remote projects sites, seeing first hand how donors from abroad have impacted lives in Burundi. Beve (an agronomist with FH) and I headed out this morning, accompanied by driver, Wilson (Weelson, as he emphasized, none of that Canadian accent), who drove us from project site to project site... and slept most of the day in the car, very cat like.

Our first stop was to visit a small cooperative of people just outside the city limits of Ruigi. When I say 'just outside the city limits,' I mean
an hour car ride over the bumpiest, most pot-hole filled road I have ever seen in my life. W'ee'lson just grinned and said that I had finally arrived in Africa.

After spending an hour with members of a small microfinanced chicken farm we moved on to visit the neighbouring village: Village de Paix de Nyakiga.
It was a small settlement filled with displaced persons from Tanzania. As we wandered around the small village, curious faces began to peer out from the muddy huts lining the pathway. I must have looked strange. I think I still had feathers in my hair from the several fluttering hens that were thrust inches from the camera at our last stop (apparently 'zoom' option on the camera has not yet been discovered here). Nevertheless, I was quickly greeted with extended hands and toothless grins from those in the village. Beve graciously translated my French into Kurundi, the local dialect. He explained that I was working with FH, the organization that had helped them buy several goats, bean seeds and planting tools. Instantly their faces warmed and a dozen more hands were extended.
Amoroho. Peace.

I asked the villagers many questions about their lives, how they lived, what they ate. etc. They were excited to show me their goats tethered to tree stumps and the grain they were sorting on the ground. They also described the kilometers of distance separating them from fresh water and the difficulty of finding buyers for their small portions of grain. I asked if I could take a picture before I left. A tiny, frail old woman bodly pushed out from the crowd and hobbled towards me (I am certain she would dominate if placed in a busy supermarket on Christmas eve). She grabbed my hand exclaiming that she wanted the first photo, just me and her.
Soon, I had a line of people waiting for individual photos with the crazy white lady who talked with her hands and made silly gestures. I am laughing now as I look at the photos. Not only do I look extreemly white, I also look like a giant in almost every picture.

The children clung to my side and as I walked back to the car so I asked them to teach me a song. In moments their were dozens of voices singing with gusto. Those that had never seen a Muzungu before were now relaxed and no longer worried that I was going to eat them (yes, that is what children are told here... and I had wondered why all the babies cried when they saw me). They chased our car all the way down the bumpy dirt road as though they were scared to lose us. I don't think I will ever forget those dark, singing faces, although I know I will not remember their unique names. When asked, they replied one at a time, imitating eachother. "My mame eez ____."

Next, we went to a small market shop to speak with a microfinance beneficiary. The owner was the recipient of funds used to buy palm oil which he resold in the market for a profit. He was thrilled to have us look into his shop. It consisted of a shelf, a small dirty weighing device, little oily measuring cups and a few plastic bags into which he measured the oil that was to be sold. He explained to me how this oil is used to cook vegetables, chicken or whatever edible items one came across (I didn't make him specify what he meant by 'whatever could be cooked'). I stirred the heavy wooden spoon in the half barrel of dense yellow grease and took a picture of him standing in front of the product. We left the market and two minutes later my translator, Bede, received a call from him. "Was she impressed by the business?" He was certain that I would never forget his stand in the market. I dont' think I will.

The more I spend time here, the more I realize how blessed I am. I can no longer complain about the stiff pink toilet because at least I have some. I am starting to appreciate the death roads which make my palms sweaty and my back sore as I watch people walking miles to get water. I don't find it strange to drive around for half an hour looking for a misplaced 10inch note book (despite the fact that gas is expensive) because they do not have a Wallmart nearby to purchase another.

I spoke with a lady who, until yesterday, had taken in 8 orphans. Today she has nine in her care and she still doesn't have a house.
I am so blessed.

Mzungu in the Market Place

Today I went to the market. It was no IGA, Safeway or Superstore experience. I did not run into 20 people I know, nor did I find myself buying chocolate, yogurt or bulk candies. Instead, I found myself wandering down rows of chaos, overwhelmed by the number of hanging fruit baskets, piles of dried sardines and floating flies. All this was accentuated by the diverse smell of spices. I barley even noticed the piles of crunchy vegetable peeling and fruit pits that I was stepping on until I tripped over a mound of avocado shells the local vendors were tossing out in front of them. And while i tried not to stare, I quickly realized that it was I who was under scrutiny. Eyes from every stairstep, booth corner, and isle in the crowded covered market place watched in anticipation. Only the youngest ones were daring enough to point at me and shout "Mzungu" (white foreigner). I maintained a smile,whether it was met by toothy grins or suspicious glares. Burundi is a small country with only 10,216,190 habitants, yet here in the market, it seemed like they were all gathered. And all were watching what the Mzungu would do.

I must have shocked everyone when I stopped to use the market bathrooms. You pay to go inside. The fee differs depending on whether or not your stop requires the use of toilet paper. Once I found my way inside the ladies section I was met by shrieks of laughing women who were apparently hsyterical to have a Mzungu share their toilet facilities. They grabbed my hand and told me to wait while they doused the stall with buckets of water, cleaning the plastic foot steps which framed a large hole in the ground. Once I was shoved inside and left to do my business the shrieking continued. I must have shook ten hands before leaving. Too bad there was no soap in the bathroom.

The children outside the market place swarmed me with their hanging bags of popcorn. Even once I climbed into the bus, they pushed bags up against the smeared window by my seat hoping I might change my mind and buy at least two of the forty bags swinging off the stick in front of me. As soon as the bus started they quickly dissapeared.

The roads are no place for pedestrians here. I fear even for the helmut-free doubled up scooter riders who line the busy streets of Burundi's capital, Bujumburu. There are no traffic lights on the roads here, neither do there seem to be any rules. Bumper to bumper traffic filled with aggressive bus cabs, quick moving cars and bikers slow down only when forced to. This means many jammed intersections with drivers forcefully manuvering their way through the crazy packed road. I started to feel crazy myself after just a short drive of about 15 minutes. Today I was asked when I want to start driving. I just smiled.