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.